by Debra Bokur
Kali was surprised but tried not to show it. “Have you asked Pele for permission?”
“Ah,” he said, smiling. “In the Azores I had to watch out for disgruntled saints with names I couldn’t pronounce. But I think I actually know who Pele is. The goddess who lives in the volcano, correct?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Though there’s more to the story, of course. Are you interested?”
Jack nodded, then listened intently as Kali spoke.
“Well, there’s more than one version of the Pele story, but she’s regarded as one of our most important and powerful deities. She had a constant stream of lovers, including the husband of one of her sisters, Na-mako, who was the goddess of the sea. In one story, Pele was of Tahitian origin and was banished by her father both for her destructive, foul temper and for constantly fighting with her sisters.”
Kali stared off in the distance, to where the band of sandy beach held the island together. “She was put into the ocean aboard a small boat, and eventually it drifted ashore at a tiny mountain-covered island in Hawaii. She tried to make her home there, but the resident snow goddesses who lived in the mountain peaks had other ideas. They pummeled her with blizzards and ice storms, trying to drive her away.”
“Hmm. That all sounds very un-tropical.”
“Well, not really, if you think about the fact that Mauna Kea, on the Big Island, has snow on it for a good part of the year. But Hawaiians know that Pele eventually wins every argument with fire. So if you’re going to go poking around where she lives, you should be properly respectful, or you’ll have to deal with her temper.”
Their food arrived, and Jack took an enthusiastic bite of his mahimahi. He chewed thoughtfully, then smiled. “When you say ‘show respect,’ you’re serious, aren’t you? I mean, aren’t there spiritual ceremonies and things that people do to keep the gods and goddesses happy?”
Kali nodded. “Sure. Lots of them. I practice a few myself, but probably not as often as I should.”
“What do you mean?”
She hesitated. The last thing she felt like doing was engaging in a discussion of spiritual practices with a scientist. Part of her reluctance, she guessed, no doubt stemmed from her own lingering sense of guilt. Wherever her grandmother’s spirit was right now, she was probably shaking her head in disappointment.
“Just that it’s part of being Hawaiian,” she offered. She decided it was time to change the subject. “Tell me something I don’t know about volcanoes.”
Jack tapped his upper lip with two fingers, thinking. “Well, over eighty percent of the planet’s surface was originally volcanic, and the volcanoes here in Hawaii are part of a much larger system, called the Ring of Fire. It includes all the coasts that enclose the Pacific Ocean.”
She was impressed. “Good to know, I guess. Probably not something real estate agents in those areas like to emphasize.”
Jack laughed, and they settled back in their seats, enjoying their meal. And though Kali wasn’t ready to explore too deeply what it meant, she was enjoying the company, as well. This smart, funny man, with his uncomplicated laugh and hair like a volcano burst, was making her feel as though she was in exactly the right place, at exactly the right moment. It was a new feeling, but it was good.
CHAPTER 28
The next afternoon, driving her rental car along the H-1 west past Pearl Harbor Naval Base while listening to the Hawaiian music station, Kali thought about her meal with Jack. She’d enjoyed herself more than she’d expected, and he had seemed to have a good time, as well. They’d exchanged business cards, and he’d said she should let him know if there was anything else he could contribute to her investigation.
Now, driving alone through the countryside, she regretted that she hadn’t rung to ask if he’d be interested in a drive out to the north end of O‘ahu and its famous surfing beaches.
She swung north and slightly west onto Highway 99, which she preferred to the busier and more crowded H-2 running parallel to it. Here, there were still open spaces free of massive hotels. She drove through the small town of Wahiawa and continued on toward the coast, where 99 ended and became 83. It was at this juncture, she’d been told, that she’d find the last solar supply company on her list. Earlier today she’d made the trek to the harbor at Ko Olina, where enormous luxury resorts filled an area close to the water. It had proven to be a waste of time, as she was sure this last call would also be.
The owner of the company in Ko Olina, after expressing an understandable level of outrage at the suggestion she might have knowledge of stolen goods, had grudgingly shown Kali around her facility and explained that the photovoltaic systems she dealt with were based exclusively on a new technology that allowed the user to track the amount of energy collected by each individual panel. The homeowner was even able to track their own energy collection and energy use via a personal Web site.
The last company was, indeed, an equal waste of her time. The husband-and-wife team that owned it also did their own installation and maintenance. They seemed genuinely surprised at the idea that someone was actively engaged in stealing panels, and willingly offered to provide documentation of their sources and customers.
The only thing that seemed to tie any of it together was the fact that all the dealers in Hawaii seemed to be buying their panels and supplies from two companies. One was located in Japan, and one was based in the States, on the mainland. Other than that, there seemed to be absolutely no connection of any kind.
She was frustrated and had finished far earlier than she’d planned. The clock on the car’s dashboard showed that it was just past lunchtime, and she wasn’t due to show up for her flight home until 11:00 a.m. the next day. On a sudden impulse, she pulled the car over onto the side of the road and pulled out her small day bag.
Jack’s business card was tucked inside the interior pocket. She retrieved it and stared at it for a moment, her hesitation to ask him if he’d like to see the other side of the island fading in the warm afternoon sunshine. She looked out the car window at the ragged line of the Ko‘olau Mountains, a world away from the traffic and congestion of Honolulu. It would be a shame, she told herself, if she let him leave with his only impression of Hawaii being Waikiki Beach, but she knew that she was also curious about whether her vague attraction might have lasted overnight.
She told herself she’d let the phone ring three times and then give up if he hadn’t answered by then. She punched in the number, and on the third ring, he answered.
“Hi Jack. Kali here. I was just wondering if you might have any interest in watching some of Hawaii’s famous big-wave surfing?”
“Surfing? I’d love to see some in person,” he said, sounding delighted. “As long as you don’t expect me to try it.”
She reassured him that the expedition would be purely observational in nature and arranged to pick him up in front of the hotel in a half hour. She filled the gas tank in the rental car and then headed back to the city. He was there when she pulled up, his tall figure leaning against the hotel’s exterior wall in the shade. He waved and walked over to the car.
“Hi there,” he said, smiling. “How’s your investigation going?”
“I’d say less than satisfying,” she answered as he opened the passenger door and climbed inside. “But I’ve finished what I came to do on O‘ahu, so I might as well enjoy the rest of the afternoon. And I thought it only hospitable to show you the other side of the island. It’s a lot different from what you’ve probably seen so far.”
She glanced over at him, trying to gauge his interest level. He had picked up a folded map from the pocket divider between the front seats and was studying it carefully.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said without looking up. Instead, he followed the road line with his fingertip, then turned to her. “Are we headed for the North Shore? There are lots of little surfers drawn there on that part of the map.”
“We are. That’s the area that’s become so famous for the big sponsored pr
ofessional surfing competitions. It isn’t the right time of the year for the really huge waves, but there’s always a good crowd of locals out there. If you’ve never seen it before, it can be pretty exciting. Of course, if you’d rather go somewhere else . . .”
“No,” he said quickly. “That’s perfect. I can’t really go home and tell people I was in Hawaii for three days and never saw anything beyond the hotel. Too embarrassing.”
Kali’s music caught his attention, and he reached forward toward the volume dial of the car radio.
“Do you mind if I turn it up a little? The music here is so beautiful.”
She tried not to show her pleasure. “Be my guest.” She listened. “That’s the Ka‘au Crater Boys.”
He turned the knob and began to hum along to the song. Fresh air rushed through the open windows, and Kali made a decision.
“If you’ve got the time, how would you like me to give you a crash course in Hawaiian history and culture?”
His face showed interest but also a certain amount of suspicion. “Is there some sort of ritual involved?”
She shrugged. “There’s music. And a fire dancer.”
That got his attention. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a really great show at the Polynesian Cultural Center that’s sort of become a local institution. There’s a really decent luau, and the center is set up with villages that represent the different islands of Polynesia, showcasing their arts, crafts, foods, and culture. There’s some hands-on stuff, and the show is outstanding. If you don’t have to get back to the hotel at any certain time, we could head there after you have your surfing lesson.”
Jack laughed. “Afraid I’m staying firmly on the beach,” he said. “But a show that involves food and fire? Right up my alley.”
Her body relaxed. His smile seemed to reflect genuine pleasure.
They drove along, listening to the radio and enjoying the cool breeze. When they reached the North Shore, the beach was thick with locals and surf pilgrims. She pulled the car over along the verge, and they walked across the street to a spot on the sand where portable stadium seating had been erected.
“This is kind of odd,” he said, climbing up a few rows. “Bleachers on the beach?”
“They leave these up for most of the year,” she said. “This is one of the most popular competition spots when the big-wave season hits, and it makes it easier to accommodate the crowds that show up. It can be a real circus, between the competitors, spectators, sponsors, and television crews.”
Today, however, the view was peaceful. The surfers—ranging in age from teenagers to a few older people who looked as though they could easily be in their eighties—paddled and rose with the waves in seeming harmony, with the battles over wave territory blissfully nonexistent on this quiet, competition-free afternoon.
“It can get pretty cutthroat out there when there’s a contest going on,” Kali explained. “Today, looks like everyone’s at peace with the island gods who have dominion over the sea.”
Jack turned to her, his curiosity evident. She explained that to traditional Hawaiians, being at one with the water and the spirits who made their homes there wasn’t an outlandish thought at all. Until the Calvinistic missionaries descended on the island, introducing their foreign beliefs to an ancient culture that was already thriving, surfing was almost a religion of its own.
The practice of balancing on the crests of the waves was approached with a mixture of joy and solemn reverence. Elaborately fashioned, hand-carved boards were chanted over and blessed before they found their way into the deep, rolling waters. Both royalty and commoners perfected the art of riding the tops of the waves, though strictly observed class distinctions meant that they never surfed together or even on the same beaches.
Jack was quiet, considering what she’d told him. Kali went on, taking it as a sign of his interest, and told him how surfing had enjoyed an enormous revival in the 1960s.
“It was thanks to the Gidget movies that a whole new surfing culture emerged,” she said. “Surfing spread its own message of peace, love, and beaches via films, magazines, and the makers of mass-produced boards. Icons like Woody Brown and Anona Napoleon became huge celebrities. Even now, Hawaii is a mecca for surfers, who travel to the islands from every part of the world just to surf the same beaches that their heroes have.”
She stopped, her mind switching to darker thoughts. Boys like Kekipi Smith lived and breathed a mix of the old Hawaiian spiritual approach and the present-day passion for bigger waves and better boards. Surfing, thought Kali, was alive and well, even if Kekipi no longer was.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Jack smiled, leaning back against the seat behind him, content. The sun glinted off the water, and a soft breeze blew across their shoulders and faces, lifting their hair. Kali felt herself relaxing.
“So, I’ll stop talking for a while so you can tell me about yourself. Why the fascination with volcanoes? Which one do you find most interesting? And what’s your favorite color?”
He looked thoughtful. “Hmmm. Let’s see . . . Volcanoes fascinate me because of their fierce, raw power and the way they connect directly to the ongoing act of creation. I’m a little obsessed with Pompeii, but maybe it’s because that’s the very first one I was ever aware of, back in middle school.” He looked at her appraisingly. “And right now, without a doubt, my favorite color in the whole world is the shade of blue in the sky above this beach.”
He smiled. “Your turn. Why a career with the police instead of pursuing anthropology?”
She didn’t say anything for a minute, deciding it was too early to talk about her status as a kahu.
“My grandmother was a pretty famous historian. I always loved listening to her talk about the history and culture of the islands, and I guess it got under my skin. But academia is too much sitting inside, doing research, instead of being out in the world. Though with the police . . .” She trailed off. “You see things. There’s a lot of dirt out there, covered up by pretty things. Drugs, domestic violence. Makes me wonder if anything good has a chance of making the long haul. I don’t want that to be the only thing I wake up to every morning, so I keep one foot in anthropology.”
“That’s kind of pessimistic, don’t you think?”
Jack watched the water for a few minutes, his eyes following a young woman in a bright pink swimsuit who had risen to her feet on her board and was coasting along a wave, all tranquility and grace. The sunlight flickered on the surface of the turquoise water, making it sparkle.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing toward the girl. “Such beauty. Do you really think that it’s all bad out there?”
She thought carefully before answering, recalling Mike’s optimism, remembering the barrage of gunfire that had ended his hope and his life.
“Some days, I guess I do.” She smiled suddenly, wanting to dispel the heavy mood that seemed to have descended, unbidden. It was pleasant sitting here in the sunshine, next to an interesting man who appeared to enjoy her company. “Job hazard, I suppose. Most of the time, I’m a lot more fun to be with. Just ask my dog.”
His face broke into a wide smile. “Oh, you have a dog? I’m kind of nuts when it comes to dogs. My sweet old retriever passed away last year, and I guess I’m still not over him. He was twelve years old. I raised him from a puppy. I still really miss him.”
She nodded. “You don’t need to explain. I get it. If something happened to my Hilo, I’d be pretty lost.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, then scrolled through her camera images until she located a photo showing Hilo sitting proudly in the passenger seat of the Jeep.
“That’s him. My second-in-command. I don’t have kids, so you’ll have to put up with animal photos.”
He looked at the image on her phone screen and smiled. “That may be the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.” He studied the image closely. “And he has happy eyes.”
Kali glanced again at the image of the big gray dog lo
oking happily into the phone’s camera lens. She hoped that by now, he’d stopped howling and that Birta and Elvar weren’t regretting their offer of dog sitting. Strangely pleased with Jack’s reaction, she slipped her phone back into her bag, and then glanced at her watch.
“If you’ve had your fill of surfing, we could head over to the cultural center now. There’s a lot to see before the luau performance actually begins. By the time you get back to the hotel tonight, you’ll know everything there is to know about Hawaii.”
He looked unconvinced. “I doubt that.” Grinning, he added, “But I’ve always been a pretty good student.”
They drove south along Highway 83 to the outdoor theater and show complex that made up the Polynesian Cultural Center. There were already a considerable number of people wandering about, taking in the demonstrations and displays, trying their hand at various traditional crafts.
“Ever started a fire all by yourself?” she asked as he looked around, impressed.
“No, can’t say that I have. I nearly got kicked out of the Cub Scouts for deliberately tipping over a canoe with a scout leader in it before we got to the campfire part of things. Kind of put a damper on my scouting career.”
“Then here’s your big chance,” she said, laughing.
She steered him toward one of the thatched-roof huts that served as stations for the various activities that were offered, each showcasing a Polynesian skill or historic cultural element. Inside, a young man in traditional Samoan dress was demonstrating to a half-dozen onlookers the art of rubbing two sticks together to create a flame. He rubbed the sticks rapidly against one another at an angle, and small wisps of smoke began to rise from the spot where the wood met. The small crowd listened as he explained the process.
“For this to work, the two pieces of wood must be the same type. You can’t rub wood from a coconut palm against a stick from a banyan tree. You’ll never get anywhere.”
The presenter looked around, smiling at the watchers. “Would anyone like to try?”
