Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  The recently landed took the degradation as collateral damage for the greater good. Burgeoning freeways with dividers replaced country roads—with a certain je ne sais quoi compared to the 10, the 110, the 210 and the 405. A cane field became tract housing—known locally as “track” housing—like Orange County just after the oranges went away. And genetically modified organisms in rows looked like corn but better, like a lifted face or tucked tummy, without a single worm or dark kernel. The pastoral fantasy was never so good in LA, and if more, bigger houses blocked the panorama of the biggest ocean in the world, at least they ran 6.5 to twenty million. Or twenty-two. Or twenty-nine point nine. Wow. It must be really perfect.

  With markets so strong, prices so high, and demand bursting at the seams, this appeared to be it—the dream roll that would never end.

  Ravi had landed nineteen years prior, hardly a moment on the geologic calendar that the mossback old-timers used to measure their tenure, opening every harangue on how it used to be by establishing authority on time served, “I been here twenty-seven years, and I—”

  “Well, I been here thirty-three years! And I…”

  Very few veterans could say what they’d done or contributed to help protect the natural character in those years, as if true seasoning occurred by osmosis. Years on the rock did not increase legitimacy. But time spent and soulful connection weren’t always connected. Annotation was mostly anecdotal, with relevance measured in beers, shots, doobies, odd encounters, easy snatch on long odds, and so on. The verbal resume was a mix of alcohol and fun in the sun, with bawdy adventure and cocaine back in the day when an original old-timer could still take that punch.

  The olden days were recalled with pride: We used to get so…

  Or, one time we had this…

  Recollection still passed for social currency in some quarters, like Lahaina, where extreme inebriation twenty or thirty-five years ago was special because boats and palm trees outnumbered cars and people. New arrivals envisioned a future when they, too, would speak knowingly, so they garnered their own rare times with all-nighters, non-stoppers, reefer madness, and ocean time. Barnacle Bills and tropical honeys deplaned from LAX, hit the tattoo parlors and emerged original, ready to share the wherefore and how-to with others seeking identity and room service. The newest crowd was younger and more chic than the last. The young’uns had a leg up on the latest look and the hot new stars of the screen, surf, or sideshow.

  Nothing changed, really, except for another crowd moving in, “going native.” Worse yet, besides hormonally urgent kids coming for the action, their hot-flashing elders migrated with equal fervor; Macy’s went Tropicana on three floors with severely chic labels on hundred-dollar silk shirts and subtle palm tree knits. Wait a minute—make that a hundred and eighty… now two, two hundred… two, two, two… gimme two-fifty, two-fifty… okay, two and a quarter… Tropicana garb from the Johnny Mambo collection went fabulously with Johnny Mambo furnishings in pineapple, banana, and hula girl motif to underscore a feel for the new place and its fabulous lifestyle potential.

  Parking became a problem, so lots were expanded, then elevated. So much apparent goodness brought more tourists in need of cars, till the rock had two cars for every woman, child, and man all the time. Shriveling quickly was the tropical wilderness and rural society—the old island style that defined and redeemed those days and nights of youthful indiscretion once upon a time, long, long ago, when people bonded to the place and each other.

  Growth begat growth. The Chamber and the Visitors Bureau raised a cry of victory when a New York magazine staffed by New York residents called Maui “The Best Island in the World.” Maybe the staff commuted from Jersey or any part of the megalithic region. Sorely missing from the “best” criteria was a measure of the magic that had spared some islands from the ratings competition—the magic of no airport with connecting flights from New York. The nebulous assessment of “the best island” was judged from that most chilling of islands, Manhattan.

  The flood of people, strip malls, parking lots, and gridlock had displaced the old feeling. Making ends meet soon became a communion in itself, an unholy one. Coming up with rent money and then groceries while immersed in beauty and wonder had seemed like a trick, a good one, till resources waned and aloha became a useful word to compensate for what had gone away.

  Ravi remembered Pu‘u Olai not so long ago. Pu‘u is foothill. Pu‘u Olai is the shoreline cinder cone between Makena Beach and Black Sand Beach—make that between Oneloa (onnay-loa, or long sands) and Oneuli (onnay-uli, or black sands). A bump at the base of the volcano, Pu‘u Olai is a steep trek for the physically fittest. The payout is the wide world pulsating with mana—energy and life force—from Kahoolawe to Alenuihaha, to Molokini and McGregor Point, spanning the glittering sea. In a beautiful balance between glory and bounty, Pu‘u Olai had wild tomatoes in vast tangles on top, sweet and tart, till the top got crowded as the beach and tour boat traffic near shore got thick as the Foodland parking lot. No more wild tomatoes at the summit, with so many tourists following written directions to the secret tomato grounds that you simply must see. No freshwater shrimp in the aqueduct higher up Haleakala. No more guava or lilikoi to pick freely along the roadside for miles, no more noni, avocado, or lemon. All became for sale, as they became a topic for a few people mumbling about “not so long ago,” and many more chattering, “fabulous, unreal, you simply must…”

  Kapu means forbidden—or keep out when posted on a gate; the land is private, accessible by invitation only. The guidebooks advised visitors to ignore those signs, and so they did. They’d spent so much to come so far, and look at all those other people in there, wandering around, revealing themselves as a terminal nuisance.

  Kihei Road was sparsely traveled for years, except for traffic to Paradise Fruit and that first funky snorkel place. Now hundreds of refugees from a world gone to seed paid daily rent on a few square feet of concrete under a huge canvas canopy for the chance to separate tourists from a few more dollars, often for seashells taken live from Indonesian reefs and sold as Hawaiiana.

  Veteran residents stopped counting time on the rock. Resigned to degradation and humanity’s inhumanity to nature, many went mum. Transplants arrived decades ago, a year or two ago, six months ago, or last week, and their migration from something far less foretold what would come next. People move away from what they can’t abide, only to see it again. Veterans on Maui took refuge in the soft-spoken humility that is necessary and available to island culture.

  Nineteen years ago was fairly recent on the tenure totem. Time passed fast and slow, reminding Ravi how long ago the rock felt tropical, how long since development spread like spore growth, its eerie fuzz smothering the beauty and repose. The Ford dealer moved from a modest, aging showroom on Main Street in Wailuku to massive grounds on two acres in Kahului for new and used inventories that Must Move this Month! A man on the radio yelled to Get a car! Get a truck! Get an SUV! Those cars, trucks, and SUVs were stickered six grand or nine over MSRP, and the salesmen would nod sanguinely if a white guy offered MSRP because the sticker price was for your average Filipino, proud of the dollars that demonstrated his skill to get them.

  Ravi told his salesman that the sticker-shock game could make a guy want to move to a tropical island. The salesman had asked back, “So? When you leaving?” He reminded Ravi that he, the salesman, was of Hawaiian descent, and with one more marriage on the right side of the genetic fence, his grandchildren would have “blood quantum.” He agreed that the place was ruined, and he wanted those fucking airplanes to stop bringing the fucking haole tourists over, and Ravi could get the fuck out whenever he was fucking ready.

  Haole is a Hawaiian word meaning without breath, deriving from Captain Cook shaking hands rather than touching noses in greeting—rather than sharing the essence of life, which is breath. Ha is breath. Ole means without. Haole came to connote outsider, meaning those families originating outside Hawaii, where greetings were without breath. The
n it came to mean outsiders of beige complexion and not Japanese, Filipino, Chinese, Tongan, or Samoan descent. Then it was meant to denigrate Caucasians.

  Well, Ravi didn’t want a new Ford anyway, but he felt the sting. The exchange convinced him how nice life would be on a tropical island with no car dealers. But what could he do, stay on the run from a world outrunning its headlights? And who was he to scorn a world out of pace? Every day ended in a dead heat, with fulfillment and pessimism in a photo finish. Ravi had a thought: Tahiti. But a more recurring thought was his job, which he loved.

  Some nights he got laid, which trumped rational thought in the short term. A young man fatigued from a day’s work and hormonal depletion feels good, like a man fulfilled. Besides that, floating angst based on over-development could cloud whatever beauty was left to encounter. Should he stay angry, forfeiting happiness? He related his car salesman encounter to a Hawaiian friend who assured him that the car salesman in question immigrated to Maui via Honolulu from Rarotonga. The car salesman got fired in Honolulu. Besides that, his family descended from a genetic line that included ample Caucasian blood and other car salesmen, and the fellow’s hatred would focus elsewhere if white people weren’t so convenient. Aka Leialoha could calm the space around him and make hearts warm. Aka laughed, “You do da work. Nevah mind.”

  What work? A man of kuleana would see Maui evolving with soul, easing into the peaceful aftermath and small death of human penetration. Still magical, rife with flowers, mad with color and scent, termites, centipedes, red dust, and heat ripples, the place must be loved for its wrinkles, its wear and tear, its ultimate surrender to gravity. Look at this ambient femininity, this context, this immersion in beauty and nature, this life of effusion and greenery.

  You want to talk about a place gang-fucked and left for dead, just look at LA. Millions called it home and had to fly back to it—had to nose under the yellow-brown cloud one more time like mites on a scab spanning the horizon. Orange groves used to be there, but time marched on, and you could value the chic bistros, swinging hot spots, dazzling cabriolets, and hard bodies of surgical precision—or not. Sanity adapted to LA, proving people all the more capable of enduring, after a fashion. Movie stars ranted against the death of nature, against children going hungry and social injustice. They could raise scads o’ dough, but few things changed, as more problems came to light. People looked for someplace else. But where could they go?

  How long before they think of Tahiti? How long before LA takes over French Polynesia and ruins it, too? What am I talking about? I’ve never been to either one.

  So thoughts schooled, frenzied and faded on any given night. Anxiety and gratification hummed their yin-yang mantra of work and play, life and nature, worry and a woman. How sweet it was, as problems resolved on a roll over the pillow to the fuzzy face nearby. Then he and the cat drifted to dreamland, her little outboard purring a sweet, soft wake.

  Sometimes she woke him in the night, licking his forehead or touching her nose to his. Hers was cold. If he opened his eyes, she purred again, which set the world to rights. In her little font of love, the madness shrunk from foreboding magnitude to one tiny problem in an imperfect world, a problem profoundly solved by a gentle scratching of her chinny chin chin.

  He hoped that what’s-her-name, the other female in the bed, was comfortable.

  A Picture-Perfect Paradise

  Each day began with the slate wiped clean on a bolster of caffeine and sugar, launching the conscientious dive instructor into boat prep as his mind massaged the second, third, and fourth steps of the day’s work: the aloha, the stowage, the launch. The welcome aboard and getting underway were easy enough, barring no-shows, declined credit cards, stumbles, and stubbed toes, engine trouble or big wakes from boats whose captains should not have been licensed, and maybe they weren’t. But even that stuff got resolved, and besides, some of the licensed guys drove like Cap’n Crunch.

  Morning chores were like bubbles in the wake soon enough, with flat water, sunshine, and the best of life out front. It’s hard to be dour under clear skies, in good health. Shadows could darken a day. Or a man could feel the blue sky and sea and great good luck upon him.

  The format was sound, the problems obscure, till blue on blue seemed rhythmic and lovely compared to the alternative: gray suit, silver sedan, reasonable commute, airless office, benefits including health insurance and a pension to cover decrepitude. Fuck.

  But even an enviable life of harmony with nature in tropical latitudes had its share of tedium, with the same predictable postures, claims and questions on depth, distance, and the desirability of each dive site. Day in, day out, the routine altered only in destination, weather, and sea conditions. Business boomed when Americans feared traveling outside the “homeland,” which sounded oddly like the “fatherland.” What the hell, job security looked strong. Bookings were four days out. And a hardworking, happy man could afford minor anxiety when the place still blossomed anew nearly every day.

  The fleet got bigger when business boomed, and the boat launch required more tolerance. Getting underway took longer and fuel prices rose, which were not crew concerns but undermined prospects for a raise or bonus. More competition kept revenue down. So the crews competed on service and aloha to make the same pay. The first downturn would shrink the fleet to proper size. Boats with repeat business would survive the next recession, pandemic, terrorism, airline strike, mortgage crisis or any challenge to fearless spending because a Hawaii trip gets scratched quicker than a bad Starbucks habit when times get tough.

  So familiarity, predictability, crowding, and tedium got worse. It’s hard to be dour under blue skies, but emotional burdens gained weight. Ravi Rockulz sadly saw his island change her ways. As a marriage can outlast the love, so did he, feeling each day something less. His tropical island was going suburban, burbling to convenience, gagging chic, and LA-extravagance. The newest immigrants pushed into the gridlock with road rage, adapting successfully.

  This traffic? Bad? Compared to what?

  The Chamber and Visitors Bureau dismissed gridlock as a growing pain, a natural part of more money and growth, sounding foreign to those who lived for the beauty. Not quite in mid-life crisis, Ravi asked the tough questions:

  Could this be the right context for the prime of life?

  Did I anticipate thousands more condos, cane fields converted to tract houses, and sweeping ocean views blocked by mini-mansions probing the twenty-million range?

  Can I remain happy—or revive my happiness?

  Or would this malaise displace the bond between a waterman and his achingly lovely home?

  For that matter, was home still lovely?

  Stuck in a quandary, with each day adding to his craft, he passed too many days on feelings of inadequacy. Something was amiss. A palpable incompletion persisted. He felt tardy and not there yet but couldn’t put his finger on where yet or why not. Renewing vows to beauty and perfection, he wanted to cure the uncertainty. He’d never met an itch he couldn’t scratch, but this was deep.

  Maybe he needed a break, a few days off with a tourist, a plush and married one looking to buff her separate vacation with no baggage. Ravi was quick and easy as carry-on, replete with excellent manners—and he loved room service, air-conditioning, and remote control. Setting aside her love, obedience, care and devotion, till death do us part, a woman could get down to the romance she craved. A sumptuous woman might reach the itch with fun and kink in a lavish hotel, with six-hundred-thread-count sheets, thick, fluffy towels to use once and throw on the floor, an ocean view, and a mini bar with cashews and chocolates on the hubby’s corporate account, which would be easier on everyone, all things considered.

  That worked sometimes, but usually not, because either the women had defects, rendering the experience deficient, or they had no defects and left a sensitive dive instructor alone at the dock with matching lumps in his Speedos and heart. Not that sheer frolic wasn’t worth the price from time to time, but the price
rose, as good female company got more elusive and lovable.

  He felt like the young sailor on shore leave in Waikiki. Finally seeing the woman of his dreams, a beauty with the lift, separation, and spread of everyboy’s fantasy, the sailor could hardly believe that she was real and available—that he might enter the Promised Land for mere dollars. So he asked, How much is this going to cost me? Understood was the whole enchilada—around the world, blow-and-go, smoke-and-fire, half-and-half, and so on—until the perfect woman smiled sweetly and asked back, How much you got?

  What are you willing to pay? He laughed and marveled at the tonic effect of a small joke. La petite plaisanterie; maybe it would make the small death easier to bear. Laughing at society’s foibles could keep a man sane, at least in the short term.

  He still loved his island, tawdry as she’d become; surely she would save her best for him, something more than another romp in a canebrake. Oddly for such a vagabond heart, he needed commitment. He needed love returned. He wanted to grow old together.

  Among the small deaths was the spirit of aloha, its loss more noticeable to some. Ravi thought it only a toxic few lashing out, as non-resourceful people will do. But few as they were, their rancor rose with posture and noise. Many descended from plantation days as if “local” was sanctified and authorized, but it wasn’t.

  Racism is troubling anywhere; as a source of pride, racial origin lacks staying power. But racial claims persisted, like blood instinct as a source of intelligence in nature—not to be confused with natural smarts. Genetic claims were proven untenable long ago. The loudest claims were often incomprehensible. Ah, Ravi thought. They’re frustrated too.

  Some locals spoke pidgin as a first language. They resented white people making money and new residents driving prices high and the next generation away—their children—because they couldn’t pay the rent. The crush was ugly, with a spurious minority claiming oppression at the hands of haoles, starting with the missionaries who took everything. Welcome to Hawaii. Now Go Home—this bumper sticker raced down the highway, along with Slow Down! This Ain’t the Mainland, two sentiments claiming authority while showing volume exchange on stupidity. Pressure mounted but did not give in to hatred in most quarters.