The Maui Effect (Man-Made Trilogy #1)

Por Qué

‘Iwa

Six weeks later

Kama slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Brah, this happens every single effing time. I swear, I’m pau driving anywhere near Tijuana.”

The outburst was so unlike him, it shocked ‘Iwa, until she heard the siren whoop, and noticed the flashing lights behind them in the dusky sky.

“Federales. Let me do the talking,” Yeti said.

“I don’t think I was speeding, was I?” Kama asked.

“It doesn’t matter. You were if they say you were.”

It was ‘Iwa’s first time in Mexico, and she had no idea what to expect. They were already two hours behind schedule, thanks to a backlog at the border. Two men took their time getting out of the patrol car, then came to their windows, one on each side. Both holding scary-looking guns.

“Passaportes, por favor.”

Everyone handed over their passports.

“Where you headed?” the guy asked in halting English.

“Ensenada,” Kama said.

“Por qué?” said the other.

Yeti rattled something off that could have only been spoken by someone who’d lived in a Spanish-speaking country at some point in his life. He and the portly one with a handlebar mustache went back and forth for a while, then Yeti handed him a hundred-dollar bill, he handed back their passports and they were off.

“The price of doing business this side of the border. Pro tip: always bring a couple crisp Ben Franklins,” he said, as they continued down the desert road.

If anything, the arid landscape had flavors of the south side of Maui. Dry and scrubby with its own kind of beauty. Somehow, that contrast with the ocean always made the water seem even more blue, more inviting.

According to Dane they were a little late in the season for perfect conditions, but a massive swell was approaching Isla Todos Santos, and this could be one of his last shots at winning an XXL award this year. After seeing Mavericks up close, the thought of free-falling down the face of one of those beasts made ‘Iwa queasy. But boys would be boys and apparently, so would a few girls. Hope was already in Ensenada waiting for them, and from there they would take a boat to Isla Todos Santos.

This was ‘Iwa’s third trip to California. In February, she’d come to Santa Cruz for five days to see Dane’s hand-built house, hike among the redwoods—she’d wept at their remarkable beauty—and meet his friend who’d had a hand in saving a particular grove of them. Dane made her laugh and tremble and sing. He seemed unable to get enough of her voice, and she seemed to be unable to get enough of his kisses. But it was his mind that really drew her in, and how he could talk for hours about the intricacies of the tides or the mechanics of bird wings and flight, then put on an apron and bake a mean sourdough. She loved his contradictions, and how beneath that sexy exterior, he was almost as big of a nerd as she was.

He had also made two weekend trips to Maui, timing them with back-to-back swells. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Dane had become a part of her carefully constructed life. Letting herself fall like this had been scary, but love wasn’t always convenient, her father reminded her. It showed up on its own time and demanded attention.

With work and the Waikula fight in full swing, ‘Iwa had been reluctant to come this time and felt a little guilty about leaving Winston and the small team at Maui Forest Recovery Project, who were trying to line up a good attorney. Even worse, Jones had begun a slick marketing campaign for his resort, which irked her to no end. But Dane had bribed her with another free ticket and the news that they’d be visiting a marine preserve full of migrating gray whales, whale sharks, manta rays, sea lions and white sharks. She promised herself that after this trip, she was going to focus her attention on Maui, and told Dane as much.

“I need to be there for our fight, for our organization,” she said.

“As you should be. Can I help?”

She wasn’t sure she was ready for him to get involved beyond giving her ideas. Not that there was much he could do, but opening this fight up to Dane somehow felt too intimate, too close to her heart.

“I’ll let you know.”

The name of the break in Ensenada was most appropriately called Killers. Their quarters were a rambling Spanish-style house on the outskirts of town—a whitewashed, red-roofed bed-and-breakfast run by a surfer couple from San Diego.

Crystal and Holmes were the groovy kind of folks who kept their own hens, cultivated herbs and vegetables growing out every nook and cranny, collected honey from their own hives, built their own furniture and sewed their own clothing—beautiful and summery and, yes, sustainable. Crystal, it turned out, had a successful line of dresses, and the oversized black-and-white photos of empty waves and windswept coastlines adorning the walls were all taken by Holmes, a cinematographer who everyone wanted on their team.

Their industriousness, though admirable, gave ‘Iwa a major inferiority complex, because from the looks of things, they weren’t much older than she was. She had to remind herself that things were different in Hawai’i, where a place like this would easily run a cool five million—or more.

It was just the two of them, her and Crystal, sitting on the patio sipping organic red wine that Crystal had probably mashed under her own two pretty feet. The guys and Hope were planning their morning assault on Todos Santos and placing bets on the exact swell angle and what time the wind would kick up.

“You two sure have created something special here. How long have you been in Mexico?” ‘Iwa asked Crystal.

“Five years. We used to drive down and camp on the beach when we were in high school, sleeping under the stars and amongst armies of scorpions. Roughing it in the best way,” she said, laughing. “When this house came up for sale, we jumped at the chance to buy it. You should have seen it back then, it was almost a teardown, which was the only reason we could afford it.”

Impossible to picture now.

“Do you surf big waves, too?” ‘Iwa asked.

“Depends on your idea of big. Holmes and I have always measured the face of a wave by the height of our old Land Cruiser. So, my limit is two Land Cruisers, no more.”

“That’s still pretty big. How about Holmes?”

Crystal coiled her long blond hair around her hand and sighed. “Holmes is fearless. He’ll go out in anything. Rain or shine, grande o peque?o —sorry, do you speak Spanish?”

“Poquito.”

“ Bueno , I don’t even realize I’m doing it. What about you? You’re from Hawai’i, you must surf.”

“My dad surfs, so I learned young. I longboard, mostly head high or smaller.” Then she asked the question that had been plaguing her recently. “How do you handle Holmes going out in the huge stuff? Does it worry you?”

“He’s safer out there than on the roads,” Crystal said, swirling her wine in the oversized glass and pondering for a moment. “And, we have an agreement—he never goes out alone. Part of the beauty of the big wave culture is this intense brotherhood they’ve formed. These guys have each other’s backs.”

In the massive farm-style kitchen the group ate a quick breakfast of goat cheese and herbed potato frittata, crusty sourdough dripping in honey, tangerines and bananas, and barrels of coffee. The spread was waiting for them when they got up in the dark, and ‘Iwa helped pack hummus and veggie sandwiches into the cooler, along with sparkling water and a twelve-pack of Pacifico bottles and limes.

Even this far south, the early morning air carried a surprising chill. Skies were clear and shining with stars, and in the east, turning a pale blue. They met Manuel, their local boat captain, down at the pier, and he helped load all their boards, dry bags, coolers and camera equipment onto a larger and more luxurious boat than they’d been in at Mavericks, with a wide covered bridge section. Its name— La Ballena . The Whale.

“You have your wetsuit?” Dane asked her for the twentieth time.

“Got it.”

“What about an extra jacket?”

“It’s in the bag.”

“Gloves?”

‘Iwa held up her hands to show him. “Dane. I have it under control.”

He pulled her in with one arm and kissed her hard on the cheek. “I just want you to be comfortable. And have a good time. And want to keep doing this with me because...well, you know why.”

Smiling, she said, “Do I? Please tell me.”

“Because I surf better when you’re around.”

She poked him in the ribs. “Give me a break.”

“Really, though,” he said, scraping his lips over hers and lowering his voice so only ‘Iwa could hear. “I can’t get enough of you. Selfish, but true.”

They traveled fast on the water, the approaching sun at their backs, the island a dim outline surrounded by a silver veil. The plan was to get out there before anyone else, and hit the surf at first light. With a middle tide, conditions were lining up to be all-time. Holmes was with them, checking his camera water housing.

“I’m only shooting for an hour if it’s epic. Last time I waited too long and the wind got on it and I missed out,” he said.

“Do what you need to,” Dane told him.

“The grapevine says you guys have plans on going to Portugal this spring, am I right? Garrett says maybe end of March early April. It’ll be warmer and maybe less de—”

He stopped himself when ‘Iwa turned, a guilty look on his face.

“Deadly?” she said, finishing his sentence for him.

Dane pulled ‘Iwa in close. “Nah, he meant delirious.”

Right.

“Delirious? No one in the history of the world has used delirious to describe waves,” she said, shaking her head.

“No, I was going to say decrepit,” Holmes said.

‘Iwa laughed out loud. “You guys are funny. It’s okay, Holmes, they talk about this Nazaré wave all the time. I know it’s huge. I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s cold, and I know it could be deadly. But then, being alive is deadly, isn’t it?”

One side of Holmes’s mouth went up. “I like your thinking, woman.”

“She knows what she’s talking about. On the Portugal front, we’ve been waiting for the right conditions. When we go, we want her to be just right,” Dane told him.

Like most Hawaiian streams’ mo’o , waves seemed to be female.

“You going to tow or paddle?”

“Tow. I think. Why, can you paddle in there when it’s huge?”

“I haven’t seen it myself. But Kama said he wants to paddle in.”

Dane looked surprised. “We’ll see then, I guess? You want in?”

“Hell, yeah.”

From the look on Dane’s face, ‘Iwa could tell it was just a matter of time before he was on a plane to Portugal. Until they all were.

As they drew nearer to the island, ‘Iwa noticed it wasn’t one, but two. Manuel, who reminded her of her father with his quiet focus and bearlike build, gave her a little history, and she was glad he spoke English far better than she spoke Spanish.

“My father used to fish these waters. Said you could smell the islands from a mile away, so much bird poop.”

“What kind of birds?”

“Ah... cormoranes , gaviotas , pelicanos y ostreros . Nowadays not so many, but they’re coming back. I drive scientists here for years now, and they tell me bird numbers are improving. I came here as a ni?o with mi papa , but for fish, not birds.”

“Are people allowed on the island?”

“Yes but not today. Too dangerous to land.”

“Sounds like your islands and our islands have much in common,” ‘Iwa said.

He flicked his hand. “Same ocean, same planet.”