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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Waiting game
>> Big Island
Is there anything much worse in life than waiting? Especially waiting for a good thing? Like a kid waiting on Christmas, full of hope and eager expectation, the days can't go fast enough? That was Daren Guy and Sushi Leclaire when they first arrived at the remote Pele's Bath 24 hours earlier, anticipating their own kind of Christmas. And so they kept their eyes on the horizon beyond Pueo Point, the rocky outcrop that defined the northern side of the bay below Pele's Bath.
But when the yacht Wet Spot, skippered by Daren's fiance Sonya Chan and carrying the 12 young women Sushi was smuggling from the Philippines, missed its ETA, hope and eager expectation turned quickly to dread and anxious doubt. Santa Claus was late and his milk curdled.
Far off they saw passing specks on the horizon, and each one inspired new hope -- there they are! -- but ultimately greater depression -- they'll never get here. When night came, Daren figured Wet Spot was at least six hours late, and by then every bad possibility for why they were late had already run through his head at least eight times.
They gathered kiawe wood and built a signal fire, hoping still that Sonya and the girls would be coming any time, but in their guts feeling that an al Qaeda heat-seeking missile had probably shot down Santa. They kept the fire glowing throughout the night, neither able to sleep for all the darkness in their heads. It was about 2 a.m. when Sushi swore softly.
"What?!" Daren barked and jumped up, looking in vain out to sea.
"No," Sushi said, pointed behind Daren to where an orange river oozed down the same slope they'd descended to get there.
The beauty of this grand display by Madame Pele was lost on Daren. "You know what this means -- scientists and media all over. Those girls gotta get here quick."
The lava, coming ever closer, also meant they might be trapped there if the lava crossed the road. (Why did the lava cross the road? To screw up my plans!) That would mean evacuation by officials who would want to know his name. Daren's darkest hour really was just before dawn.
They were still waiting when the stars slid away into the blue morning and the rising sun revealed absolutely nothing on the horizon but ocean and sky.
Daren walked alone down the short, sandy path that led through the lava to the beach. A swim would help clear his head, and he needed to be clear.
There were contingencies -- well, more like what the hell am I gonna do now?! -- to consider.
"There!" Sushi called from behind. "Look!"
Daren hurried back up the path, holding his breath, and there on the horizon was a yacht without sails just rounding Pueo Point. "Yes! Maybe."
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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