Molokai Reef Read Free Page B

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splashing. Refracted sunlight streamed into one cracked eyelid as he
peered towards the portlight above the berth.
    Like
a newly energized GPS receiver acquiring satellites, he felt the
warmth of the tropics, saw the light that marked the end of one day
of life and the beginning of another, heard splashing about the boat,
but he couldn’t smell the coffee. Must have coffee.
    As
the water heated, Gybe pulled the Maui French Roast beans from the
reefer and ground enough for a full pot of coffee – he had a
guest. Unlike the average tourist, the high priced Kona coffee of the Big Island held little interest to Gybe or his budget.
Besides, most of it was Kona Blend , which contained at most
fifteen percent Kona beans. That is, if he could believe the
barista who worked at the Coffee Gallery in Hale‘iwa. Scarred
by too many jalapeños, his tongue could not distinguish the
unique flavor. While the aroma filled the cabin, Gybe replayed the
events of the last evening.

    Late
yesterday afternoon Gybe had been sitting at the Hotel Molokai Lanai
Bar washing down a bowl of tortilla chips with back-to-back Fire Rock
Ales when a travel-weary woman dropped anchor on the adjacent
barstool. Actually, upon closer inspection, Gybe heaved the anchor
metaphor.
    In
Gybe’s mind, the Lanai Bar represented the stereotypical South
Seas beach bar. Similar to many tropical structures, a thatched roof
deflected the sun and rain while the persistent trade winds, or
trades, blew through the room, a room unburdened with walls.
    Throughout
most of the year, the northeasterly trade winds cool the islands.
Trade winds, known since ancient sailing days, blow towards the
equator between the horse latitudes and the doldrums –
northeasterly above the equator, southeasterly below the equator.
    The
trades were a natural air-conditioner to the tropical islands of
Hawai‘i.
    Waves,
always gentle after crossing the fringing reef, lapped the sandy
beach at the edge of the bar. The coral reef lay between 50 yards
and a half-mile offshore along most of the south coast of Moloka‘i.
In front of the bar, the reef was two hundred yards offshore.
    Beyond
the reef and about nine miles across Kalohi Channel, Gybe could see
the island of Lāna‘i. From his barstool, he watched
humpback whales spout and sometimes breach near the reef.
    Attired
in winter clothes of surfer shorts, aloha shirt, and sandals, Gybe
raised his bottle to the woman, “to winter.” It was
December 11 across the Hawaiian Islands.
    The
top of the brunette’s head was level with his nose and she
weighed maybe one twenty. She wore shorts with a sleeveless chambray
shirt and was barefoot. Iridescent blue toenails, if dipped in the
ocean’s edge, would send Nemo into a mating frenzy.
    “ Have
some chips.” Gybe moved the chips basket and salsa bowl
towards the newcomer.
    A few
weeks earlier the bar had begun offering complementary chips and
salsa. Every day since then, guests and locals had packed the bar
during happy hour. The holiday green colored tortilla chips and
bright red salsa lent a festive atmosphere. In the tropics one
seldom smelled roasting chestnuts, skated at the winter rink, or saw
a dishwater gray sky through barren tree limbs. In the tropics, one
noticed the little things like the green and red of chips and salsa
or the seasonal return of humpback whales.
    She
started with the small talk and soon introduced herself, “I’m
Kara.”
    “ Gybe.
Nice to meet you. What brings you to this little island?”
    Kara
was from Mendocino – in Northern California. “It’s
about a hundred and fifty miles north of San Francisco.”
    “ Yeah
I know. Beautiful town. I used to live in the Bay area. One of my
favorite road trips was the drive north along the coast. You here on
vacation?”
    Less
than an hour earlier, Kara had checked into a room after a tedious
two-day trip from the mainland. She told him that she was on
Moloka‘i to help her friend Susan. They had been friends