He was keeping time to the music from the old geezer’s IPod. Who the heck were the Raveonettes? This was cool. This was current.
Sighing, he grabbed his board and headed down to the beach, where he knew, out of the hundreds of milling people, nobody. Nobody at all; everyone he knew, minus his family, was at Steve’s party. Everyone but him.
Or so he thought for most of the morning.
The shore break today was a little larger than he liked; once you got past that and into the swells, you could get some good surfing practice in. There were a lot of locals out there, born and bred here locals, who had probably been surfing since childhood. Older guys mostly, and some blond haired-surfer dudes like you see in the movies. Nobody famous though, unless you counted that seven year old kid, Ross something. He lived here and was a determined little future surfing star. So far, he was only just better than Chris. Well, all right, quite a bit better than Chris but then, most people were. Chris laughed at himself, not very long, and then swam out to hang with the others.
After some good surfing, well, good for him, since he was still strictly a terrified and not-very-determined beginner, he lay on his hot pink flowered towel on the beach in the semi-shade of a palm tree and put the earbuds back in. He lay there sunning, singing along off-key and quietly enjoying his day the best he could. The last ride he’d had in had been rough; the surf was getting up and there was a rip current active, and the wind was pushing the waves higher. Most of the others stayed out there, but Chris knew his limits and thought how he’d rather (well not really!) die than just grub off his board or worse yet, totally wipe-out in some gnarly fashion, and have to be rescued. Even though if he did, at least this time, there wasn’t anyone he knew here.
Thinking of that other time, when he hadn’t been surfing, and just the way the day was shaping up, reminded him of just before Easter, when Coach Proffer had decided they would all learn how to stand up paddle. ‘SUP,’ as it was called, was the latest and hottest fad. Of course some of the jocks, like Steve, could already do it and claimed they had been doing it for years…yeah right. Anyhow Coach had taken their whole gym class to the beach for a stand-up paddleboard class. Only he hadn’t bothered with any of the SUP schools that gave real lessons, no, Coach figured on teaching them himself.
That idiocy aside, could you believe it? Something that didn’t involve just the varsity jocks and a ball, or balls. There was nobody out there; the schools weren’t teaching and the locals were sitting on the beach. Chris hadn’t known whether to tell him it was really too windy and rough that day for it or not. After all, it was just common sense. If it was too windy to surf, it would probably also be too windy for that too. Even worse, because when you’re standing on your board, you’re acting like a sail. Of course, if he had said anything, all the jocks would have laughed at him and called him a pussy. Not that Coach would have listened to him anyhow. After all, Coach was one of those adults who felt they knew everything. He was ‘the man!’ Should be in caps, probably.
Chris already knew how to SUP. He had learned how to stand up paddle from a local guy. This isn’t something his ancestors used to do like surfing or raising taro, at least not like it’s done now. It’s similar to what’s been done all around the world by many cultures, including here. The way it’s thought of now, though, started around 1940, got a huge boost around 1980, and one can look up the details online. Chris had, but he didn’t really like history.
Anyhow, he’d seen this native guy doing it and wanted to learn, even more than he had wanted to surf. When the man came in, Chris asked him if he could teach him. The man had looked at him deeply, and must have seen something in the pale, skinny haole boy before him, because he nodded and said he would. It’s hard to know for sure why the man, who told Chris to call him Mano, (which Chris knew meant ‘shark’ in Hawaiian), even bothered to do it, except Chris was respectful, sincere, and lonely. The young Chris’s vulnerability and innocence itself might have been enough, though, but even though Mano was also gay, as Chris found out much later, he never acted the least bit out of line and was always very respectful of Chris in return. He called Chris ‘Kaipo,’ which Chris learned in next year’s Hawaiian Studies class, meant ‘sweetheart.’ Chris developed a minor crush on Mano, which besides meaning ‘shark,’ can also mean ‘passionate lover.’ All Mano’s friends smiled or laughed whenever Chris said Mano, or Mano called Chris ‘Kaipo.’ Other than that little bit of fun, however, the kindness he showed Chris made him want to learn more about Hawaii, including how to speak Hawaiian, or as Mano put it, “Ōlelo Hawai‘i.”
Remembering Mano now and how much he’d taught him, comparing him to Coach and his know-everything-attitude, made Chris laugh. He didn’t consider himself brave at all. He was scared to learn to scuba dive, for instance, and didn’t like snuba or even the idea of parasailing or zip-lining, either. If truth be told, he was also terrified of sharks, even though Steve and his friends told story after story—probably lie after lie- about narrow escapes they’d had and things like that. He hated to go out when the water was murky or too rough, or when someone was spearfishing nearby and trailing their catch in the water. Now that was downright stupid, drawing in a shark like that, no matter what the jocks said about it. And Mano had taught him, as well as his own common sense, that murky water was usually full of sediment, dirty and even dead animals washed down from Haleakala, and drew sharks in to feed. Not to mention, the visibility was so limited even the sharks couldn’t see what they might be biting into. For instance, a human.
Mano had taught him that being scared was not necessarily something to ashamed of, but something to listen to, an inner voice or a part of himself that had noticed the wind or waves and was warning him to be careful. Mano taught him to respect nature in that way, and to always, always, respect the sea. “Ihi ka moana,” Mano told him, “is how we say ‘respect the ocean’.” Then he added grimly, pointing with his chin toward a hand-made cross on the shore with old leis hung over it, “Your life could depend on it.”
Anyway, that day, he remembered, Coach had all of them in various stages of semi-dress—board shorts, gym shorts, and God forbid for various reasons, tiny speedos. Yeah. On Steve it was horrible; on Andrew and Trey, oh my blessed grandma, not so bad. Of course he’d seen them both without anything on in the showers, but somehow, two inches of thin, stretchy fabric made a big difference.
He was lying there listening to something called ‘Tuesday Afternoon,’ which it had been, that day the class went SUPing. Idly he wondered how he’d look in a Speedo, or even more, in a tiny thong like some of the European men wore when they were vacationing here. Ew! Just some string up the butt crack with your cheeks hanging out? Nice suntan maybe, but still. Oh, how he’d try it in a heartbeat—someday. He slipped back from his thoughts into reliving the day, that other Tuesday. PTSD? He’d never heard of it.
* * * *
This was going to be a blood bath. Maybe sharks would show up to feast on the injured. Sure most of the boys were good at hitting balls or kicking balls or hitting each other, etc., but balance and swimming were not their thing. The school had no pool and a day at the beach just wasn’t in anymore, which struck me as totally incredible. Where I came from? Sitting inside with the TV or a game controller was stupid. Or maybe that was just sour grapes because I wasn’t in the in crowd here. Well for today, I could either be the outstanding example of water sport superstar, or hide. Or maybe take photos. I had my waterproof camera and mask and fins. I could glide around and shoot underwater shots of guys falling into the water and spluttering like fish. Or puking. This could be grand. Oh what to do, what to do. Blackmail wins. Sorry, superstar. Maybe later, if necessary. It was, remember, way too windy for this shit. If the surf comes up and a rip current kicks in, people are gonna hit the channel. Ihi ka moana, he thought.
Low budget as usual, Cheap Ass Coach had only rented ten boards. It was short sighted of him too; if he used one, then there would have to be more than three bat
ches of boys, unless two or more of us ran away or hid. One of the uh, heavier set boys had tossed down his towel in disgust and was headed to the fish taco truck, with his IPhone or whatever in his hand.
When nobody was looking, I put on my gear and rubbed a naupaka leaf inside my snorkel mask so it wouldn’t fog up. Then I slipped into the water and swam out. And holy crap, just like I was afraid of, there was a rip just building. I meant to turn and go back and warn Coach, but I remembered the last time I’d had an occasion to talk to him, and changed my mind.
That time, I’d been pushed and knocked over a hurdle, scraping up my knee. Coach called me clumsy and refused to let me hit the showers or go home. It got infected and I was out for two weeks and Coach still claimed I forged the doctor’s excuse, and called me a wimp-assed pansy.
So Coach brought the first nine boys out and started to do what he does best, not ‘coach’ per se, but belittle and yell at people who have no clue what they’re doing. He hadn’t even had them practice on land like the regular surfing schools did. Of course you can learn on your own, if you’re agile that way, but these were boys who didn’t want to look klutzy or some of them, even fall into the water. Some couldn’t swim at all. I took dozens of pictures and would have enjoyed myself thoroughly except for knowing this was a very dangerous game. I wished hard that I felt confident enough to tell Coach…and that he’d listen to me.
When the second batch came out, I did tell two of them to can it, just float back in and take a fail grade for the day—it wasn’t worth their lives. I knew these two couldn’t see for shit without their glasses on and both were shivering already. One, Tony, listened to me and left, heck, once back on land he left completely. The other, Ryan…Believe me, I tried, I even said he could just hang out with me, but he didn’t listen. Instead he smiled that sweet little pouty smile of his and balled it out, or tried to. I was worried that he was only doing it to impress me and that if anything happened to him if would be my fault. As it was, though, I got two horribly funny (or sad) underwater pictures of him which were actually kind of hot if you know what I mean, and then he just disappeared from sight. I had had interesting thoughts about Ryan in the past, and even more while I was taking his pictures, but since I had no idea which team he batted for yet, I just let my mind float away. As, apparently, he did too.
I was videoing one of the jocks making a fool of himself when it clicked to me that I really hadn’t seen Ryan for a while. I popped up above water and looked around. There, there he was, way out much farther than he had any reason to be, huddled on his hands and knees, clutching the board like the life-raft it was, and his mouth open like he was screaming his lungs out.
Of course I was rather far out too by now and I saw the board a jock had just fallen off shooting toward shore without the stupid jock, who was way too cool to wear the ankle leash. Why hadn’t Coach made everyone use their ankle leashes? Mano had taught him to always wear the leash! Coach was farther in pulling the jock up onto his own board. That left me. I tried to holler toward Coach, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t hear me, so I put my snorkel back in my mouth, submerged, and started swimming with the rip current after Ryan. I would have taken the board but it was floating away from where I needed to go.
It was clouding over and looking like rain, terrific, and the wind was picking up. Offshore, onshore, I don’t know; it just felt down channel to me, (which showed my former Michigan-on-the-Detroit-River background) but it was lucky, because it popped Ryan out of the rip and had him moving somewhat back in my direction. It was a long swim, but I was used to the water and just paced myself. You could go so much farther and faster with fins and mask that you could in a regular top-of-the-water crawl or freestyle, but still, it felt like forever before I could see his feet dangling in front of me. It was raining by now, as I found out when I popped up beside him, scaring a scream out of him. Then he screamed my name (ooh, lovely! Did I mention he rocked that speedo he was wearing? Why hadn’t I noticed that before?) He was wimpy and faggy and cute enough to be gay…sorry for the stereotypes but that was ‘my type.’ LOL! A boy can hope. He wasn’t Trey, but he’d do in a pinch, and ooh, would I ever like to pinch, well, never mind.
Anyhow, I pulled myself up onto his board, told him to lie down between my legs…oh God, the irony, I almost told him to just do what the nice boy told him (sorry, old joke)…and to give me the paddle. He didn’t want to let go of it so I gave him my fins and told him to hold them. I told him they floated, too, so he calmed down. I felt like Jesus.
Together we rode the waves in. I’d like to say I arrived on shore like a God with lightning at my back and the sound of thunder, right up onto shore to the welcoming and worshipful crowd. I’d like to say that, but that’s not what happened. Right up until we were close to the shore break we were doing okay, then I picked the wrong wave to ride in. I probably got distracted by the fire trucks and lifeguard van. Men in uniform…well, you know. Anyhow the wave broke and under we went, or rather, Ryan went under, I went over. Head over heels, ungraceful as a truck over an embankment backward. Knocked myself unconscious and came to with a lifeguard breathing air into my mouth. Ryan was fine. Ryan was looking at me like I was something fresh from the market; the meat market. I tried to smile but threw up sea water instead. That’s me, classy as hell. It felt like I was barfing up an octopus. Trey was there too, kneeling beside me, holding my hand, patting it, telling me I was going to be all right. I’ll never forget that.
I had a feeling we’d be back to the school playing fields chasing balls around for the rest of the semester. That was fine with me. I had my own idea of what I wanted to chase, and had a feeling I wouldn’t even have to run fast at all.
* * * *
Six weeks later, before we could even get to know each other, if you know what I mean, his family moved back to the mainland, with his mother still screaming about what a dangerous place this was. Damn it.
There was still Trey, I suppose, but he wasn’t Ryan. Still, he’d do in a pinch.
Chapter 4: Trey: The Great Porcupine Fish
As it turned out, I was the only one not invited to Steve Durant’s party. Well, not the only one, but the only non-lesbian and that’s because Steve didn’t know that Hannah felt she was transgendered and Chris was definitely gay, but nobody knew, except Hannah and I. They only really knew about me; ‘Trey the Gay,’ like I was the only poster child on site. So I might as well have been the only one. There were several others and by odds, out of our class of a hundred or so, there should have been ten of us. I’m thinking of Ryan and Andrew and Terri, though I didn’t have any classes with Andrew, which was a shame. Even if they were gay for sure, Ryan hadn’t been my type, except I didn’t even have a type for sure yet, but Chris was darling and Andrew, if he was gay, well, yeah, he had drool-factor all over his blue-eyed, freckled, beautiful face. He also had a girl hanging out with him between many of the classes, and at lunch. Not that I’m stalking him or anything. Breathe, Trey, breathe. (How was I to know it was his sister? I didn’t know he even had a sister).
Steve had made it plain to his friends and me and everyone else that I was the only person not invited to his stupid party, which hurt a lot. It never occurred to me that he might be lying.
Anyhow, I decided the heck with them; I’d go snorkeling. Sure it was only eighty degrees out and the water was about the same, and there was a south swell and all that, but the hell with it. I grabbed my gear, pulled on my board shorts, left a note for Mom (‘see you later’), and left.
Now I know my name is weird, but we live in Hawaii where half the kids have Hawaiian language or Japanese or Filipino names so it’s all good. Except for the reason why my folks named me that, which kind of hurts. I was their third kid. Trey is three in cards. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I found out I had a great-uncle named Trey, who was gay. I mean, as they put it, he had a live-in, male, companion. Like, oh come on, bitch, please. But I digress.
What I tend to forget is that I
go to one of four high schools where I live. It’s like being locked in a cage with the same people, over and over, and even though you know in your heart there are three other cages full of different people, you can’t get there easily, you have to deal with what you have day after day anyway, and you’re afraid people from the other cages won’t like you anyway. Even I know that feeling is stupid, but I usually feel that way anyhow. Plus how do you get to interact with these other people? Pick up strays at the library? Talk to them at the mall, where you’re always cocooned in a group of your own friends, if you have friends, thus taking your cage along with you anyhow? And we’re kinda new here, so it’s not like I go way back with family and friends, grade school chums, Cub Scout pals, or whatever. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. And the fact that I’m already an outsider on two counts, new, and you know, gay.
I don’t even like Steve, actually; so I don’t know why it hurt so much to not be invited, but it did; it cut deep.
So, thinking all this and walking south along the highway, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of Not Being Angry and Hurt. At least I wasn’t crying or hitting anyone. I decided I’d hitch a ride. You see people doing it all the time here, girls as well as guys, clean folks as well as—homeless. And besides at that particular moment I didn’t care if the driver was going to drive me all the way and buy me lunch, or kill me and hide my body. You’d think that would have made me realize I was angry and hurt, but no. It didn’t seem to really matter anyhow, I mean, how I felt. I thought I was helpless to change anything about it.
The first car that stopped was actually pretty new, and nice, but it was covered in a thick coat of the red dirt and ‘Maui snow’ that our island was famous for. The driver was an older guy, gray haired—what there was of it—and happy. Very happy. Happier than I was and at first I thought he might have been stoned; I couldn’t tell. He told me he was a writer. Maybe all writers are like that. I wouldn’t know; I could barely put together a sentence. I can play the piano though, really well, and composed my own music.
Spring Tide Love Page 2
