My Kind of Town
Don Chapman
>> North Shore As the sun sets
As the sun set, huge waves still pounded Waimea Bay. Organizers of The Eddie, who'd called off the rest of the day's heats after a 45-foot rogue wave nearly killed Chookie Boy Kulolo, said it appeared from the weather forecast that the final heats could be completed in the morning.
Up at Kahuku General, it wasn't until they were wheeling Chookie Boy out of the ambulance into the ER that Meg Choy Primitivo realized all she was wearing was a black swimsuit. A low-cut one. Back at Waimea she'd been so busy giving Chookie Boy every positive thought and hope she could muster that she'd lost track of her own body and thoughts. But it had worked. Susan Nita said Meg had saved Chookie Boy just by touching him, and apparently she had. She didn't know how, but she had.
The ER was very air-conditioned, which made Meg's suit even more revealing. The suit that was so natural on the beach here made her feel exposed. A Mormon nurse thrust a sheet at her. "Here."
"Thank you." Gratefully wrapping herself, Meg realized she left her pareau, towel and purse on the beach back at Waimea. And her cell phone. While docs went to work on Chookie Boy, Meg asked to borrow a phone and called Jake Peepers, P.I., asked him to see if he could retrieve her things.
"Way ahead of you," he said. "I'm just pulling into the ER parking lot."
Finally the $1,000 retainer she'd paid him was starting to pay off.
At the Rockin' Pikake Ranch above Kahuku, members of the exclusive international hunt club that had neither name nor address were gathering in the ranch house for cocktails. There was a German, two Saudis, a Frenchman, two Texans, a New Yorker, two Japanese, an Aussie and a Mexican. And there was Victor Primitivo, the Nuuanu resident who was hosting their spring hunt.
Last fall they'd been in Thailand, this fall they'd meet in Mexico. This group grew easily bored with the same conditions and terrain over and over. Then there was the touchy matter of importing their exotic species and not wanting to be detected. So they came and they went, renting private ranches and estates for a week or two and disappearing, leaving no mark except perhaps on the populace.
High above the ranch house in a remote part of the Rockin' Pikake, Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka was so thirsty he'd have lapped up stump water. He'd gone 24 hours without food or drink. A muddy stream sounded good. But then he found much better. Below a rock outcrop, a small cave stocked with bottled water, jerky and canned goods. And Bud! The senator was home.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com