balance, he looked at me, his hands still up in a karate posture.
“Let’s go before she gets back,” he said. “Let’s just go.”
“You mean split? That wouldn’t be very nice.”
“She wasn’t very nice to take off on us.”
“She’ll be really, really angry.”
“Maybe that’ll teach her a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“That you can’t be a jerk and then expect people not to be jerky back at you.”
“Is that one of the Ten Commandments or something?”
He dropped his hands.
“I want to go see Ty Barry,” he said. “This is my trip. I’m going with or without you, Bee.”
So we went.
FROM GOOGLE: Half Moon Bay is 25 miles south of San Francisco along State Route 1, the Cabrillo Highway, at 37°27′32″N 122°26′13″W37.45889°N 122.43694°W.
It is 10 miles west of San Mateo, 45 miles north of Santa Cruz. The 2000 census counted 11,842 people in the town, and 4,004 households.
We went looking for one person.
Ty Barry.
Dear Mom
,
We’ll be back in a day. We went to visit Ty Barry, a friend of Tommy’s who lives out here. We’ll call to let you know where we are when we get there. We took half of the money. We’re not trying to be hurtful. We just got tired of waiting around, and seeing Ty means an awful lot to Tommy
.
Love
,
Bee and Tommy
I left the note taped to the bathroom mirror.
The second bus we caught out of San Francisco smelled of diesel and brake fluid. The driver, a guy named Oti, passed his eyes in a triangle from one mirror to the next. Rear, left side, right side. Then straight forward. He did it over and over again at the same pace. Now and then our eyes clicked when he checked the rearview mirror. He had half-closed eyelids and a half-filled-in mustache. Everything about him seemed to be waiting for something toarrive. I wanted to ask him about Half Moon Bay, but a sign on the pole above his seat said not to talk to the driver.
Tommy had been smart enough to take a seat on the west side of the bus, the side looking toward the ocean. Now and then we had a glimpse of something like ocean, or sand, or just greater spreads of light. It was Sunday morning and the bus ride felt lazy and empty.
“What are you doing down this way?” Oti asked us when we had ridden for about fifteen minutes. Only two kids had joined us on the bus and they sat far in the back, probably so that they could smoke.
“We want to see Mavericks,” I said.
Oti’s eyes darted around, then sought mine again.
“Mavericks?” he asked.
“A surf place,” Tommy said. “They get monster waves that come all the way from the Aleutian Islands in Alaska. They have fifty-foot faces, some of them.”
Oti shook his head to say he didn’t know.
“I never heard of anything like that around here,” Oti said. “But there’s a lot of surfing going on.”
“They get some shark attacks down this way, too,” Tommy said. “It’s in the bloody triangle.”
“Oh, I know about those,” Oti said, braking to let a car turn left in front of him. “Great whites, right?”
“Yes,” Tommy said.
“Heck, I watch Shark Week every year on television.Wouldn’t miss it. You ever hear about kids fighting sharks in cages?” Oti asked, giving the bus gas.
“In Mexico?” Tommy asked.
“No, in Hawaii, where I’m from. Test of manhood. They found archaeological remains of cages,” Oti said, stringing out the word
cageeessssss
until it sounded like something lethal, something like
alligatorsss
. “They put twelve-year-old boys down there with a spear, and the boys had to hold their breath and fight the sharks. Pretty awesome.”
“Never heard of that,” Tommy said.
“I’m telling you,” Oti said. “Pretty wild stuff.”
Tommy nodded. He had pushed forward on his seat so that he could see Oti better.
“Test of manhood, like sending African kids out to kill a lion. I’m not joking,” Oti said, tapping the brakes a couple of times to let traffic swirl
“Let’s go before she gets back,” he said. “Let’s just go.”
“You mean split? That wouldn’t be very nice.”
“She wasn’t very nice to take off on us.”
“She’ll be really, really angry.”
“Maybe that’ll teach her a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“That you can’t be a jerk and then expect people not to be jerky back at you.”
“Is that one of the Ten Commandments or something?”
He dropped his hands.
“I want to go see Ty Barry,” he said. “This is my trip. I’m going with or without you, Bee.”
So we went.
FROM GOOGLE: Half Moon Bay is 25 miles south of San Francisco along State Route 1, the Cabrillo Highway, at 37°27′32″N 122°26′13″W37.45889°N 122.43694°W.
It is 10 miles west of San Mateo, 45 miles north of Santa Cruz. The 2000 census counted 11,842 people in the town, and 4,004 households.
We went looking for one person.
Ty Barry.
Dear Mom
,
We’ll be back in a day. We went to visit Ty Barry, a friend of Tommy’s who lives out here. We’ll call to let you know where we are when we get there. We took half of the money. We’re not trying to be hurtful. We just got tired of waiting around, and seeing Ty means an awful lot to Tommy
.
Love
,
Bee and Tommy
I left the note taped to the bathroom mirror.
The second bus we caught out of San Francisco smelled of diesel and brake fluid. The driver, a guy named Oti, passed his eyes in a triangle from one mirror to the next. Rear, left side, right side. Then straight forward. He did it over and over again at the same pace. Now and then our eyes clicked when he checked the rearview mirror. He had half-closed eyelids and a half-filled-in mustache. Everything about him seemed to be waiting for something toarrive. I wanted to ask him about Half Moon Bay, but a sign on the pole above his seat said not to talk to the driver.
Tommy had been smart enough to take a seat on the west side of the bus, the side looking toward the ocean. Now and then we had a glimpse of something like ocean, or sand, or just greater spreads of light. It was Sunday morning and the bus ride felt lazy and empty.
“What are you doing down this way?” Oti asked us when we had ridden for about fifteen minutes. Only two kids had joined us on the bus and they sat far in the back, probably so that they could smoke.
“We want to see Mavericks,” I said.
Oti’s eyes darted around, then sought mine again.
“Mavericks?” he asked.
“A surf place,” Tommy said. “They get monster waves that come all the way from the Aleutian Islands in Alaska. They have fifty-foot faces, some of them.”
Oti shook his head to say he didn’t know.
“I never heard of anything like that around here,” Oti said. “But there’s a lot of surfing going on.”
“They get some shark attacks down this way, too,” Tommy said. “It’s in the bloody triangle.”
“Oh, I know about those,” Oti said, braking to let a car turn left in front of him. “Great whites, right?”
“Yes,” Tommy said.
“Heck, I watch Shark Week every year on television.Wouldn’t miss it. You ever hear about kids fighting sharks in cages?” Oti asked, giving the bus gas.
“In Mexico?” Tommy asked.
“No, in Hawaii, where I’m from. Test of manhood. They found archaeological remains of cages,” Oti said, stringing out the word
cageeessssss
until it sounded like something lethal, something like
alligatorsss
. “They put twelve-year-old boys down there with a spear, and the boys had to hold their breath and fight the sharks. Pretty awesome.”
“Never heard of that,” Tommy said.
“I’m telling you,” Oti said. “Pretty wild stuff.”
Tommy nodded. He had pushed forward on his seat so that he could see Oti better.
“Test of manhood, like sending African kids out to kill a lion. I’m not joking,” Oti said, tapping the brakes a couple of times to let traffic swirl
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