tranquility. Treasures it. If You’re going to be a friend of Bobby
Halloway’s, You have to learn to accept his view of life: Nothing that
happens farther than half a mile from the beach is of sufficient
importance to worry about, and no event is solemn enough or stylish
enough to justify the wearing of a necktie. He responds to languid
conversation better than to chatter, to indirection better than to
direct statements.
“Flow me a beer?” I asked.
Bobby said, “Corona, Heineken, “Corona for me.”
Leading the way across the living room, Bobby said, “Is the one with
the tail drinking tonight?”
“He’ll have a Heinie.”
“Light or dark?”
“Dark,” I said.
“Must’ve been a rough night for dogs.”
“Full-on gnarly.”
The cottage consists of a large living room, an office where Bobby
tracks waves worldwide, a bedroom, a kitchen, and one bath.
The walls are well-oiled teak, dark and rich, the windows are big, the
floors are slate, and the furniture is comfortable.
Ornamentation-other than the natural setting-is limited to eight
astonishing watercolors by Pia Mick, a woman whom Bobby still loves,
though she left him to spend time in Waimea Bay, on the north shore of
Oahu. He wanted to go with her, but she said she needed to be alone in
Waimea, which she calls her spiritual home; the harmony and beauty of
the place are supposed to give her the peace of mind she requires in
order to decide whether or not to live with her fate. I don’t know
what that means. Neither does Bobby.
Pia said she’d be gone a month or two. That was almost three years
ago.
The swell at Waimea comes out of extremely deep water. The waves are
high, wall-like. Pia says they are the green of translucent jade.
Some days I dream of walking that shore and hearing the thunder of
those breakers. Once a month, Bobby calls Pia or she calls him.
Sometimes they talk for a few minutes, sometimes for hours. She isn’t
with another man, and she does love Bobby. Pia is one of the kindest,
gentlest, smartest people I have ever known. I don’t understand why
she’s doing this. Neither does Bobby. The days go by. He waits.
In the kitchen, Bobby plucked a bottle of Corona from the refrigerator
and handed it to me.
I twisted off the cap and took a swallow. No lime, no salt, no
pretension.
He opened a Heineken for Orson. “Half or all?” I said, “It’s a
radical night.” In spite of my dire news, I was deep in the tropical
rhythms of Bobbyland.
He emptied the bottle into a deep, enameled-metal bowl on the floor,
which he keeps for Orson. On the bowl he has painted ROSEBUD in block
letters, a reference to the child’s sled in Orson Welles’s Citizen
Kane.
I have no intention of inducing my canine companion to become an
alcoholic. He doesn’t get beer every day, and usually he splits a
bottle with me. Nevertheless, he has his pleasures, and I don’t intend
to deny him what he enjoys. Considering his formidable body weight, he
doesn’t become inebriated on a single beer.
Dare to give him two, however, and he redefines the term party
animal.
As Orson noisily lapped up the Heineken, Bobby opened a Corona for
himself and leaned against the refrigerator.
I leaned against the counter near the sink. There was a table with
chairs, but in the kitchen, Bobby and I tend to be leaners.
We are alike in many ways. We’re the same height, virtually the same
weight, and the same body type. Although he has very dark brown hair
and eyes so raven-black that they seem to have blue highlights, we have
been mistaken for brothers.
We both have a collection of surf bumps, too, and as he leaned against
the refrigerator, Bobby was absentmindedly using the bottom of one bare
foot to rub the bumps on the top of the other.
These are knotty calcium deposits that develop from constant pressure
against a surfboard; You get them on your toes and the tops of your
feet from paddling while in a prone position. We have them on our