Captain cooked, p.14
Captain Cooked, page 14
On this part of the beach, I found myself alone except for a bearded grandpa heading my way, wearing headphones and swinging a type of metal sweeper broom. No, not right, they’re called metal detectors. Every once in a while, he would stop, drop to his knees, dig with a small childlike shovel scoop with a screen, shake away the wet sand and inspect his find. Focused, he was nearly stepping on my beach towel when he looked up, embarrassed, at the same time his headphones beeped, and addicted to his hobby, made him immediately dig, almost at my feet. A rusty beer can. He threw it into a sack he carried at his side, that looked half full of trash. That was big of him, an environmental beachcomber. I noted his name etched on the handle of his magic searching wand, he was that close to me. I guess for Mr. C. Cussler, there is still excitement for the retirees around here, even if it holds rejection more than success.
“Good try,” I said about his ‘discovery,’ but with his headphones he did not hear. In turn, when he looked up, he gave me a silent expressive shrug of ‘oh, well, next time.’ Just then, his headphones gave him another noisy indication, and digging in the same hole, except deeper, he screened out shells and sand, and held up a Rolex watch, and for his sake, I hoped it was not a knock-off. This time, I mouthed slowly, “Congratulations.”
He walked on swinging his metal detector, side to side, a very happy man, but determined, not stopping with just one prize. I watched him diminish with distance. What should I think? Is there a philosophical lesson here? — One man’s trash is another’s treasure. — Don’t look beyond your grasp; the answer may be within reach. — Never just scratch the surface. Dig deeper. — Never give up. Or, a worse conclusion by my jaded Californication life style, unfair to him but a truism: always have a good excuse to be around half-naked women. Finding jewelry at my feet was the best come-on I’ve ever witnessed. An Oscar-winning performance even I would applaud. Did he really find a watch, or was it his? I am getting too cynical. Give him the benefit of doubt. Just harmless, but there was that twinkle in his eye, and I caught myself wondering what he might have looked like thirty years younger. I laughed at how hopeless I seemed, looking for love on all the wrong beaches.
In truth, the curmudgeon beachcomber did track my thoughts back to other treasure hunters. I reflected to my morning online computer search in the hotel’s business center.
Posing a general question I was proved correct. The word ‘cache,’ pronounced ‘cash’ is part of geo-caching, a travelling hunt game using GPS technology. The odd-looking walkie-talkie devices I saw among the Beautiful People being waved around at the airport were in fact GPS handheld tracking monitors. So, this morning, on the way to the beach, and a little more brash, I went to the bar and copied the new set of GPS coordinates left by the Beautiful People. From my beach bag, I pulled out my scribbles and now knew what I was seeing: locations, or they call them, ‘waypoints’. Now I recalled, the tee shirt I had seen at the airport and later in the hotel, in casual passing. In full I had read the t-shirt: N 36˚ 04. 922’ W 115˚ 10. 367’.
Latitude/longitude, with distance geo calculated into degrees (˚), minutes (.) and seconds (‘)
N 36˚ 07. 573’ W 115˚ 11. 892’ SG 20-9-16 15-6
N 36˚ 06. 828’ W 115˚ 08. 095’ CC1-08
Three sets of clues this time, perhaps the search would take more time, travelling to the other side of the island. They had departed after breakfast on their quest mystery. A basic guess that they might have combined some scavenger hunt elements to energize another Great Race competition. Wonder what was the ultimate prize of victory? My imagination wandered too far afield to prizes of date swapping, harem creation, or erotic bondage. No, I sensed class in their bearing, intelligence in their game creation. Rather, a geo-caching prize so unique I had to believe that it made travelling halfway across the world for a treasure for the winning team worth serious intrinsic value. No travelling trophy with brass plate of achievement for the Beautiful People. My continued envy led to plotting.
I dove through the waves, and swam laps in front of the reef, with each stroke starting to fuse together ‘a plan’. If you can’t join them, what better thrill but to outwit the Beautiful People or better said, play a practical joke. It would be my in-joke, a surprise without being malicious, especially without them discovering the identity of the interloper. Think. Like leave some sort of message, make them wonder: who did this? Hint but not reveal. How? I shifted over to backstroke, somewhat comfortable to believe sharks did not feed mid-afternoon, and they cruised further out beyond the breaker reef. So, I hoped. No more adventures, please.
Swimming on my back, viewing only pure blue heaven, again my thinking cap went on. Yes, that’s it. I had to find one of their caches before they did and place something in the box, or whatever container it might be. Let them wallow in curiosity. Something we Daynes knew well enough.
When I reached my towel, saw no one near, even the old beachcomber, I slipped off my entire bikini. No tan lines.

Chapter 27
Under the Stars, Under the Music, Under Him
Ouch.
Back at the hotel, by the time I turned on the shower to get ready, the shower stream revealed hurting burn splotches missed by sun screen. Body cream greased on helped a little. I eased into a sun dress, tied up my hair, finger-tapped on dollops of enticing eye of newt perfume. I would only take my Nikon, be the tourist. Enjoy myself.
In the lobby, Michael Ka‘aiea cut a sharp figure, washed and fluffed hair, Hawaiian shirt and white slacks, sandals. He did not wear his hotel badge of identification. He carried a picnic canvas bag. My thoughts went back to helicopters and champagne and beaches missed. Well, if you can’t be with the one ― anyway ― Michael and I exchanged gossipy pleasures all the way to the hillside concert grounds. Somewhere in our short hike, I came to realize we were holding hands.
What a treat. First, we were not sitting with Jeffrey and Desi, who sat in the V.I.P. section of the who’s who on the Big Island. Michael pointed out the Island Mayor, and both exchanged distant respectful nods of greetings. So, the assistant hotel manager knows the mayor. There’s more to this man next to me.
I recognized Manager Cahill holding court. Those missing sparked my interest. The Japanese owners of Ho‘oilina Kai should have basked in the positive publicity of doing a good deed, making amends. I saw no one like them in the growing crowd. Michael told me Captain Jimmie’s absence came from volunteering his ships’ crews to oversee crowd control at the front gate. I asked Michael if he considered this night work or play.
“I have my people well organized. Please note my cell phone has not rung once. I told them only if they see a tsunami.” He gave me a big smile, knowing how easily my nerves could fray. I looked to the ocean, saw only a solitary whale spout and a tail slap as the sun edged to kiss the horizon. If the whales weren’t worried…
The Memorial boasted musical diversity, consisting, according to the program I read, ten local groups, various types of island music from ukulele expertise to slack key guitar bands, two hula dance troupes, and two poetry readings. Each of the performers would do three songs, one of which would be an Oli Palalū signature song. The poets would recite various lyrics he had composed. A kumu hula, a hula teacher, blew the conch horn to begin the Memorial and recited an ancient chant. The last performance, the Pāhoehoe Sounds, would mean tearjerker time. The final song of their set would be a version of Aloha ‘Oe. I had stuffed extra tissue in my camera case.
We sat on a blanket and sipped a sweet yet potent drink. “What is this?”
“‘Okolehao. A special rum liquor blended with tropical flavors, and extract from the ti root plant. The power of the ti wards off evil spirits and brings goodness and strength.”
“Let me chug the bottle.” I read the label. “It says the ti plant was the emblem of high rank and divine power.”
“Whatever.” Michael shrugged off the implications. “The distillers of this particular brand stopped making this elixir of the gods. I could have the last case left.”
“The gods seem to favor you a lot.” The music began. Several numbers later, Oli Palalū came back on a giant projection screen, eerie and dreamy, from a past music video he had performed as a solo:
Nauweuwe ka honua Ka hana a ke ola nui: Moe pono ole ko’u po — Na niho ai kalakala, Ka hana a ka Niuhi
Now comes the Heaven-born; The whole land doth shake, As with an earthquake; Sleep quits then my bed: How shall this maw be fed!
Michael translated as hula dancers performed, a sense of romantic sensuality building with the lyrics. In between the third and fourth musical group, when the drink and the soothing melodies mellowed us, and on the blanket edging closer together, each leaning against the other, I had to ask.
“What was that row with your uncle this morning? He was dishing it out and you were standing there throwing it back at him. And why, all the other factions in attendance?” I think Michael had come to understand no one escaped the Dayne inquisitive nature.
“All three factions wanted to use the Memorial as a forum for their causes, pass out literature, make impassioned speeches. Uncle Joe wanted ten minutes on stage to demand the hotel rebuild the heiau. If he had the microphone, I sensed he might call a boycott on the hotel, shut us down for good. My response was that it was the time to recall Oli Palalū’s soul on earth and the goodness he brought by his music, not create more divisiveness.”
“As it should be.” I put my head on his shoulder, his arm went around me. “What about when Uncle Joe cast his evil eye my direction? That conversation had nothing to do with protest.”
I felt Michael stiffen and silence followed while Oli sang.
A mau i ke kai loa He loa o ka hiki na, A ua noa, a ua noa.
Great maw of the shark— Eyes that gleam in the ark Of the boundless sea!
Rare the king’s visits to me. All is free, all is free!
“Michael, it’s okay, I’m a big girl.” Whatever, I asked for it, knowing I wasn’t that big of a tough-skin girl.
“Uncle Joe said if I continued to see that haole girl from Hollywood, he would disown me entirely, curse me among my people, and I would be ‘kipaku.’
“Kipaku?” I pronounced the word slowly, not knowing if I wanted the definition.
“Banished. I would no longer be Hawaiian. In the olden days, it meant I had to go and kill myself.”
“He can’t be serious. I’m no harm to the Hawaiian people.”
“He’s worried that our children’s Hawaiian blood would be too diluted to be worthy of the Ka`aiea name.”
That shut me up. Another act followed. We were silent until Michael spoke, that smile of his disarming innocence.
“Listen to these lyrics, close your eyes, and hear Oli’s voice.” On the large screen, the visage of Oli Palalū appeared again and as he sang, one plaintive guitar strummed, a backup group on stage hummed and chanted the refrains. “Believe it or not, Johnny Rocket said he wrote this, but I hear in it a lot of influence of Captain Jimmie’s free library.”
I closed my eyes. With Oli’s dove-like serenade, Michael spoke into my ear, his soft voice almost a duet with Oli’s singing, putting the Hawaiian lyrics into English. The whispered effect: outright erotic.
Hiiaka, peerless maiden, tell me!
Why fear such tenderness as mine?
Play the game of kilu, hear my kāna mele
O that I, Lohiau were Kanaloa rippling round your dainty fairness Circling
about your waist to entice you to a dive!
Then steal between luscious lips and eyelids thin
O that your shining hair was in the sun
Beams distilled in passion thence to run
In loving watery rivulets down a mortal form
To linger on this morning glory shoulder, warm
Between kissing breasts and every charm.
Desire tingled within. The words of that song did not come from Johnny Rocket. Captain Jimmie’s fingerprints at artistic romance were apparent, again the behind-the-scene benefactor and mentor to troubled island youth. No. I didn’t want to think about the sea captain. Michael’s bombshell of Old Joe Coffee’s displeasure offered implications, of what? A serious commitment to this one special man? Me, the causal rift of a family destroyed? How did I really feel? Music drifted among the crowd and I felt the warmth of another’s arms around me; in such comfort, my mind free floated, drifting among the night’s stars. Both of us must have felt this bliss for Michael rose, gently took my hand, and led me to a secret place under the stage.
The backstage security guard, a Maori dance warrior with his tattoos, smiled and turned away as we ducked under stage skirt curtains and Michael gingerly escorted me carefully around metal cross beams to another blanket repose. He turned on a flashlight, and as I sat offered me a glass of champagne. Ah, the man had his own agenda. Talk about sensual highs; what a trip, our own secret grotto. What Uncle Joe couldn’t see couldn’t damage his cause. I was not going to tell.
The music above reverberated a rumble on the stage, the sounds somewhat muted with the slow songs, and the pure darkness lit by flashlight glow, the adventure I had been longing for had begun.
“The Pāhoehoe Sounds are next. I thought this might be more…”
“Romantic.” I said and gave him a kiss, slowly, letting it linger, tasting his mouth, tenderness he returned.
We lay down next to each other. I could hear the stage crew above move the band equipment around for the next set.
He laid his body without weight part way on top of me. The kissing ardor intensified and my arm took hold of his neck and brought him closer, both of us rubbing through clothes, momentarily restraining flesh on flesh touching. The band did some warm up tuning. We rolled on the blanket, side by side in a clutch of exploring. A fire inside raked my body with wanting. His hand moved inside my blouse, grazing my taut nipples. I could feel his excitement harden; I moved to grab hold and let him know this night meant all or nothing, and nothing not an option. We were committed to a wild night under a musical stage showered with love songs to match our animalistic heat.
The crash of the drum cymbals, the high decibel stroke of guitar chords broke our mood, if not eardrums. The Pāhoehoe Sounds jumped around in heavy thuds as the music, if you could call it that, pounded out hard chords of Nirvana rock and roll, the band that is, noise deafening where any songbird’s voice would be buried under chalkboard clawing modulation. Johnny Rocket screamed unintelligibly and jumped right above my head. To the pounding, the rude interruption of sexual anticipation, I sat up too quickly, hit my head, and brought down cobwebs into my hair. Michael’s hand dropped out of my blouse into the darkness.
“Ouch! That smarts.” Unladylike swear words grumbled under my tongue.
“Are you okay?”
“I got a spider web in my hair.” I felt quickly to pull it out. Not cobwebs. “Wiring.” In my hair, I yanked at it. “Maybe this will short circuit the speakers.”
“I oversaw the setup of the stage. We didn’t wire under here, against county code.”
I took the flashlight from him, the light catching him readjusting his bulging crotch. The light beam streamed to the lower ceiling of pole girders and cross beams. The wires were wrapped to hold a small bundle in place. Battery like. For a closer look, on my knees, I squinted in the murkiness. The band’s grinding thuds and jumps had dislodged the wiring, and the package with a small clock attached swung in the shadows.
Holy Shit.

Chapter 28
My Love Life Bombs
“Michael.” I said as calmly as I could. “You might want to look at this; please, be a dear.” He likewise crawled to where the flashlight’s beam shone. He took the light from me, and studied the device. He turned the clock around, studied it more. The timing mechanism, if I saw it correctly, said ten minutes until the alarm sounded, and then…?
“I’m no expert, but…” and without warning, he pulled two wires. I flinched. No explosion. He held the clock in one hand, and the tube-like device in the other. I took the flashlight from him and shone it down the length of the stage. Barely visible, I spied another wiring pack further along, too dark, and I was sure as hell not going to crawl down that way to discover what I presumed was a second battery-size package with timing device.
“Madison, these are a couple of taped blasting caps, enough to be a half-stick of dynamite. If this had gone off with us underneath, we would be mashed and dead.”
“In flagrante delicto.” said I.
“And that, too. Not good in anybody’s obituary.”
“I think there may be another…bomb…down that way.”
“Let’s get out of here, quickly.” We scurried and left the champagne and passion behind.
Outside, the leadership qualities of Michael became apparent. From the stocky security guard, over a concert walkie-talkie, in less than thirty seconds, he was being surrounded by a cadre of hard tough men, all who seemed to defer to him alone as being in charge. He barked orders as he took me by the arm and moved me off to the side, next to, and behind a palm tree.
The security people worked quickly, moving to those closest to the stage, and started the unenviable job of telling audience members upfront to abandon their favored spots, shouting above the jet engine decibel music. The crowd grew unruly. Meanwhile, the Pāhoehoe Sounds rocked on, ignoring a few catcalls to play Oli music. A younger group of fans stood off to the fringes bouncing, jiving, body slams into each other. The ‘new’ Pāhoehoe Sounds led by Johnny Rocket were on the verge of losing one fan base. Perhaps a new strategy debuted tonight, the band so quickly willing to sacrifice the old fogies and romantics for a youth market into punk sound.
Michael walked onto the stage. I yelled at him, but he could not hear. He was walking to center stage with an explosive device beneath his feet. Who challenged the fates like this? Get away! Pull the plug on the sound system, I yelled.
