ROBIN JONES GUNN
Summerside Press™
Minneapolis 55337
www.summersidepress.com
Love Finds You in Sunset Beach, Hawaii
© 2011 by Robin’s Nest Productions, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-60936-028-3
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Lookout Design | www.lookoutdesign.com
Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net
Photos of Sunset Beach provided by Robin Jones Gunn.
Published in association with Books & Such Literary Agency, Janet Kobobel Grant, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370.
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Printed in USA.
For Steph, Cheryl, and Marlene.
Thanks for making me feel so welcome in our ohana.
Acknowledgments
I’m grateful to our friend David Hessemer for his insights into the challenges and rewards of photographing weddings on Maui, a job he has loved doing for the past eighteen years.
Our longtime friends Tom and Alisa Castleton of Maui Wave Riders provided terrific details on the world of pro surfing. I especially appreciated hearing Tom’s stories of what it was like to compete as a pro surfer on the North Shore and about his Big Wave photo that put him on the cover of Surfer Magazine in 1982.
A huge mahalo nui loa goes to my Forever Friend and agent Janet Grant, who paddled the extra mile for me on this book.
Most of all, I’m grateful for all the readers of the Christy Miller and Sierra Jensen books who never stopped asking me, “What happened to Sierra? Did she end up with Paul?” This story is for you.
Somehow, the love of the islands, like the love of a woman, just happens. One cannot determine in advance to love a particular woman nor can one determine to love Hawaii.
JACK LONDON
ANCIENT HAWAIIANS CULTIVATED THE FERTILE LAND AROUND THE Sunset Beach area, on the North Shore of Oahu, more than a thousand years ago. They grew taro and sweet potatoes and held a high reverence for the ocean. When one of Captain Cook’s ships anchored at Waimea Bay in 1779, a member of his crew recorded that the area was “well cultivated and full of villages, and the face of the country is uncommonly beautiful and picturesque.”
That description could still be applied to this portion of the island of Oahu two hundred years later. Many tour books refer to Haleiwa as a sleepy village with a Wild West feel. Aside from the surfing crowds that flock to the North Shore when the big waves roll in each winter, most tourists don’t find their way to this part of the island. That wasn’t always the case.
In 1832 the first Protestant church was planted in Waialua by John Emerson, a graduate of Dartmouth College. He and his wife raised eight children in this area and founded a school that provided education for native girls. Hawaiian royalty came to spend the summer in Haleiwa, and Queen Liliuokalani worshipped at the church, which now bears her name.
As the sugar cane industry grew in the Waialua area, a grand hotel was built in Haleiwa in 1899. This Victorian beauty was the first hotel on the island of Oahu, and each of its fourteen luxury suites came with a private bath and telephone connection to the front desk. For many years the affluent population of Honolulu delighted in taking a train to the Haleiwa Hotel for a weekend in the “country.” The cost of ten dollars included the train ride from Honolulu to Haleiwa, one night at the hotel, and a tour of the sugar mill at Waialua.
This stream of visitors to the North Shore came to an abrupt halt in 1927 when the builder of the Haleiwa Hotel completed work on the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on the beach at Waikiki. Tourists flocked to this easily accessible Waikiki Beach location, and the crowds haven’t let up during the past century. The Royal Hawaiian Hotel at Waikiki is still a world-class destination, while the Haleiwa Hotel was eaten by termites and torn down in 1953.
What remained on the North Shore was the constant ocean and the anticipated winter swell. In 1965 the first invitation-only big wave surfing competition was held at Sunset Beach. Twelve world-class surfers competed for the prized Duke Kahanamoku trophy, taking to the giant surf on surfboards as long as sixteen feet and weighing more than a hundred pounds. Since then the North Shore of Oahu has firmly established itself as the hub of world-class surfing competitions, and the surfing industry has flourished into a global, multimillion-dollar enterprise.
The Hawaiians of long ago never imagined such a thing when they took to the water for fun and rode the waves on boards carved from koa wood hundreds of years ago. Hawaii is and always has been the home of surfing.
Chapter One
Sierra Jensen stepped off the city bus and slipped her leather messenger bag across the front of her in a diagonal fashion. With quick steps, she turned uphill at the corner. A faint, sweet fragrance lingered in the warm November air.
When Sierra had first moved to Brazil from California, she thought the scent came from the vivid pink flowers blooming on the trees in this part of town. Her Brazilian friend Mariana set her straight and told her that the fragrance came from ethanol emissions—the sugar cane–based fuel that powered both cars and trucks. Mariana was also the one who urged Sierra to take the volunteer position at the after-school program where she was now headed.
The early afternoon sun came at Sierra from behind as she hiked up the hill past gated homes and security-locked fences. Here, below the equator, spring was giving a farewell curtsey as summer was about to make her grand entrance. Sierra knew that a bevy of long, sultry afternoons would be riding in on summer’s regal train.
Scooting up to the school entrance, Sierra waved at the security guard, who reached over to press the buzzer to open the gate. As she waited, she held her wild, curly blond hair up off her neck. Once again, she considered the option of cutting her locks short. A shorter style might make her weekly visits to the favelas, or shanty towns, a less steamy experience this summer. Last December some of the women she assisted in the poverty-affected area of town teased her when she broke out in a pouring sweat as they worked together making beaded bracelets. They called her a princesa and sent their children to find pieces of cardboard with which to playfully fan their fair-skinned friend.
The gate buzzed, and Sierra reached to push it open. She glanced at the beaded bracelets on her wrist and smiled at the comforting clinking sound they made as they tapped against the row of silver bangles she loved to wear. This was familiar—bracelets, gauze blouses, and her unruly mass of curls. This had been her style for almost a decade, since the middle of high school. If she changed any of it now, she might not know who she was when she looked in the mirror.
Striding down the hallway, Sierra decided that the past year had been full of too many adjustments. Her life and her work with the mission organization had been in constant flux. Her hair and everything else about her needed to stay just as it was.
The principal’s assistant at the front desk looked up as Sierra entered the office and greeted her in Portuguese. “Boa tarde.”
“Boa tarde,” Sierra replied. Her attempt to communicate further in Portuguese stopped there. The assistant nodded toward the principal’s door and gave a hand motion indicating that Sierra should go in.
Sierra’s dark-eyed, fashion-conscious friend Mariana was seated in one of the two
chairs positioned at an angle in front of the principal’s vacant desk. Mariana was shorter than Sierra but always sat with elegant posture. Her skin was a rich mahogany shade of brown, and her well- formed legs were one of her nicest features. She wasn’t beautiful by model standards, but she was striking. Whenever Mariana entered a room, people took a second look.
“Hey, how’s your day been?” Sierra asked.
“Not bad. How about yours?”
“Good. Busy.” Sierra unstrapped her messenger bag and sat down.
“You do too many things, Sierra.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yes, but I get paid for teaching here. You volunteer all over the place. You need a vacation. Both of us do. What do you think? We should go somewhere in January.”
“In January I hope to be leading a summer program here for the high school girls. That’s why I asked for this meeting with Senhora Almeida. I’d like to do a cooking class one day, a sports day every Friday, and maybe a drama program.”
“Sierra, you do too much.” Mariana leaned forward and put out her hand. “Come on, let’s see your plan for this program.”
“I haven’t exactly written out a plan yet. I have all the ideas in my head.”
“Of course you do.” Mariana leaned back and gave Sierra a friendly smirk.
“What?”
“You have so many ideas. This is a good one, though, so I won’t give you a hard time about it. For these girls, it would be wonderful.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Nothing else is like it that I know of in this area.”
“I suppose you’ll need an interpreter. And someone to write up the lesson plan and the proposal for you in Portuguese.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m in the market for that sort of assistance.” Sierra gave Mariana an appreciative smile. “You don’t happen to know where I might find someone who would be able and willing to do that for me, would you?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll do it. I won’t even make you beg this time. And I’ll help you with the drama class. You know I’m good in that area.” Mariana lifted the back of her hand to her forehead and struck a dramatic pose.
Sierra gave Mariana’s elbow a squeeze. “You’re so funny. Thank you, though. Again. I don’t think I thank you enough for all you do for me.”
“No, you don’t thank me enough.” Mariana grinned mischievously. “But do you see me complaining?”
Ever since Sierra and Mariana met at a fund-raising event almost three years ago, their friendship had remained steady. Mariana spoke perfect English and volunteered to serve as Sierra’s translator whenever she needed one. The result was that Sierra could help others despite her seemingly futile struggle to learn Portuguese.
It also meant that the two of them spent lots of time together. The unique twist, from Sierra’s point of view, was that Mariana accompanied her on many of the projects she did for the mission organization she worked for. Yet Mariana, in her own words, was “not among the faithful.” Her goal in life was to be happy. And hanging out with Sierra, Mariana said, made her happy.
The side door to the office opened and Senhora Almeida entered with a serious expression on her face. She adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses and spoke in Portuguese before she even reached her desk.
Mariana translated. The words went in her ears in Portuguese and came out her mouth in English. This skill always amazed Sierra.
“Before you state your reasons for this meeting, Senhora Almeida wants you to know she has some difficult news to tell you. The decision has been made to cancel the after-school program for next year. She wanted you to know this right up front.”
Sierra turned to Mariana, thinking her witty friend was playing a joke on her.
Mariana kept her eyes on the principal. Her chin was lowered in a somber expression. “She says she’s very sorry. But the decision has been made. It has to do with the budget for the utilities and the extra hours for the security staff.”
Sierra leaned back as if the metal chair were swallowing her.
Mariana gave Sierra a sympathetic look. “Everyone here has appreciated your work with these girls. She regrets that she is the one to tell you that your position has been terminated.”
Terminated. The word pierced Sierra like an arrow.
“Senhora Almeida would like you to know she is very sorry. And what is it that you wanted to say to her in this meeting?”
Sierra rallied her emotions. “I wanted to see if we could do a summer program.”
The principal looked surprised. Sierra didn’t wait for her to reply. She went ahead and took a crazy chance, pitching her idea just in case something could be done.
The principal folded her hands on the desk and spoke in a decisive tone that told Sierra what she already knew before Mariana translated.
Sierra nodded that she understood. The budget. The many restrictions. Yes, she understood. Following Mariana’s cue, Sierra rose from her chair since they apparently were being dismissed.
Offering her hand to the principal, Sierra said, “Thank you for letting me help out for as long as I did. I loved every minute of my time here. Obrigada.” Sierra added her thank-you in Portuguese and waited for the principal to shake her hand.
Instead of reaching across the desk, Senhora Almeida came around to where Sierra and Mariana stood. She opened her arms to Sierra in a motherly fashion, and when Sierra received the hug, Senhora Almeida kissed her lightly on the cheek. This was the kind of warmth and openhearted greeting Sierra had received when she first arrived at the school. It made her stomach do a flip-flop to now receive an equally tender yet bittersweet send-off.
Just as the buzzer sounded indicating the end of the school day, Mariana translated the principal’s final words. “Please do not say anything to the girls about this decision. She will tell them before the end of the term.”
Sierra agreed and walked with Mariana to the cafeteria where Sierra knew she had to appear upbeat during the next two hours with the seventeen girls who came each afternoon to practice their English.
“Not what you had hoped to hear,” Mariana stated in a low voice, leaning close in the noisy hallway.
“No, not what I had hoped to hear.”
“Let’s go to dinner tonight. I’ll meet you here when you’re done, okay?”
Sierra agreed, even though she didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment. She did like the idea of not going home to the tiny apartment she shared with a young married couple from Arkansas who worked for the same mission organization as Sierra and were going through language school.
They were a quiet and very busy couple. On the rare occasions they were home, they gravitated to their room and closed the door while normally gregarious Sierra was relegated to the lumpy foldout sofa that doubled as her bedroom. The arrangement was awkward but was the only one the mission organization could come up with three months ago when they started to restructure the ministry. Sierra and the young couple had fallen in the crevice between the way things had always been done and the way they would be done once the new administration passed its policies.
Mariana had invited Sierra to live with her in the apartment she shared with three other young women. Sierra would still have the couch as her bedroom, but as Mariana pointed out, at least she would have a social life. Sierra knew enough about her friend’s social life to know that, in spite of Mariana’s generosity, living with four Brazilian party girls was a bad idea.
Trying to breathe in a courageous attitude, Sierra opened the cafeteria door. The moment she saw the girls perched on the tables’ edges, chattering like a bunch of colorful birds, she felt her throat tighten. Pulling up a small smile, Sierra blinked back the tears that rushed to her eyes. She knew that the next few weeks were going to be agonizing.
Chapter Two
Jordan Bryce positioned his bare feet firmly in the cool sand at Goleta Beach and flipped his baseball cap on backward. He checked to make sure his camera was set on the lowes
t aperture and lifted the view-finder to his left eye. The big waves had arrived in Santa Barbara because of a mid-November storm, and today was the start of the promised surf-worthy swells.
First light had come, and dozens of surfers were already in the water. Jordan was one of only three photographers lining the far side of the beach. And he was ready.
Carefully adjusting the lens, Jordan focused on a lone surfer who had paddled out on an old-school long board. Jordan held his breath for just a moment and lightly pressed the button. He heard the magic click-click-click sound he so dearly loved, and a steady smile rested on his lips.
This could be it. Come on, Derek, come on. You got it. That’s it! Yes!
Derek had pulled away from the other contenders. His dark wet suit blended with his Jamaican skin tone as he rode the charging wave like a jousting knight intent on toppling his opponent. Jordan shot every set of waves his old roommate managed to catch. The lighting was ideal—overcast skies and early morning sunlight illuminating his subject.
This could really be it!
The session lasted almost an hour before Derek paddled in and headed straight for Jordan, dripping and smiling broadly.
“Not bad, huh?” Derek shoved the end of his classic surfboard into the wet sand and slapped Jordan a watery high five.
“Ideal conditions.” Jordan flipped his baseball cap back around on his recently cut mop of dark brown hair. “I got some epic shots.”
“Let’s see some of ’em.” Derek stood beside Jordan as they peered at the digital screen on Jordan’s camera. “Oh, nice. Look at that one. Killer. Did you capture the…yes! Excellent! Right there. That could be the one! Man, Jordo, you killed this session.”
“Look who’s talking. You were the one out there doing all the shredding.”
“When can you have ’em ready?”
“Give me an hour. I’m heading back to my place now.”
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