by Hughes, Chip
Where did I put that one about Corky? I thumbed through the folder crammed with clippings. Who knows how I got started collecting such sensational and morbid stories as a hobby? I also collect accounts of surfers attacked by sharks, since it happened to me. But the shark-bite pieces have their own separate folder.
“‘The Wave of His Life’ Was His Last.” There it was. The Honolulu Advertiser, December 25, Christmas day. And there was Corky’s straw hair, intense eyes, and cocky smile. Next to the fallen surfer’s youthful face was another photo of his battered board.
The accompanying story told how Corky had wiped out at Waimea on Christmas Eve. The sun had set, but the huge waves kept cranking, enticing surfers to stay out in the crimson afterglow. The waves that got him were twenty feet—a two-story building. Though the irony of big wave tragedies is that typically the unfortunate surfer miraculously survives the biggest wave of the day, only to be pummeled to death by a smaller one.
Corky had just successfully ridden a monster of nearly thirty feet. “He died with a smile on his face,” proclaimed a fellow surfer. “He was grinning from ear to ear. Corky wished me ‘Merry Christmas’ and then paddled out for another one.” The next wave would be his last. “It’s the way he’d want to go,” said the surfer. “Not die in a car wreck or slowly wither of old age. He died happy. I’m glad for him.”
The Advertiser continued: “The 27-year-old California native could not catch the first wave of the next set and was pounded back by three 20-footers that followed.” A lifeguard was quoted: “We figure the big waves pushed him deep underwater and kept him there. His body may never be found. It happens this way sometimes, unfortunately for loved ones left behind.”
Three twenty-footers thundering in. Like freight trains. Caught in that boiling soup, tumbling head over heels and struggling to hold his breath, he wouldn’t have known which way was up.
What must happen in white water twenty feet high? You probably whirl. Like a feather in a gale, only not so gently. It must feel more like the spin cycle of an industrial strength washer. Or being massaged by a hammer—a jackhammer. Most likely, Corky turned endlessly in the dark, exploding wave, then was sucked out unconscious to sea in Waimea’s powerful riptide. What happened afterwards is anybody’s guess.
According to another clipping, more than a month later no trace of his body had been found. Not even a shred of his wetsuit. The tiger sharks that roam these coastal waters—those silent, steel-jawed killers—sometimes leave nothing behind.
The sole known remains of Corky McDahl was his surfboard. The candy cane-striped board had drifted to shore, evidently ripped by coral on its tumultuous ride. Though the battered board shown in the Advertiser photo had no chunks missing, no telltale saw-toothed crescents torn from its rails. I decided to pay a visit to the Honolulu Police Department later that day—they’d have sharper photos than this newsprint image.
I glanced at my answering machine. The red light was flashing like a warning beacon, so I pressed Play.
“Kai? I missed you last night . . .” said the shy, childlike voice. “Weren’t we going to see that film?”
Leimomi. Just like her to sound not the least bit angry—just pondering if she had the wrong day or time. She had them right. I simply forgot. Again. I had promised to take her to a movie remake of The Merry Widow that critics touted as “spellbinding” and “hilariously funny.” Some woman whose husband is barely in the grave takes up with another man and causes quite an uproar. It didn’t interest me in the least. I would have preferred to see a new surfing documentary that was playing. Maybe that’s why I forgot about Leimomi’s film.
“Are we seeing The Merry Widow tonight?” Leimomi asked plaintively. “Not last night, but tonight?”
I imagined her waiting for me last night in her Punchbowl duplex after stringing lei all day in Mrs. Fujiyama’s shop. Leimomi didn’t even phone my apartment with her innocent, slightly hurt questions, but that’s not her style. When she called my office the next morning expecting to find me in, I was sitting in a booth at Denny’s in Waikiki gazing into the violet eyes of a pregnant California blonde.
What I had done yesterday instead of showing up for my date with Leimomi was surf. I paddled out to my favorite spot in town, offshore of the Sheraton Waikiki—the long, hollow, right-breaking walls of Populars. I rode waves until the mango-orange sun slipped into the sea. Then in twilight I strolled back to my apartment—a studio penthouse on the forty-fifth floor of the Waikiki Edgewater—and hopped into a long hot shower. By seven when I was supposed to be pulling into Leimomi’s Punchbowl duplex, I was sipping a beer in front of the Triple Crown of Surfing recap on ESPN.
“Kai, I’m off today so I won’t see you at work. Would you call me . . . please?“ Leimomi’s voice drifted from the answering machine. I sighed.
A second message contained the sardonic deadpan voice of my attorney friend, Tommy Woo: “Hey, Kai, how many piano players does it take to change a light bulb?”
Another doozy. The punch line included the names of keyboard legends Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett, and Yanni, and to my tone-deaf ear made absolutely no sense. Though he practiced law, Tommy’s true passion was the jazz piano.
“How about dinner?” continued Tommy. “Got a gig on Tuesday, but Wednesday looks good. Same old place at seven?”
Same old place meant Ah Fook Chop Sui House on infamous River Street in Chinatown, where the best thing on the menu was the prices. If Tommy and I have anything in common, it’s being cheap.
I erased the messages and returned to my newspaper clipping on the unfortunate Corky McDahl. “The best wave of his life . . . The way he’d want to go . . . He died with a smile on his face . . .” It all sounded so convincing—such a purposeful, happy death. Not something you could easily fake. I scanned the not-yet yellowed newsprint once again—then realized I was procrastinating. Call Leimomi. I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang three times, then her answering machine kicked in.
“Sorry about last night, Leimomi . . .”
As I began to sheepishly explain, there was a barely audible tap on my door.
“Be right with you!” I barked through the solid mahogany, then continued speaking to the answering machine, “I’ll take you to that film. How about tomorrow night?”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Again at my door—this time not so faint.
“Look, I’ll have to call you back. A customer is knocking. We’ll see that movie, I promise.”
“Coming!” I reached for the knob and swung open the door. “Leimomi, what are you doing here?”
Startled into abruptness, I gazed down upon her. She stood barely five feet in sandals—waist-length brown hair, mocha-colored skin, eyes glistening like black pearls. She was a Kaua‘i girl whose mixed Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino heritages blended together beautifully.
“You don’t work today,” I said studying her innocent face for some clue. A simple black shift hanging on her slim frame revealed just a hint of the curves I knew were there. Her expression looked neither anxious nor angry, but bewildered.
“I wondered,” she said in her quiet voice, “if anything was wrong.“
“No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry about last night. I know you wanted to see that movie.”
“We can see it another time,” she said almost apologetically, as if the missed date were her fault. I suddenly felt more guilty than if she had given me the verbal thrashing I deserved.
“I know we can see that movie another time,” I uttered abjectly, “but today was your day off and all, and we had planned to spend some time together last night . . .”
“So you still love me then?” She peered into my eyes with those glistening pearls.
“Of course.”
“And everything is all right between us?”
“Everything is fine.”
“Good, because I worried last night . . . I worried that after all we’ve shared you really didn’t love me.”
“Why are you so worried?”
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“We need to talk, Kai. But . . .” she hesitated.
“Is something wrong?” I was becoming more than curious.
“Tomorrow night would be better.” She lowered her dark eyes. “OK?”
“OK,” I agreed, though I didn’t like to be left hanging.
“Kiss me, Kai.” She puckered her plum red lips. And I did.
Leimomi then turned and glided down the dim hallway, past the offices of my fellow tenants: passport photographer, accountant, free lance editor, and psychic, Madame Zenobia. Soon Leimomi disappeared down the orange shag stairs.
I gave her a few minutes to clear the building, imagining she might stop to chat with the other lei girls and with Mrs. Fujiyama. Then I grabbed my manila folder with the wipeout clippings and headed down the stairs.
As I walked through the shop, I glanced into the back room and saw Chastity and Joon stringing sweet-scented pikake lei. Another lei girl, Blossom, sat nearby tying off a pale yellow plumeria lei. Passing the refrigerated cases displaying colorful strands of island flowers, I glimpsed Mrs. Fujiyama at the cash register, bone thin, steel haired, and, as always during business hours, wearing a courteous smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fujiyama,” I said.
She glanced up at me over half glasses, her smile suddenly bending into a frown. “Good morning, Mr. Cooke.”
Strange. Mrs. Fujiyama and I were on the most cordial of terms, though she was a stern mother hen hovering over her lei girls.
“Anything wrong, Mrs. Fujiyama?”
“Nothing wrong, Mr. Cooke,” she replied in an expressionless tone suggested otherwise.
I stepped from the flowershop onto Maunakea Street and headed for my parking garage. As the sharp competing smells of kim chee, cappuccino, rancid garbage, and screw-cap wine reached my nose, the silent wrath of my landlady was making me feel nearly as guilty as the apologetic behavior of my girlfriend.
Three
Cruising toward HPD headquarters on Beretania Street, I spotted a black Mercedes in my rearview mirror. The car was behind three others, so I couldn’t swear it was the same black Mercedes Summer had climbed into after our Denny’s meeting. But I didn’t doubt it either.
I kept my eye on the car as my teal blue Impala growled along Beretania, turning a few heads. My ‘69 Chevy is not your nondescript, front-wheel-drive, pale imitation Impala of today, but a genuine V-8, gas-guzzling, glitzy dream machine of the Sixties. The real thing.
My surfboard rode beside me inside the teal cockpit, the nine-six’s rounded, duckbill nose resting comfortably on the padded dash. That’s the beauty of an outsized classic car like this—pop out the backseat and my longboard slides right in. I like to bring my board along even when I’m not heading for the surf. On the spur of the moment, while cruising O‘ahu’s streets and highways, I can run my fingers along its glossy surface, reminding me of the white-crested beauties that await the end of my day.
Lucky you live Hawai‘i, as we say. I feel sorry for my landlocked friends who can only surf virtual waves on a computer. Sitting on your ‘okole in front of a video screen is hardly the same thing. If just once in your life you could paddle out and catch a real wave—feel the burn in your arms and the salt spray in your face. Then you would know that this ride is nothing like the one you took on your computer. Corky McDahl would tell them. If he were still alive.
When I finally pulled in front of HPD’s art deco headquarters, the black Mercedes, behind me now by about eight car lengths, also pulled to the curb. I sat in my Impala and waited a full minute. The Mercedes didn’t move. I waited another minute. So did the Mercedes. As I prepared to wait another five, the big black sedan pulled from the curb and slowly drove by, windows so darkly tinted that I couldn’t make out the driver or passengers. No doubt about it. I had been followed.
Inside HPD’s photo lab I caught up with crack police photographer Creighton Lee, whose expert shots often proved a prosecutor’s best friend. Creighton could size up a crime scene in seconds and capture just the right views of the crucial evidence.
“Creighton, howz’t?” I grabbed his meaty right hand and we shook by hooking thumbs, local-style.
“Kai, brah,” he said in a soft-spoken pidgin totally at odds with his thick fire-hydrant frame. “Surprise’ you not up on da Nort’ Shore. Big swell, brah. Beeeg!”
Creighton was not only a prodigy with the camera, but also a dedicated soul surfer. He usually rode his twelve-foot tanker in knee-high fun stuff, having little ambition for anything bigger, let alone the infamous North Shore titans.
“Not surfing today, brah,” I told Creighton in my own pidgin. “Working one case. You like help me, or what?”
“Shoots.” The crack photographer shrugged in agreement.
“Remembah dat California surfer wen’ wipe out Christmas Eve at Waimea?”
“Da big wipeout? Da guy dat die?”
“Yeah, da same one,” I said. “Da widow no can collect on da life insurance. Two hundred grand, brah.”
“Ho!” Creighton raised his thick black brows.
“She hire me to prove him dead.”
“How you gonna do dat? Da guy been gone since Christmas—da sharks eat ‘em, bruddah.”
“I figure dat,” I explained, “but you can get me one photo of his board, plus anyt’ing else you got on da case?”
Creighton disappeared for a while, then returned with an accident report and photos of Corky’s board, recovered near Sunset Beach the morning after his wipeout. The Californian had ridden a “big gun,” also called an “elephant gun.” Legendary surfer Buzzy Trent coined the term in the late fifties. Trent reportedly told his shaper, Joe Quigg, “You don’t go out hunting elephants with a BB gun, you hunt elephants with an elephant gun. Make me an elephant gun to shoot big waves.”
Corky’s narrow, stiletto-like gun measured nearly eleven feet with a deep rocker, pin tail, pointed nose, and single fin. Its red and white stripes resembled a candy cane—appropriate for Christmas Eve. Pockmarks in Corky’s board showed evidence of being ripped by coral and rock. No sign of shark bites. However, the absence of crescent-shaped puka didn’t necessarily mean he had escaped the tiger sharks.
A Sunset Beach woman reportedly had pulled the fallen surfer’s board from the water on Christmas morning and then, for whatever reason, waited nearly twenty-four hours to contact police, who examined and photographed it on the day after Christmas. The surfboard ultimately remained in the possession of this woman, since Corky’s next of kin—I guess, Summer—had declined to claim it.
The police report told the story of Corky’s wipeout much as his wife and the Advertiser had told it. After riding “the wave of his life,” he was pounded by three successive twenty-footers and not seen again. A several-day search by Coast Guard, fire department, and HPD teams turned up no trace of the missing surfer, except for the battered candy cane-striped board.
After thanking Creighton for his help I wheeled my Impala back to Maunakea Street, still pondering Corky’s disappearance. The Californian’s widely reported wipeout had all the earmarks of a big wave catastrophe. Each winter, unwary malihini—newcomers like Corky McDahl—journey to the islands to challenge Hawai‘i’s fabled waves. Each winter, tragically, one or more may meet his fate. Knowing firsthand the power and massiveness of Waimea’s winter surf, I began to sincerely doubt that Summer’s husband had skipped out on her and their baby.
From what I had learned about Corky so far, he probably wasn’t my favorite kind of surfer—an aggressive upstart pushing to join the pro circuit, who is typically also a “Wave Hog.” Wave Hogs believe they own a wave. The problem begins when you take off on a wave with them. If you so much as stroke for it, they go ballistic. A Wave Hog in the lineup can ruin an entire session.
One day on a beautiful, hollow, right-breaking curl at Populars, a guy took off next to me and shot within inches of my board. As a courtesy to a fellow surfer already on the wave, I pulled out. Astonishingly, after riding this beauty all t
o himself, the guy paddled straight for me, cursing and threatening that if I so much as came near him on a wave, he was going to “beat the sh– out of me.” I simply paddled away. He had no concept of community, of the brotherhood and sisterhood of wave riders. His selfish vision of the lineup included no one but himself.
Why Corky reminded me of this experience I’m not sure—his arrogant eyes or snarly smile? You can’t tell that much from a photo. Or can you?
Four
“A high-surf advisory is in effect for all North- and West-facing shores,” said the wrought-up voice on the radio as my Impala purred through pineapples fields and coffee groves on the highway to Hale‘iwa. “On the west side, Makaha is reporting in at fifteen to eighteen. On the North Shore, Sunset and Pipeline, eighteen to twenty-plus. Waimea is the big story: occasional twenty-five foot sets, or higher . . .” The excited voice paused. “Be careful out there today. Expert surfers only!”
My throat felt suddenly dry. It got even dryer when my Chevy crested the ridge overlooking the panorama of the entire North Shore. Across the wide blue horizon, one mammoth wave after another was creaming the turquoise sea. Had I been looking less at the surf and more in my rearview mirror, I might have noticed sooner that black Mercedes behind me again. Even so, it wasn’t the Mercedes that was parching my throat. It was the waves.
My cousin Alika had agreed to meet me at a shop called Surf n’ Sea in Hale‘iwa near the old two-lane bridge by the harbor. Corky’s hangout during his last days, Hale‘iwa town featured an eclectic blend of old and new, of local and cosmopolitan, of traditional and trendy. Tin-roofed Matsumoto’s General Store, famous for its shave ice, stood shoulder to shoulder with glitzy eateries, new age art galleries, and designer boutiques. Cruising through town I whiffed roasting garlic, sizzling veggie burgers, freshly brewed Kona coffee, grilling mahi mahi, and coconut-scented surfboard wax. And I eyed countless boards for sale. Despite the proliferation of upscale surfing-themed retailers that sell more logo apparel than boards, Hale‘iwa still boasts more bona fide surf shops per capita than any other town on earth, living up to its nickname, Surf City.
