Calico Pennants (4 page)

“This place looks peaceful now,” related Kamehaloha, “but in ancient times there were sacrifices at the sacred heiaus. Many Hawaiians believe that along a section of Waipio Beach lies the entrance to the nether world. Ha! I suppose I believe it, too!” he laughed. “Once I was hiking at night with some friends through the canyon to the twin falls of Hiilawe, and in the long, moon-lit shadows we saw a line of Night Marchers searching for the entrance to a secret domain.” He looked provocatively at Julian. “Do you believe in spirits, brother?”

Julian drew a deep breath but said nothing. The dubious look on his face was answer enough for Kamehaloha. Tamara, on the other hand, was much more willing to accept the thread of truth derived from such blatant superstition. And while the fabric of such a tale looked a little foolish when modeled by Kamehaloha, Julian found it all the more charming when worn by the girl.

“Look! A pair of Humpbacks!” Tamara called out from the deck. She pointed to a place not more than a hundred yards off the starboard bow. Kamehaloha followed her line of vision and sighted the whales too.

“Cut the engines and come down here!” Kong called to Julian, and the novice captain immediately did as he was told. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he said reverently.

“Every time I get close to them it brings tears to my eyes,” said Tamara.

Julian stood wide-eyed and excited as he looked out to sea. Searching the horizon, he fervently hoped for a glimpse of the whales.

Kamehaloha searched the waterline through a pair of binoculars. He put his heavy arm around Julian’s shoulder, handed him the glasses, and tried to define the area of ocean where he thought the two whales might surface next. “Look for the spray from their blowholes,” he advised. “It’ll look like a little puff of smoke coming off the water.”

Julian put the binoculars to his eyes. At first he saw nothing accept the white crests of the waves. Since the engines had been shut down the boat was rocking with the pitch of the sea, and it was difficult to keep his vision focused upon one area of water. Then he saw the spray; and a moment later the whales breached side by side, two enormous tales following great black forms with white underbellies over the waves and back into the deep. Thrilled by the spectacle, he turned to hand the binoculars to Tamara. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed.

Seconds later the pair surfaced again, this time frolicking on their sides, pectoral fins slapping at the swells.

“They have a language all their own,” Kamehaloha explained. “I’ve heard it myself! If you place underwater microphones about thirty feet deep, then amplify the sounds, you hear the curious cries and squeaks—in a sequence or a pattern, like code—and it’s obvious that these are not simply random noises. They have meaning beyond our understanding.”

“I think they like us,” commented Tamara.

“They’re very curious creatures,” Kamehaloha said. “If we leave the engines off and just float here awhile, perhaps they’ll come even closer.”

But the pair of Humpback whales did not approach the Scoundrel, rather they moved further and further out to sea.

“Maybe we should follow them,” Julian suggested.

“Not a good idea, brother” said Kamehaloha. “Like any wild animal, they need their space; and besides, environmental laws against encroachment are very strict.” He began moving toward the prow of the boat. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should head for Hilo Bay or we’ll miss the arrival of Hawai’iloa.”

He tried to re-start the twin inboards, but once again the carburetors seemed to need adjustment. Without concern Kamehaloha made the minor modifications. Julian peered over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Tamara climbed up to the head and stood at the wheel, ready to pilot the cruiser the rest of the way down the Hamakua coast to Hilo. It took the Hawaiian only a few seconds to work his mechanical magic.

ON THE PIER in Hilo Harbor the three friends waited in a jubilant crowd for the triumphant arrival of Hawai’iloa; Nainoa Nainoa’s six thousand-mile journey was nearly complete.

“This is a great day for Hawaiian people,” said Kamehaloha. Pride shone on his round face and in his bright, black eyes.

At the far end of the pier rhythms were being played on traditional drums, and both male and female dancers whirled and undulated in renditions of the sacred hula. Slack-key guitars and tinkling ukuleles accompanied ancestral songs sung by burly, ring-shaped men with lilting, falsetto voices. Their attenuated diphthongs and breathy consonants defined a language that sounded simple and sweet.

Hawai’iloa came at last into Hilo Harbor, and as the crew struck its sails a cheer went up from the crowd on the dock. Friends exchanged flower leis, and colorful kahili feathers attached to helium balloons were released into the sky, marking the joyful spirit shared by all. There was a luau planned for this afternoon, and everyone was invited, local and haole alike.

Leaving the Scoundrel docked in the harbor, the three new friends moved along with the crowd up Banyan Drive. Coming from radically different backgrounds, they seemed quite comfortable together. They joked and laughed at the sight of Kamehaloha—always so carefree and casual—clutching the attaché case filled with money.

At Coconut Island Picnic Ground the luau was already beginning. There they met a lean and smiley beach boy dressed in shorts and a sloppy T-shirt. With blue eyes and sun-bleached, blond hair, a deep tropical tan, and a mature blue and yellow macaw parrot riding on top of his left shoulder, the surfer was at once friendly and familiar, and sidled up close to Tamara.

“Woody Emory! It’s been forever!” Tamara beamed. “Let me think... Not since the surfing championships at Pu’ukipu Beach. Where have you been hanging out?”

“I moved to the Big Island about a year ago,” he said. “I’ve been living in Kailua, but I gave up my house last week.”

“Why?” she wanted to know.

“I’m heading back to the Mainland,” he said.

“It’s so beautiful here,” said Julian. “Why would anyone want to leave?”

Woody’s smile went on and on as he explained, “I’ve been living in Hawaii—first on Maui and then on the Big Island—ever since I finished college at Cal Poly. No way was I ready to settle down and get serious right away. And I figured surfing was a more noble occupation anyway—at least for the short term. But now I’m running out of money. It’s not the first time for that,” he laughed, “but this time I think the cosmos is trying to tell me something.”

“Where will you be going?” Tamara wanted to know.

“Silicon Valley,” he said. “High tech America awaits!”

“You’re not serious, brother,” said Kamehaloha.

“I’m afraid so,” said Woody. “As a matter of fact, I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow. The only thing left for me to do is find a good home for Buenaventura,” Woody lamented. “I can’t take him with me—some idiotic restriction by USDA.”

“You mean the bird?” said Julian.

“Right. He’s nine years old. I’ve had him eight years. But I’m afraid we have to part company. It’s really a shame. He’s a special friend.”

“Maybe I could take him,” Julian offered.

“What do you think, BV?” Woody addressed the bird.

“I’ll take excellent care of him,” Julian promised. “You’ll have to give me a few instructions. Tell me what he likes to eat and drink—all the particulars. But he’ll have a good home.”

“You live over on Maui?” Woody inquired.

“I’ve been staying at a friend’s condo in Lahaina,” he told the surfer, “but I just bought Kamehaloha’s cruiser, so I guess I’ll be living on the boat from now on.”

“So you bought the Scoundrel,” said Woody. “What do you know about that?” He looked inconclusively at Kamehaloha, then at Tamara Sly. Then back at Julian. “Well, Buenaventura won’t fly off. At least I don’t think he will…”

“Does he talk?” Julian asked.

Woody laughed as he stroked the bird’s colorful comb. “I’ll say he talks! But not always on cue. Sometimes he says the strangest things. He’s quite an original thinker, Julian. But I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself.”

In late afternoon, with the parrot now riding on Julian’s shoulder, they made their way across the park to the circular barbecue pit where a whole, young kalua pig was about to be unearthed. Roasting over smoldering coals and steaming lava rock, the succulent pig had baked the entire day, and as the two young chefs, each naked to the waist and attired below in flower-print sarongs, began to unwrap the multiple layers of ti leaves, the pig’s head came off into the ashes. A bevy of onlookers surrounding the pit drew a startled breath at the sight, and then laughed, as the two cooks lifted the roasted carcass in a sling. The celebrants applauded the feast they were about to eat.

Served with the roasted pork were several traditional Hawaiian dishes. There was lomi salmon paté, sweet bread, poi spread, coconut pudding, mahi mahi or grilled ono fish, wild rice, and plenty of rum drinks. As they feasted, darkness fell. Julian and Kamehaloha became absorbed in the pageantry of a torch-lit, theatrical re-enactment of the original Polynesian landing on the Hawaiian Islands.

Tamara Sly, conversely, seemed totally engrossed in her long lost friend, Woody Emory. Privately embarrassed, Julian felt disappointed at this turn of events. As she emerged from an all-too-obvious intimacy, Tamara announced, “Woody and I are going for a walk down by the lava tube. Don’t wait up for me, Julian; I’ll meet you back at the Scoundrel—later!” Her dismissal took the proverbial wind right out of Julian’s sails.

That night Julian slept on the deck of the Scoundrel, as did Kamehaloha. When morning came it was obvious that Tamara had not returned. Julian expressed his concern, but Kamehaloha shrugged off her absence. “She’s with Woody,” he yawned. “No big deal.”

“Right,” said Julian.

“No big deal,” repeated Buenaventura, the first words he’d uttered since his adoption.

“I gotta get a taxi to Hilo Airport,” said Kamehaloha. “You think you can handle the Scoundrel?”

“I think so,” said Julian, though he was still not totally confident.

“You’ll be okay,” Kamehaloha reassured. “Just remember how I showed you to adjust those carburetors. And make sure you always have spare gas and extra food. I wouldn’t want to read in the paper about some haole sailor stranded at sea. Not that I care about you, Julian,” he joked, “but the Scoundrel deserves a better fate!”

Julian smiled. “Thanks for selling me the Scoundrel, Kamehaloha. And thanks for the scuba lesson, too. Strange as it seems, I think you’ve made a difference in my life.”

“Hey, brother, maybe I’ll see you back on Maui.”

They shook hands, and then embraced, as the Hawaiian took up his valise full of money and stepped onto the pier.

LOOKING FORLORN and a little displaced, BV watched as his new keeper constructed a permanent living arrangement aboard ship for him.

“I wonder what happened to Tamara,” Julian commented as he finished tying the bird’s tether.

“Tomorrow’s lie!” croaked BV.

Awash in morning sunlight, Julian sat on deck dressed down to his swimming suit. With pencil and paper in hand, he began a shopping list. If he meant to live on board the Scoundrel with Buenaventura, there were several articles he was going to need: 1) Several containers for storing fresh drinking water; 2) Dry goods like cereal, nuts, pasta, crackers, and canned foods; 3) Seeds and dried fruits for the parrot.

“How do you like your new perch, BV?” Julian asked his new companion.

“Where’s Woody?” the parrot wanted to know. “Surf’s up!”

“Woody’s headed for oblivion in California,” Julian observed. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

He turned to admire the macaw’s striking plumage: blue on the back and wings; yellow on the cockscomb, breast, and tail feathers. Julian assessed the startling intelligence that gleamed in the bird’s mocking glance; surely Buenaventura did not really understand what he was saying?

Julian had also decided to outfit the boat with fishing supplies: rods, nets, lures, tackle, knives, and two or three buckets. He thought a first aid kit was a good idea, too, as well as a basic tool kit. A large tarpaulin might come in handy, and he wanted a woolen navy blanket for damp nights. He would also need cookware and kitchen utensils, as well as extra rope, a winch and pulley, a flashlight, and a hatchet.

“Don’t bite through the string and fly away,” Julian instructed the parrot. “And if Tamara returns while I’m in town, tell her we sail for Maui at three o’clock!”

“Oblivion in California,” croaked Buenaventura. He cackled at the top of his voice and rocked from side to side on his new perch. Bobbing his head up and down, he inquired, “Will that be Visa or MasterCard?”

At Yakomoto’s General Store Julian bought all the items on his list, as well as several others, including twenty-five feet of chain, some nails and screws, half a dozen emergency flares, a folder full of nautical maps, and a full set of mechanic’s wrenches. When he returned to the wharf, BV was sitting upon his perch underneath the ship’s head, one eye closed and his head tucked underneath his wing. Hearing Julian step on board, he ruffled up his feathers and cocked his head.

“Tamara Sly!” the bird screamed. “We sail at three!”

“Maybe not,” said Julian. “If she doesn’t show up soon, we’ll be here overnight. I can’t imagine anything’s happened to her.”

“Where’s Woody? Surf’s up!”

“Apparently, they’re old friends,” said Julian of Tamara Sly and Woody Emory. “I guess they believe in extended good-byes.”

As evening came and the golden sun fell behind towering Mauna Kea, Tamara Sly still had not returned, so Julian resolved to remain docked at Hilo Harbor. If she were not back by morning he would sail without her, and Tamara would have to find her own way back to Maui.

On his two-burner propane stove he cooked a supper of Campbell’s vegetable soup and Rice-a-roni. He drank fresh pineapple juice and ate a chocolate-covered doughnut for dessert. He examined the tools he’d bought at Yokomoto’s and arranged them to his liking in the cabinets underneath the head. He put out his toiletry articles—comb, toothbrush, razor, and soap—near the tiny sink, and then loaded his new flashlight with fresh batteries. On the pier he busied himself mixing forty-five gallons of extra gasoline with thirty weight oil for the two-cycle engines, then stored it in three separate fifteen-gallon containers—not that he figured to run low between ports, but as a safety precaution.

Sleeping on a narrow cot, Julian dreamed continuously of heavy-featured, dark-skinned Polynesians gyrating in ritual dance. He envisioned fern-draped rain forests resplendent with orchids, hibiscus, and plumeria. Brightly colored tropical birds—Buenaventura’s avis friends and relatives—were all chatting one another up! At dawn he awoke refreshed and happy.

For breakfast he ate granola, strawberries, and condensed milk, carefully separating all the almonds, walnuts, and cashews to feed the bird. Later he organized his fishing gear, periodically looking up and down the pier for any sign of Tamara.

By eleven o’clock it was obvious she was not going to show up. Perhaps she’d bought a ticket at the last minute and taken the flight to San Francisco with Woody Emory.

At noon he guided the Scoundrel out of Hilo Harbor and headed south along the coastline of the Big Island. Julian had no trouble whatsoever handling the large cruiser, and the ship performed without flaw. The powerful inboards took him out of Hilo Bay and around Pohoiki Point, past Kalapana and the lava flows at the Chain of Craters. By two-thirty he reached South Point. With the warm sunshine on his face, and Buenaventura riding on top of his shoulder, Julian steered his ship.

Mid-afternoon was hot along the densely treed cliffs of the Kona coast. The swells broke along the barrier reef, and the blue waters of the Pacific awakened in Julian some distant remembrance of integral color—deep, transfixing impressions of azure and violet—inviting, cool and rejuvenating. The tropical sun turned his skin cinnamon brown. He wished for a friendly shower, that he might feel clean in some new and intimate way. But today his wish was in vain. So he drew a long breath of the forest’s newly made oxygen. Then he forgot himself.

He dropped anchor in Kealakekua Bay just after four o’clock and stared out at the same crescent-shaped coastline that Captain Cook had seen two hundred years before. But unlike Cook’s arrival, there were no double-hulled canoes carrying the Alii rowing out to meet him; there were no bare-breasted, Polynesian nymphs swimming playfully round his ship, ready and willing to climb on board and bestow their own special kind of aloha.

Buenaventura offered his own spurious observation:

“Captain Cook... What a crook!”

Aboard the Scoundrel Julian was at home wherever he found himself at day’s end. After eating supper he watched the radiant colors of a glorious sunset. At dusk the stars appeared low and bright over the calm waters of Kealakekua Bay, and few onshore lights glared against the depths of infinity. Julian felt at once diminutive and boundless. Sitting on deck he devoted himself to the practice of tying and untying knots.

NORTH OF THE BIG ISLAND, with the south coast of Maui already in sight, the Scoundrel’s engines began coughing like a smoker after too many Pall Malls. Finally each, in turn, belched a last gasp of blue smoke and sputtered pathetically into silence. Julian went immediately for his tool kit and tried to adjust the carburetors just as Kamehaloha had shown him. After a full hour of diligent tinkering he could not make the engines turn over, and the Scoundrel was cast adrift in the calm waters of the Hawaiian archipelago.

The straight between the Big Island and Maui was well traveled, and surely someone would come along sooner or later to offer assistance. Julian was not feeling upset at Kamehaloha over the Scoundrel’s breakdown, rather he was perturbed by his own mechanical ineptitude.

“A fine mess you’ve gotten us into this time,” taunted Buenaventura.

“I’m sorry,” said Julian. “I tried to adjust the engines, but it’s not working. Maybe you have a suggestion.”

“I wouldn’t be making any plans,” the parrot croaked.

“Thanks for the encouragement,” said the captain.

Julian hoisted his distress flag and determined to wait. About an hour after they were stranded a boat full of camera-carrying tourists pulled up alongside the Scoundrel. “What seems to be the trouble?” called the tour guide from the head of his boat.

“Both my engines are down,” said Julian.

“How long have you been out here?”

“Not long. Only an hour or so.”

“Do you want a lift back to Kailua?” he offered.

“Actually, I’d rather not leave my boat,” said Julian. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d contact a two-cycle mechanic and have him come out to give me a little help.”

“Do you have water and food?” the tour guide asked.

“Plenty of each,” Julian confirmed.

“What’s the name of your boat?”

“Scoundrel,” said Julian.

The guide looked at him rather queerly. “Are you sure you want to wait? It might take quite a while for help to arrive.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Julian.

“Then drop your anchor and sit tight,” said the tour boat captain. “Try not to move off your position until somebody gets here.”

“Right!” said Julian. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s what you think,” said Buenaventura.

Julian was truly disappointed that Tamara Sly had not returned in time to sail with the Scoundrel—that he had not waited a little longer for her. Were they to be stranded together off the Kona coast, a serendipitous opportunity for intimacy might have been theirs. Not that he needed such a contrived situation to charm a woman. Or did he? In truth, he’d not dated anyone since the break-up of his marriage.

Julian moved to the one mirror on board and began examining his own face. He was momentarily struck by the curious reflection of some former self. He looked relaxed. Sun-colored high cheekbones seemed to brighten his aspect. His brows were light and sandy, as were newly grown whiskers. His earlobes and the tops of his shoulders were crimson from time spent in the tropical sun, and fine skin flaked off his forehead after initial sunburn. Still, he very much liked the rich coloring he’d acquired in Hawaii, for he’d not had a decent tan in years.

As the sun went down help still had not arrived, and Julian concluded that he and BV would spend the night anchored offshore. In the distance Mauna Kea was cast in dramatic silhouette against the cloudless golden sky, and the tranquil waters off the Kona coast also gleamed in the twilight. He cooked pork and beans on his propane stove. He ate a mango, drank some sangria. He put out a variety of seeds and dried fruits for Buenaventura. Together they watched the stars come out, and the ocean rocked the cruiser gently, as if it were a newborn’s cradle.

“Why do we lose touch with the wonders of nature?” Julian asked rhetorically.

“Speak for yourself, cowboy,” advised Buenaventura.

Julian laughed as he swallowed some of the sweetened wine. He ate one of BV’s sunflower seeds and said, “I suppose it’s very different in your world—the animal world.”

His familiar did not speak, but seemed to nod in acknowledgment.

Now in full darkness Julian lay on his bunk thinking:

‘
Longest night of year,

Or deepest night of soul,

Perhaps one’s vestigial longings

Always make it so
...’

Eleven years ago, as a family of three, they had celebrated his daughter’s twelfth birthday with an outing to Sea World. After touring the complex they’d rode the trolley to San Diego’s Gas Lamp Quarter to shop for his daughter Kirsten’s birthday present. Julian no longer remembered what she’d chosen but he did recall a disagreement between Kirsten and Kelly, his ex-wife. His daughter had displayed one of her distinctive tantrums, while Kelly turned a stoic cheek. Once the fight was settled they eased the friction by strolling the tree-lined boulevards and pathways in Balboa Park, eating ice cream cones and watching street musicians perform in the outdoor amphitheater.

During the next seven years marital intimacy and familial cohesion had deteriorated silently and steadily, and in the end Julian and Kelly had come to the mutual conclusion that progressive diminution was far worse than separation. The eventual divorce was anticlimactic.

Having bought their Torrey Pines house when California real estate was a terrific bargain, the sale of the property left them both financially comfortable. Kelly and Kirsten moved to LA. Kirsten, now nearly an adult herself, remained dispassionate regarding her parents’ divorce, and floundered for a time trying to find herself. Eventually she moved to Seattle. Julian rented a condo in downtown San Diego.

Then, at age fifty-two, his company’s Board of Directors presented the ‘option’ of early retirement to himself and others. The offer was not an ultimatum, but Crosby was no fool. Downsizing was a mark of the times, as well as a reality in his own life! The severance package put on the table was overly generous, and given a set of uncertain alternatives, Julian was not disinclined to being bought out.

Here on his boat, amidst a tangle of ropes and hooks, he recapped the rather hideous highlights of a luncheon held in his honor the day of his so-called retirement.

After several rounds of drinks and a catered meal, his fellow employees presented him with the rather extravagant gift of a Rolex watch. Each co-worker offered congratulations, their own professional insecurities obvious in their barbs. Julian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.