The Maui Effect (Man-Made Trilogy #1)

The Blue Room

Dane

Pe’ahi, Maui, January 2012

The Hawaiian ocean was more blue than he remembered, and it smelled faintly of salt and sea foam. Dane sat on his surfboard watching rays of sun pierce the surface and descend into the depths. Farther out above the trench, the water shone indigo, and inside over the coral shelf, a dappled turquoise. Bathwater warm, smooth as blown glass, deadly. There were sounds—a light splash, the low rumble of whitewater meeting rock on the shoreline—but he didn’t hear them.

Someone is going to die.

An old man on the cliff had spoken these words to him just as he was scrambling down the rocks to get in the water, and he was having a hard time shaking it off. The man was thin as a twig and wrinkled, with a shock of white hair against his sun-beaten skin. A complete stranger. He touched Dane’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, pinning Dane in place for a few seconds, before he pulled himself away. His shoulder still burned.

Now he focused on the horizon and matched his breath to the rise and fall of the swells. Reaching down with both hands, he scooped up water and splashed himself to cool off. The air was thick with a salty haze, windless, hot and lazy. Usually by this time—early afternoon—the waves were blown out and ragged from the wind. But today was perfection. Even the locals were saying the conditions were epic.

All he needed was one wave.

The Maui offshore buoys showed an afternoon pulse, which meant that the swell could get even bigger before it faded away. No doubt it was a gamble to paddle out on his biggest board, a mint green beauty, but risk was his thing, the only constant he knew. While most people moved away from risk, Dane had always sought it out. Not consciously, but looking back, he had been the kid to climb the tallest tree, skateboard down the steepest road or take the highest jump on his bike, and later, often the only one to paddle out on those winter days when the whole horizon was closing out.

He checked his watch. Eighteen minutes since the last set rolled in, but it seemed like days. He could feel the island behind him, a massive volcano with a dollop of white snow on her peak, but he refused to look. Never turn your back on the sea. Anyone raised around the ocean knew this.

Four minutes left in the heat and Dane had nothing to show for it. He had missed the only rideable wave on the last set by being too far out. His last hope was the tide. It had just bottomed out, and now began to fill back in, the whole ocean heaving toward the island. All he could do was wait. Mother nature called the shots out here, there was no way around it.

Two minutes left and he was starting to sweat, when he noticed a bump on the horizon. He stood up on his board to get a better look. Definitely a set. Kicking his board out in front of him, he fell back in the water and crossed himself. This was it. Sliding back onto his board, he adjusted his vest, took a deep breath and started paddling toward the horizon.

A live wire ran under his skin, electrifying every cell, every muscle. It was a familiar feeling, and it meant game on . The first wave in the set rose up like a liquid mountain and began to feather, but already he could tell it wasn’t the one he was waiting for. Too small and a little too west. Let someone else have it. When he reached the top of that one, he got his first look at what was coming—a blue wall of water taller than a small building and farther out than he had thought possible. Lined up perfectly and swinging straight for him.

He scrambled to position himself a little deeper as the wave moved in and lifted him up and up. And fricking up. He turned and went for it. At the top, he hung for a second as he looked down the vertical face of water, half wishing he had wings. Beyond the point of no return, he jumped to his feet and dropped in. The first few seconds were a free fall and he was poised with arms out, as if in flight, while his board miraculously stayed under him. He managed to level out and picked his line. From behind, the lip hurled and thundered and created a bus-sized barrel, spitting out at him.

Still high up on the wave, which felt ready to pitch him at any moment, he felt the burn in his legs, his lungs, his eyes. Spray from the barrel chandeliered down on him and began to blot out the sun and everything else. If this beast closed out, he was done. He’d be held down on the reef for at least a few waves and then washed into a frothy cauldron of whitewater and boulders at the bottom of the cliffs.

Someone is going to die. The words came to him again in a flash, then disappeared. Today was not his day to die.

The avalanche of water behind him was creating its own wind, but he managed to stall for a few seconds in the barrel before getting shot out in the spit. Time slowed, and the outside world slipped away. A feeling of euphoria came over him. Salt water ran in his veins and he looked down on the scene from a bird’s-eye view. Albatross or petrel or booby. When he hit the shoulder of the wave still standing, his arms shot up skyward and he fell back, landing with a splash in the very water that could have easily taken him. The horn sounded a few moments later, signifying the end of the heat.

The crowd in the channel went crazy; he heard them even underwater. Jet skis, boats, boards, camera guys swimming—all rushed toward him. People yelling, hooting, clapping, cheering. Shirtless men and bikini-clad women. Not a wetsuit in sight. And there was no need to see the score, or the video. Their reaction told him everything he needed to know.