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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Father knows best
>> Off the Big Island
"We're the visitors. Always remember that," Mano Kekai said. "This boat, it's like a home, a little floating house. That's what Hale Kai means, house of the sea." All of a sudden, he was speaking perfect English, not a hint of the usual Pidgin. He caught himself. "But wit'out it, out heah, bruddah, you and me are jus' malihini. Ovah theah, 'at's our home. The aina."
The cliffs were distant now, the sea deeper and darker. So was the sky. Mano turned on Hale Kai's running lights.
"But don't you feel some connection to the sea?"
Mano grinned. "Bruddah, 'at's what this trip is all about."
The ringing of a small bell changed the subject. The pole on the left side of the boat bent toward the water, ringing a fluorescent orange bell at its tip. Mano eased off on the throttle.
"Take the wheel."
Cruz leaped to obey and Mano swept up the pole and let whatever had the hook run with some line, slowly increasing the drag. Always taking more than he gave, Mano fought the fish while giving Cruz driving instructions, and 30 minutes later gaffed an 80-pound ulua.
"I always like to come with something," Mano said as he placed the big fish in a bigger cooler.
Night had settled in when they anchored in the calm of a black lava lagoon. In the glow of a three-quarter moon, a single dark fin traced a circle around the boat.
"Aloha, Father," Mano said. "I've brought a new friend."
Cruz felt thunder in his heart. Looking down at the fin, he was light on his feet. The fin turned, circled back. Cruz felt the eyes of the shark on him. It slid beneath the surface, disappeared. His heart beat faster. He preferred knowing where it was.
Mano had earlier cut off the ulua's head and now held it over the dark water and began to chant: "O ka mano, o ke kai, o akua, kau ka maka ..."
Questions flooded Cruz's head. Like was Mano really praying to the shark? But this did not seem the appropriate time to verbalize them.
Mano leaned across the rail, held the big fish head inches above the surface. The sea erupted smooth and sudden, fast and hard. The fish head was there and then it was gone. Mano stayed close to the water and whispered something in Hawaiian as the shark glided gracefully back into the sea.
As Cruz tried to take deep, slow, calming breaths, Mano remained bent over the rail, whispering in Hawaiian. At last he straightened up.
"Father says you may sleep on his beach tonight."
"How did he tell you that?"
"He took our gift and did not return. He is satisfied, for now."
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com
