that Bobby was the reincarnation of Kahuna, the Hawaiian god of the
surf. A creation of modern surfers, the Kahuna legend is based on the
life of an ancient witch doctor no more divine than your local
chiropractor. Nevertheless, Pia says that Bobby, being Kahuna, is the
one man on earth with whom she could make love although in order for them
to pick up where they left off, he must acknowledge his true immortal
nature and embrace his fate.
A new problem arose when, either out of pride in being just mortal Bobby
Halloway or out of pure stubbornness, of which he has some, Bobby
refused to agree that he was the one and true god of the surf.
Compared to the difficulties of modern romance, the problems of Romeo
and Juliet were piffling.
“So you’re finally going to admit you’re Kahuna, ” I said, as we drove
through pine-flanked streets into the higher hills of town.
“No. I’ll play it mysterious. I won’t say I’m not Kahuna. Be cool.
Wrap myself in enigma when she raises the subject, and let her make what
she wants of that.”
“Not good enough.”
“There’s more. I’ll also tell her about this dream where I saw her in an
awesomely beautiful gold-and-blue silk holoku, levitating over these
tasty, eight-foot, glassy waves, and in the dream she says to me, Papa
he’e naluhawaiian for surfboard.” We were in a residential neighborhood
two blocks south of Ocean Avenue, the main east-west street in Moonlight
Bay, when a car turned the corner at the intersection ahead, approaching
us. It was a basic, late model, Chevrolet sedan, beige or white, with
standard California license plates.
I closed my eyes to protect them from the oncoming headlights. I wanted
to duck or slide down in the seat to shield my face from the light, but
I could have done nothing more calculated to call attention to myself
other than, perhaps, whipping out a paper bag and pulling it over my
head.
As the Chevy was passing us, its headlights no longer a danger, I opened
my eyes and saw two men in the front, one in the backseat.
They were big guys, dressed in dark clothes, as expressionless as
turnips, all interested in us. Their night-of-the-living-dead eyes were
flat, cold, and disturbingly direct.
For some reason, I thought of the shadowy figure I had seen on the
sloping buttress, above the tunnel that led under Highway 1.
After we were past the Chevy, Bobby said, “Legal muscle.”
“Professional trouble, ” I agreed.
“They might as well have had it stenciled on their foreheads.” Watching
their taillights in the side mirror, I said, “They don’t seem to be
after us, anyway. Wonder what they’re looking for.”
“Maybe Elvis.” When the Chevy didn’t double back and follow us, I said,
“So you’re gonna tell Pia that in this dream of yours, she’s levitating
over some waves, and she says, Papa he’e nalu.”
“Right. In the dream, she tells me to get a tandem board we can ride
together. I figured that was prophetic, so I got the board, and now I’m
ready.”
“What a crock, ” I said, by way of friendly criticism.
“It’s true. I had the dream.”
“No way.”
“Way. In fact, I had it three nights in a row, which weirded me out a
little. I’ll tell her all that, and let her interpret it any way she
wants.”
“While you play mysterious, not admitting to being Kahuna but exhibiting
godlike charisma.” He looked worried. Braking at a stop sign after
having ignored all those before it, he said, “Truth. You don’t think I
can pull it off? ” When it comes to charisma, I have never known anyone
like Bobby, The stuff pours off him in such copious quantity that he
positively wades in it.
“Bro, ” I said, “you have so much charisma that if you wanted to form a
suicide cult, you’d have people signing up by the thousands to jump off
a cliff with you.” He was pleased. “Yeah? You’re not spinning me?”
“No spin, ” I assured him.
“Mahalo.”
“You’re welcome. But one question.” As he accelerated away from the stop
sign, he said, “Ask.”