Restless Waters (5 page)

The boom in Hawaii’s longline fishing industry began back in 1987. It started for the most basic of reasons. East Coast longliners had trashed their own territory, causing populations of fish to plummet. As a result, the laws became stricter. The fishermen’s response was, “Screw it. There are no regulations in Hawaii. Let’s go there.”

But they weren’t the only ones to sail west. The same thing happened on the Gulf Coast, where overfishing caused the entire ecosystem to crash. The ocean bottom became so toxic that the shrimp were no longer edible.

To make matters worse, the Gulf Fleet included Vietnamese fishermen that had moved to America and been given low-interest loans to pay for their boats. The government didn’t intend to see them default and fail. So the fishermen were told, “Go to Hawaii, where it’s still wide-open cherry-picking season.”

I’d recently heard rumors that highly endangered black-footed and short-tailed albatross were being caught in longliner nets. Though I’d asked Pryor for permission to take action, my request had been adamantly denied.

“It’s not within our jurisdiction,” he’d said, polishing off a Krispy Kreme donut. “When it comes to Hawaii, anything that takes place on the water belongs to the National Marine Fisheries Service.”

“Yeah, except there’s one problem with that. It’s not NMFS’s job to manage birds,” I’d replied.

“You’re right,” Pryor had responded between bites. “You want to know something else? I don’t care. You’re to deal only with those species that can be reached without getting on a boat.”

The catch-22 was that it didn’t leave me with a hell of a lot to do in Hawaii.

I leaned my head out the SUV window and took a deep whiff. The briny sea air tickled my nose and the sun reflected off the windshield, skipping along my skin, as its warmth penetrated deep into my bones. I allowed myself to daydream that I was suddenly my own boss and could do as I wish.

Sun light, sun bright. I wish I may, I wish I might kick Fish and Wildlife’s butt and make them do what’s right.

The response to my wish came in the form of a catcall.

“Come back on this boat again, asshole, and you’ll live to regret it!”

I wondered if someone was possibly talking to me. Quickly looking around, I spied a native Hawaiian in his mid-twenties getting off a longliner that had just docked. The young man was husky, yet tall, had wavy black hair, high cheekbones, and wide, almond-shaped eyes. A knapsack was thrown over his shoulder.

“You and your lousy people,” another voice now began to scornfully taunt. “Any place your ancestors took a
dump on this island is so goddamn sacred that we’re not supposed to fish in the water or build on the land. You lost the war years ago. It’s about time you got over it.”

“What war are you talking about? You lowlife
haoles
took Hawaii from us, just like you take everything else,” the young man shot back, while spinning around.

I cringed, knowing that
haole
was slang for “Caucasian,” and in this case had been used as an insult.

The quick move caused him to lose his balance and nearly fall into the water. He caught himself only at the very last moment.

The fishermen that had jeered at him now began to howl with laughter. Though more derisions were hurled, the young man wisely remained silent. His gait swayed from side to side as he walked, as if he were still on board the rocking boat.

I turned down the pier and pulled my Ford up beside him. From up close, I could see that he’d been dealing with more than just insults. Bruises were scattered about on his face and arms.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

I wondered what the fight was really about. Hawaii is one of the most racially tolerant places in the world, making this incident all the more unusual.

He never stopped walking as he turned his head toward me. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his lips remained tightly compressed.

“Who are you?” he asked, in a strained voice.

“My name is Rachel Porter and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I heard some of what went on back there,” I said, motioning to the boat. “Do you need any help?”

He no longer looked at me, but focused his eyes dead ahead.

“Yeah, plenty. Only there’s not a damn thing you can
do about it,” he said, and broke into a sprint, heading toward Alakawa Road.

I gazed back at the longliner, where some of the crew members continued to glare at him. I now saw that they were a mixed group of whites, Filipino, and Chinese. It was a small representation of Hawaii’s ethnic stew.

One man stuck his tongue out and lewdly wiggled it at me. It was clearly time to move on. Whatever had taken place would have to remain a private matter.

I watched for the Hawaiian native as I drove back along Alakawa Road. However, he must have been an extremely fast runner; he’d mysteriously disappeared, as if he’d never existed at all.

Swinging back onto Nimitz Boulevard, I thought little more of it while continuing to the airport. Along the way, my Ford passed even more unsightly industry, coupled with an explosion of car dealerships.

I arrived at Honolulu International Airport and wandered among the fast-food restaurants, gift shops, and lei stands as throngs of tourists bustled about. They wasted no time but jumped into cabs and headed for Waikiki to enjoy sun and fun, laced with booze cruises, sexy hula shows, and luaus.

This was the commercial face of Hawaii, where the Aloha spirit is packaged and marketed. Money would be surgically removed from each visitor’s wallet over the next several days, after which they’d be sent home with a smile, having been properly done up.

Was it any wonder that Hawaii prayed to the god of tourism? It’s the state’s biggest industry, raking in a cool eleven billion dollars a year, and the rate continues to escalate. The process has evolved from a fine art into a science.

I felt like a scam artist myself as I prowled about, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting visitors. Was this what I’d signed up for upon joining Fish and Wildlife? No longer
was I breaking up smuggling rings and tracking down poachers. Instead I was reduced to pissing off tourists by taking their trinkets and making their children cry.

It was someone else’s turn today to be the bad guy. I watched as an airport official relieved a teenage boy of a chunk of lava rock protruding from his knapsack. It’s believed if you take a piece from Hawaii that you’ll be cursed with bad luck until the rock is finally returned. There must have been some validity to the superstition. The kid’s bad luck had already begun.

I hung out for a few more hours and then decided to call it a day.

Tempting as it was to head back up to Tantalus, it was still far too early for anyone to be out catching lizards. Besides, it would be best to let things cool down awhile. With that in mind, I decided to check out an area on the North Shore for alien critters later that night. I took the scenic route home, being that I had plenty of time.

My Explorer looped around past Diamond Head, named by British sailors who’d believed its volcanic glass rock to be diamonds. Come to think of it, they hadn’t been far off the mark. The houses surrounding it were worth a fortune these days.

I continued on to Pali Lookout where King Kamehameha had driven native warriors off its steep cliffs. Eight hundred skulls were later found on the ground. All that was to be found there these days was an influx of tourists—most of whom probably believed Kamehameha to be a Hawaiian dish.

I was beginning to feel something in common with those vanquished warriors. I suspected I’d been sent to Hawaii as a means of being disposed of. Talk about feeling isolated. I was stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere. Los Angeles was 2,557 miles to the east; Tokyo, 3,847 miles to the west. And those were the two closest
places around. I could have been hit by a meteor and no one would have known it. A nagging voice inside my head said that was exactly the way my superiors in D.C. wanted to keep things.

The Ko’olau Mountains changed as I drove farther north. Their gentle slopes gradually morphed into fairytale mountains topped with fluted towers and minarets.

This was the rainy windward coast. It lived up to its name as dark clouds began to gather, like a convergence of Mafia bosses, and settle against the cliffs. I barely had time to close my windows before the sky erupted.

This was no sneaky rain, so fine as to barely be seen. Heavy drops poured down with a vengeance. It rains here so often that Hawaiians have a name for every type of shower imaginable. This one was
paka ua,
the kind that makes noise when it splatters. The torrent huffed and puffed. I struggled to see through my windshield as enormous pellets pounded the hood of my Ford. Ever so slowly, the storm subsided until it turned into
kehau
, a gentle rain that floats in the air.

It ghosted down the cliffs, creating a mist that transformed the land into a Chinese watercolor. I stared in wonder as threadlike strands bloomed into waterfalls, each a cascade of shimmering quicksilver. Moisture settled like glistening confetti on the surrounding greenery, and a double rainbow arced against the canvas of sky.

I was tempted to stop and search for a pot of gold at its end. Only something equally tantalizing spurred me on: the promise of shrimp and garlic. The rain was over by the time I reached my destination, Giovanni’s White Shrimp Truck.

Veering off the road, I parked beneath a banana tree. Its branches drooped so low that they hit my rooftop, their fronds heavy with raindrops. The truck itself was covered
with enough graffiti to make one believe it had either done duty in New York City or that Jackson Pollack had used it as a backdrop for one of his paintings.

I ordered the hot and spicy shrimp, peeled off a shell, and popped one in my mouth. A volcano exploded inside me and tears streamed down my face. I quickly knocked back a can of Coke, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to devour the rest. By the time I was through, I’d used up nearly all the napkins in the place. It had been the perfect meal.

Having paid homage to Giovanni’s, I proceeded home, where the usual assortment of flip-flops and sneakers cluttered the front steps. I played a game of Hopscotch, picking my way through the minefield of all the scattered footwear.

Tag-along stood waiting behind the screen door, where she broke into a yowl as I approached. I walked inside and quickly realized that Spam was nowhere around. Otherwise, he’d have been careening down the hall by now, in a headlong dash. It also meant that Santou and Kevin weren’t here.

The marmalade hairball continued to shriek like a banshee as she brushed against my leg. Good thing I understood “Cat-onese,” and knew exactly what she demanded. Scrounging through the pantry, I pulled out the last packet of Tender Vittles, tore it open, and poured it into her bowl. The cat daintily flipped out a nugget, ate it, and walked away. I should have been so lucky as to have her self-control.

I figured that if Santou wasn’t here, he’d be out back painting his surfboards. I walked over to the shack and peeked inside only to find that neither he nor Kevin was at work. It struck me as odd at first. But then I realized that Jake wouldn’t have expected me home this early.

I started to stroll along the beach, wondering where they could be. My first clue was all the cars that were parked along the road. Then I saw that a crowd had gathered. Santou was probably among them. I kicked off my shoes, relishing the sand that squished between my toes, as I headed to where an impromptu surfing contest was already in progress.

A group of riders sat on their boards, bobbing like corks, waiting for the perfect wave. Had I checked Kevin’s answering machine today, I’d most likely have heard his surf report and known where to find them.

Kevin was among those fanatics that eat, breathe, and sleep the waves. There was no question but that he was a gung-ho maniac. I’d viewed his scars from past surfing injuries. He showed them off as proudly as though they were medals. In fact, it was only when Kevin spoke about surfing that he actually seemed happy.

I had little time to ponder his psyche further, as the surfers were up on their feet, an impressive swell having risen on the horizon. It rolled and began to peel in a wave that I’d heard described as a “rice bowl.” I looked again at the riders and spotted Kevin, with his shock of white hair.

Only experts surf the North Shore at this time of year—or those that are crazy. Kevin was definitely a little of both. Still, I had to hand it to the guy. He certainly looked like a pro, gracefully flying down a mountain of liquid glass. For the first time, surfing struck me as a dance between a wave and its rider.

“Cool bananas!” a surfer called out, and flashed the “hang loose” sign as Kevin rode the wave all the way in.

However, another surfer wasn’t so lucky. A woman gasped as the man was jerked off his board and swallowed in a thick, grinding barrel of water. It was as if the
wave had specifically chosen this rider to be its next victim. A guy on a Jet Ski quickly sprang into action and rescued him.

I continued to search the crowd for Santou, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Though I wasn’t sure why, my anxiety steadily began to build. I blamed it on his plane crash, the memory of which still haunted me, coming and going at will.

I grew restless and wandered down along the beach when a big brown mound caught my eye. It was Spam dozing in the sand, sprawled out like a giant frankfurter. There was no doubt that Jake had to be close by.

A shout from the crowd drew my attention back to the water, where a surfer was coasting through a tube so huge that a Winnebago could have driven through it. I watched in admiration as he finished, and the next surfer took his place in line. It was then that my heart ground to a halt and panic grabbed me by the throat. Santou sat with his legs wrapped around a surfboard, looking like a rodeo rider.

My mind turned blank and my body grew numb. Only when a siren screeched in my head was I jerked from my stupor.

He couldn’t possibly be this crazy
, I tried to reason with myself.