and sincere, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I will call him with your number right away.”
“What kind of business is he in?”
“Import-export.”
“What sort of products?”
“The products change depending on what’s available.”
“Did his business take him to Hawai‘i?”
“Mr. DiCarlo travels extensively on business,” she said, “mostly to Mexico and South America. He speaks fluent Spanish.”
“That so? I’d really appreciate hearing from Mr. DiCarlo.”
“You will,I’m sure.”
I then phoned the number Summer had given me and got that heavy accent again. “Leave message at tone, if you please . . .”
I asked Summer to call me, mentioning vaguely that I had made some progress.
Next I placed a call to the North Shore number of “Maya.” A young woman answered.
“Maya?” I asked.
“No,” she corrected me. “Maya doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Where’s here?”
“Who’s calling, please?” She sounded agitated.
“Kai. I was a surfing buddy of Corky McDahl.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Where might I find Maya now?”
Click.
No worries. I pulled out my handy directory that lists the addresses of all people on O’ahu by phone number, turned to the prefix “638,” then scanned down until I found the last four digits of the number I’d just called. It belonged to an address off Kamehameha Highway called Ke Nui Road that fronts the ocean.
Ke Nui is a road of big wave riders. It looks out on the famous breaks of the North Shore—Sunset, Pipeline, and nearby Pupukea. Down the road a hop, skip, and jump is Waimea Bay. Ke Nui is near the center, in other words, of the surfing universe. Legends have called this street home—along with some young hopefuls. It didn’t surprise me that Corky, by way of this woman named Maya, was associated with Ke Nui Road.
In less than an hour, with Corky’s board lashed on top, my Impala rolled into the sandy lot overlooking blown-out Sunset Beach. The wind-whipped sea was the color of marbled jade—dark green riddled with stark white. Signs posted on the beach warned: “High Surf . . . Dangerous Currents . . . No Swimming . . . Beach Closed.” Above these signs, Day-Glo orange flags stood stiff in the wind.
Nobody—swimmer, boogie boarder, or surfer—was out today. Not just because of the signs, but because even the regular crew at Sunset knows when to battle and when to retreat. The roar of the tumultuous waves resembled the H-1 Freeway at rush hour—amplified tenfold. It was a din that filled the air completely.
From Sunset Beach, I drove a short quarter mile to oceanfront Ke Nui Road, where the surf continued to roar. Maya’s address was attached to a cottage with shake roof whose beach side stood on stilts in the sand at the high tide mark. You couldn’t get much closer to the water than this without swimming.
I knocked and soon a wet-haired surfer girl stood before me in a string bikini top and skin-tight jeans. Her baby-white skin and pale blue eyes had “mainland” written all over them. She appeared to be about Leimomi’s age.
“Is Maya here?” I whiffed the fresh scent of lavender on her.
“No,” she said in a voice lower pitched than the young woman I had spoken with on the phone, but no less defiant.
“I’m a friend of Corky McDahl. I wondered if Maya could tell me anything about his wipeout—just to soothe my mind. I still have his photo.” I showed her the snapshot Summer had given me.
The surfer girl didn’t respond.
“Does Maya still live here?” I tried again.
“No.”
“Do you know where I can reach her?”
“No.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address? Or a phone number?”
“No.”
“Was Corky Maya’s boyfriend?”
“You’d have to ask one of my roommates.”
“May I?”
“They’re not here,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Would you please have them call me at this number?” I handed her my card, hoping the surfer image on it would reinforce my pose as
“What kind of business is he in?”
“Import-export.”
“What sort of products?”
“The products change depending on what’s available.”
“Did his business take him to Hawai‘i?”
“Mr. DiCarlo travels extensively on business,” she said, “mostly to Mexico and South America. He speaks fluent Spanish.”
“That so? I’d really appreciate hearing from Mr. DiCarlo.”
“You will,I’m sure.”
I then phoned the number Summer had given me and got that heavy accent again. “Leave message at tone, if you please . . .”
I asked Summer to call me, mentioning vaguely that I had made some progress.
Next I placed a call to the North Shore number of “Maya.” A young woman answered.
“Maya?” I asked.
“No,” she corrected me. “Maya doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Where’s here?”
“Who’s calling, please?” She sounded agitated.
“Kai. I was a surfing buddy of Corky McDahl.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Where might I find Maya now?”
Click.
No worries. I pulled out my handy directory that lists the addresses of all people on O’ahu by phone number, turned to the prefix “638,” then scanned down until I found the last four digits of the number I’d just called. It belonged to an address off Kamehameha Highway called Ke Nui Road that fronts the ocean.
Ke Nui is a road of big wave riders. It looks out on the famous breaks of the North Shore—Sunset, Pipeline, and nearby Pupukea. Down the road a hop, skip, and jump is Waimea Bay. Ke Nui is near the center, in other words, of the surfing universe. Legends have called this street home—along with some young hopefuls. It didn’t surprise me that Corky, by way of this woman named Maya, was associated with Ke Nui Road.
In less than an hour, with Corky’s board lashed on top, my Impala rolled into the sandy lot overlooking blown-out Sunset Beach. The wind-whipped sea was the color of marbled jade—dark green riddled with stark white. Signs posted on the beach warned: “High Surf . . . Dangerous Currents . . . No Swimming . . . Beach Closed.” Above these signs, Day-Glo orange flags stood stiff in the wind.
Nobody—swimmer, boogie boarder, or surfer—was out today. Not just because of the signs, but because even the regular crew at Sunset knows when to battle and when to retreat. The roar of the tumultuous waves resembled the H-1 Freeway at rush hour—amplified tenfold. It was a din that filled the air completely.
From Sunset Beach, I drove a short quarter mile to oceanfront Ke Nui Road, where the surf continued to roar. Maya’s address was attached to a cottage with shake roof whose beach side stood on stilts in the sand at the high tide mark. You couldn’t get much closer to the water than this without swimming.
I knocked and soon a wet-haired surfer girl stood before me in a string bikini top and skin-tight jeans. Her baby-white skin and pale blue eyes had “mainland” written all over them. She appeared to be about Leimomi’s age.
“Is Maya here?” I whiffed the fresh scent of lavender on her.
“No,” she said in a voice lower pitched than the young woman I had spoken with on the phone, but no less defiant.
“I’m a friend of Corky McDahl. I wondered if Maya could tell me anything about his wipeout—just to soothe my mind. I still have his photo.” I showed her the snapshot Summer had given me.
The surfer girl didn’t respond.
“Does Maya still live here?” I tried again.
“No.”
“Do you know where I can reach her?”
“No.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address? Or a phone number?”
“No.”
“Was Corky Maya’s boyfriend?”
“You’d have to ask one of my roommates.”
“May I?”
“They’re not here,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Would you please have them call me at this number?” I handed her my card, hoping the surfer image on it would reinforce my pose as
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