Ravid dreams of a scraggly little cat who shows her age but still has a cute, puffy face that presses nose to nose on his own face with insistence. “Meow!” The urgency is for snacks and affection in the wee hours, but affection alone will do for a while, if administered just so, softly and consistently with a finger stroke under her chin. She returns the stroke, forcing her chin onto his finger, marking him as her territory by putting her scent on him as well, giving their interspecies exchange a perverse, or at least unnatural, characteristic. Or maybe it’s only a characteristic common to the so-called “wild,” where communion and instinct are most balanced, and therein most natural. Besides, no matter what the context, this isn’t just any old cat but his old cat Skinny, with her same old demands taking on new dimension, since today is her birthday.
She wasn’t seventeen, if you know what I mean... She’s only nine today, but she’ll be seventeen one day, and she’s mine all mine.
So at one a.m. or two he hoarsely whispers, “Happy birthday, my skinny little pussy,” which is kind of a private joke between the cat and the man, so he laughs; she’s so cute, with such an active sense of humor. In a lovely zone as soft as slumber yet watchful as waking, he has no doubt that she senses his birthday wish. He thinks it not at all odd that a man so far from home or any semblance of stable bearing could remember his cat’s birthday, of all things, but then he’d be hard-pressed to forget. She purrs approval, affirming her stable bearing in all things. Or was that a moan from the firmer, fuller lass nearby? Maybe it’s a subconscious, interspecies communication, in which the one of skinny, furry essence uses the other as the medium for the message. Why not?
But then Skinny chirps and purrs louder. “Meow,” she says at last, making him smile on his way back to the depths, noting on the descent that she’s nine but in her tenth year. Ten years old! Not bad for a cat. He doesn’t worry that his birthday greeting and rumination on numbers relative to age have aroused his manhood. Nobody can see or hear his thoughts, and even if they could, who cares? It’s nobody’s business but his own. He loves his cat with no sexual delusions, and if that’s not okay with anybody, they can step right up and chob’m’n tuchas. Or kiss my ass if they’d prefer. At only seven pounds, she has none of the physical attributes he seeks in sexual liaison. He loves her dearly and gets a boner when he scratches her chin.
The End.
So what?
Besides, here comes another lovely dream, of Hereata sensing reality as it logically unfolds below the surface, and just in the nick of time, not even turning his way but reaching behind herself and taking him with the precise dispatch of a medical practitioner into the perfect docking all watermen strive for, in the middle of a dream no less. This too is an exercise in love as it relates to familiarity and beauty in simplicity, though this process is uniquely, perchance blessedly, human. Here all needs are met in the warm and dry with special dispensation to the warm and wet. Not that humanity is the only species to relish the sexual exchange, but it may well be the species most driven to genital contact beyond the procreative motivation. Which is enough to make a man wonder about humanity, with its unique penchants for both killing and fucking, each act common to this species alone when in the context of sporting gratification.
Also blessed is the brevity of this strained analysis, the distraction at hand preempting all points of focus other than what’s before him. Her back is a plain of sweetness with a sweet softness and scent of flowers, even on the lightning bolt zigzag tattoos found at cross angles on her shoulder blades. He saw them in dim light and now feels them in the dark with his fingertips, like a blind man reading Braille and seeing the picture. Like strangers in the night, these two humans engage in the more fortunate behavior unique to their species, requiring no formality or protocol or dominance in their shared comfort and shelter. They simply default to the etiquette of human kindness, courtesy and needs met in a rhythmic, rolling groundswell on the open sea.
Do turtles mate on the surface? Even so, their shells would not allow this flexibility. Surely the turtles compensate with other forms of loveliness; they’re so well mannered otherwise. Well, being surrounded by azure clarity and reef magic must count for something. Still, it’s not always bad...to be...human...
Soon they let go and drift, back to lovely sleep. The dream lingers with its little bubbles and eddies of goodness, like a gift of nature that won’t stop giving, so it recurs at four and again near six, when sunbeams dance sprightly over the windowsills, happily announcing another rise. Facing this way or that, it doesn’t matter. As a brand new day solidifies, the angelic fingers of the hostess show the way with expert sensitivity, suggesting eyes of their own, with logical visions revisited. Soon the exquisite sensations are surpassed only by a niggling amazement at this frequency. Is this randy response a compensation for the strife and turmoil of recent days? Is a man like a plant, going to seed in the face of imminent death? Could this be love? Not that love should be so strange or that the man’s heart is so cockled as to prevent such a thing. But this woman is so...so... Well, let’s face it: She’s not young and not what the lift, separation and spread boys would call fine. Yet she allures him again and again with her scent, her skin, her bounty.
Wait a minute — could this be another skewed pleasure, whereby a man is sentenced to fuck every other hour into the future? Is this yet another test to see just how long this so-called waterman might be willing or able to swim against this current? Then again, such a task might be manageable and doesn’t really seem so bad with such a... such a...
What?
What was that?
Well, as a matter of fact it’s exactly what it sounds like — footsteps in size twelve — and what it feels like — coitus interruptus, which muddles the poignant and pertinent question of incessant demand relative to enjoyment.
A few days from the present, difficult moment, Ravid will learn that in fact he and his partner in communion had not suffered interruptus but rather reservatus, sustaining insertion of tab A into slot B, even as tab A threatened to become noodle C and slide hopelessly from the soup. This compromising in flagrante was not by design but rather flash frozen onto the little landscape much as lightning will still all life in the immediate vicinity of the strike.
In the actual moment, several scenarios — and lives — flash before Ravid’s eyes. They all begin with jumping out of bed, pulling on his pants, grabbing his shirt and fleeing. They vary in destination — he could flee back under the covers into safety if not all the way to snug harbor; or he could flee under the bed, out the back door, into the wardrobe, out the side window if the window opens — surely it must open — or even out the front door.
Oh, hello, how do you do? Beautiful morning, yes? No?
Though numerous, the potential directions take split seconds to review and resolve, approximately equal to the time Moeava takes to assess the flip-flops on his front porch. But who is to say this man with the huge feet is her husband? Maybe he’s her brother, or cousin, or lodger. Or gardener. She said she had a garden. These possibilities take another two seconds.
Then the interloper is inside, a silhouette much bigger than his shoes would indicate, big in the head, the neck, the arms, shoulders, belly, butt, thighs and calves, with a thickness common to Polynesian poi cultures, a uniform girth coming from genetics through the ages and poi from infancy onward, because the taro root is a tuber of complex carbohydrates and also the key to survival from infancy in many tropical climes.
At this juncture of the life/death interface, the big man stares at the two people in bed under the sheet, which are presumably his bed and his sheet, the two people presumably naked, one of the people likely his wife, who opens the bidding boldly. “For eighteen years I care for him, and to this day I care for him still, but for what, so he can act the fool and try to kill himself?”
But to whom does she speak? To the big man? In the third person?
“Care for me still?” he asks.
“Nothing happened here. This boy will tell you. I wanted it to happen but could not bear to ruin what we had. I’m leaving it for you to ruin.”
“What we had?”
“Yes. We had a home. Each other, till you threw everything out the window. We live in Paradise, but you chase a fool’s fantasy. You live in a fool’s paradise, which is foolish.”
“You don’t know where I was.”
“Trying to swim across Cook’s Bay to claim your nasty little prize is where you was. Postponing again because you are afraid is where you was. Doubting the delivery of the little biddy hen is where you was.”
“Was not.”
“Oh, but you was. You know it. I know it. This boy knows it. So don’t deny it. You have been caught red-handed. So be a man, not afraid, like you was all night!”
It’s not hutzpa but chutzpa, with a guttural cchhh up front. And while it’s both Hebrew and Yiddish, it also converts to any language or culture among those people who have it. Hereata has it. In a classic demonstration of chutzpa, she is naked in bed with a non-spouse, engaging in sexual copulation at the moment of apprehension. This is the classic set up, with the practitioner dead to rights guilty, just as the sky is blue and sunrise occurs in the morning not the evening. The chutzpa begins with her accusation that the intruder is the actual culprit, caught red-handed himself in a violation as tangible as the prima facie right here before us, though we may be confused on the prima facie in this dim morning light. Worse yet, the intruder’s infraction is obviously more damning, by virtue of the accuser’s sheer momentum. With the non-spouse’s dingdong still inserted in the seemingly culpable woman, this demonstration may be called extreme chutzpa. Success may depend on the sustained momentum of the practitioner, along with peripheral pressure, in this case a suggestion of fear in the intruder, who is a man otherwise prone to low-grade machismo. The causal reference to fear is not incidental but pivotal to the success of the chutzpa; quick access to potential peripherals and bold use of them are part and parcel of chutzpa, especially in the extreme.
Moeava hangs his head and asserts with humility, more quietly this time, “I was not afraid.”
The successful practitioner will allow no slack, however, on the reverse accusation: “Oh, you were afraid. Otherwise, you would not be here. You would still be drip-drying on your way to the chicken coop to claim your favorite parts.” To Ravid, she laughs, “He’s a breast and thigh man.”
“I was not afraid. It was windy. And choppy. I was smart.”
“It’s windy and choppy every time you try. Why that?”
Ravid’s breathing is labored as he shrinks an inch and backs another, as the salamander retreats from its lair and the big, sad man turns to go. In half an excruciating minute the intruder is outside again, his size twelve footfall diminishing back to where it came from, down the dirt road.
She rolls over with a laugh, “Did you see that?” She reaches for the once obtrusive member, but all is apparently lost.
Ravid covers himself. “No. No more. Please. That was your husband, for God’s sake.”
“No! Husband? No! Not my husband. I already told you that. I cared for him. Like a son is how I raised him. Did. No more. He gave this up. This! So he could risk his life for one little fick with that skinny little putain. Do I need a man like that around here? A man who insults me? A man who throws my experience and wisdom out the window? A man who has less regard for the most important person in his life than for one little rooster spit, because I tell you that is all he would get. Then he would get the no, no, no, I have a headache, no more, not now, s’il-te-plaît. No. I need more than that. And less. Now come here!”
“It’s different, though. You say you raised him like a son. You must see it from his point of view: You cared for him, but it’s two different kinds of love.”
“Who do you think knows more about the subject of love? You? I don’t think so. A son was never raised with more love than Moeava got from me. I mean love, you crazy man. You’re all alike. You think of one thing only. Now come here.”
“No.”
Her most solicitous smile is a tad grotesque in first light, especially when interrupted by a yawn. Defiantly radiant, she beams with the dawn, though her brand new day is already long in the tooth. Revealing experience, spirit and moderate dental care in equal measure, she inhales the wonder of it all. Or is that great gape an indication of appetite? Looking hungry as a hippo, she laughs, most likely at herself, so sleepy and horny all at once, first thing. Can you imagine? Then she moves in with compelling confidence, with a game spirit and persistence as fresh as during their first volley, as if the night had not yet passed.
But it has. Her sleepy-time amusement makes no difference to a man played out. She eggs him on, but he’s up and out to the porch and off to the left side, dazed and doubtful as to just how this beautiful new day will gain the fresh aspect that every day deserves.
She waits inside for her turn, wearing the same dress as last night, which she hikes up on the way into a squat, aiming as expertly as ever a woman could. He turns politely away in third world etiquette, where courtesy is primary, along with practicality, and where cleanliness is functional and far more efficient. Just so, she pours water into a basin and splashes it on her face. She brushes her teeth, calling out that he’s welcome to share.
Back inside she visits the mirror and with a few quick strokes of the brush and lipstick, she’s ready — and able to generate second thoughts on the morning go. But he’s had his fill and sees her in new perspective, free of hormones in the light of day. Yes, she’s an excellent woman, but no man needs sexual liaison with every excellent woman he knows — especially now, after so many goes in such a short time, which makes a man worldly and wise, and so much easier to bear.
Besides, it’s far better in some cases, like this one, to proceed as friends. Her contacts in tourism and in her high-end hotel will be a giant step on his way to livelihood. He laughs as they step down from the porch — laughs at this most recent curve on the road of life, unexpected, not to be repeated, but all in all enjoyable, relaxing, helping in the arrival process and all that. Which is not to say that you just can’t beat a nice piece o’ pussy for making a man feel at home, but then whatever it means to say is hard for the hospitable woman to construe. She may well think she suffers on the morning after. Maybe his laughter in the light of day is aimed at her; she is so obviously awkward and plump and, yes, suddenly aware that her dress is inside out. She shuffles along to the main road in her beat-up high heels, her dress refusing to properly adjust, riding up one shoulder and sliding down the other as she turns to assure him that nothing here is funny.
With a straight face and polite concern he asks as a friend, “You said your, uh, man was after...one little fick?”
“No, I did not. I said Moeava was after the fick. He’s not my man. That’s what I said. You heard it wrong, but you got the point correctly. What he’s after is less than one little slice of the cake you had last night.”
“Is that the delusion or the curse? I mean on her part, the dancing girl’s. That she’ll give herself, but only once?”
“I’m not an attorney. You’ll have to ask her. But do you really think you’d be happy eating the neck and the feet once you had the breasts and thighs? Do you really think she could satisfy anyone like I can?”
Ravid gazes back in wonder and with new perspective on her primal force. He concedes, “No. I don’t think she could provide the same as you.”
“Then tell me something: Why do you ask? Why do you ask not one hour after giving up your stuff for the fourth time in one night? Four times! Why?”
Well, it was actually only three, but who’s to quibble? Ravid stifles a smile under his blush, which she could easily take as flattery, as indisputable evidence of her womanly power, and it is, till he playfully says: “Because I can swim that bay.”
She stops and turns to him. She slowly nods. “Yes. I think you can. Over and back, after sunset and before dawn.” She scrutinizes him, as if for blemishes or other defects that might help level the playing field.
On the main road a few cars pass, though fewer people stare at the odd couple roadside. Ravid feels relief on the one hand, processing this new day in a new life of days with normal, French values, in which people have sexual relations followed by friendly discussion on the side of the road, and this too is natural. On the other hand, he wonders if among the passers-by may be someone in a position to remember him when he goes to apply for a job. But that concern is only residual baggage from his old home and its culture of constraint and dishonesty, where nosy people took note of many things in no greater context than gaining grist for the gossip mill.
She steps toward him, bright and blissful again, on a new tack. With her loving arm around him, and writhing slowly, she says, “God is my witness. I will make you a promise. I hereby pledge to fuck you four more times in one night when you swim the bay and back. Not before. Don’t worry if you think you can’t, not the swim but the other. I have ways, as you well know.”
“Hey. I was joking. I have no intention of swimming that bay, at night or any time.”
“You don’t want to fuck me four times?”
Is this a loaded question? “What I meant is that I don’t want to swim the bay.”
She turns back to the steep shoulder to continue the walk to work. “We shall see.”
In a while they reach the hotel steps they descended under blustery clouds and sparse moonlight only hours ago. Now the steps appear dry and cracked, chipped and stained, leading the way up to another day’s work in a once lavish hotel now in need of paint, some new siding, a fascia replacement near the gable peak and a general sprucing.
She takes his hand like she did on the dark road last night, though the path is easy to follow here in broad daylight. It’s a hotel lobby. How many routes can there be? Well, she’s showing off her catch as any angler would, and though he doesn’t feel caught, exactly, he wiggles inside like a hapless fish. He doesn’t want the point ’n shoot from last night anymore; he only wants to be back in the safe and silent confines of his cheap room across from Taverua.
“Come.” She opens the office, easily finds the computer switch, turns it on, starts the printer, plugs in the camera and waits. Fidgeting with a loose thread, she realizes that it leads to an exposed seam, and she remembers. “My God. I’m inside out.” She laughs like a schoolgirl, crossing her arms with both fists full of bottom hem, then raises her dress overhead for another revelation in the light of day. Pulling her tummy in and thrusting her chest out she titters, “Excuse me, please. I think you make me a little crazy.”
He shares her mirth, seeing her as fleshy and middle-aged and maybe good for another go at some point, but not any time soon. What’s the rush? No, it will be better to keep this friendship open, dynamic and free ranging.
Turning around, he steps between her and the big window on the lobby, as if to shield her from onlookers, but then he realizes that the people in the lobby are also French or under French influence. They think no differently of a woman whether she’s in a dress or out. The light from Hereata’s desk lamp reflects her image in the window, and he sees her splendid assets along with his own grubby self, unshaved, hair mussed. He further sees the need for tolerance and compassion in all parties this morning. He turns back with a smile to counterbalance his grubby look and says, “Let’s get coffee. Okay?”
“Okay. I almost have it.” She hits a few more commands and soon they have the photo of a reasonably groomed man beaming beside a beautiful dancer with two coconuts failing to constrain her breasts. “Psshh. Put that on my list. I have to see if we can fit her into some soup bowls instead. Ha!”
Soon they sit across from each other at a table in a part of the dining room not open to hotel guests, so it feels private and sweet, as if Cupid had these two honeymooners in mind and made some very special arrangements. “It’s one of the things you get when you are best of friends with the food and beverage manager. He’s not even here, but our friendship is very well known.” Ravid wonders how far back they go and laughs at himself for this brief tinge of curiosity that is not jealousy, because he’s free of that, and when you think about it, always has been.
So he won’t ask how far back the food and beverage guy goes but merely gazes serenely. “And the kitchen staff,” she smirks, scurrying on short steps to fetch a plateful of glorious little pastries and a pitcher of strong French coffee with a creamer of — what else? — cream. “They love me.”
Ravid moans as the caffeine pulls him to life and then some, to purpose and beyond, to happiness. “Mmm... That’s so good. Why do expensive hotels make the best coffee?”
She answers by gorging on a pastry; it’s only three inches across and brings a moan of its own, similar to that of a satisfied cow. “Mmm! Oui! C’est très, très bien!”
He takes a moment to inventory the many faces a new acquaintance may show and the time required to see them all. His forehead wrinkles as she stuffs loose crumbs in with her finger. She seems very happy, which is an easy emotion to be around.
“Hereata.”
“Mmm! You got it right! My name! You know my name!”
He acquiesces, “Of course I know your name. I hope you know mine. Do you know my name?”
“Mmm...” she points to her full mouth, chews and swallows. “Mais oui. Tu t’appelles Raaaa Veed!”
“Okay. You can call me Ravid.”
“Okay.”
“Hereata. Do you know the recreation manager? Does the hotel have a dive boat?”
“We have a boat, but we don’t own the boat. We use the boat. Why you want to know?”
“I want to get a job. That’s what I do. I take tourists diving from a boat.”
“Ah. Yes. I remember. Yes. I know the dive program manager, who is also the boat captain. You met him, very briefly, but I’m sure he will remember you.”
“I did? You mean last night?”
“No. Not last night. This morning. Moeava is the manager. Or the captain. It’s his boat.”
Ravid’s rueful smile is aimed at his continental breakfast. Moments ago it seemed remarkable for its exquisite blend of simple ingredients — sugar, flour, butter and a masterful touch. Now the dough balls slump, gooey and sickeningly sweet. He looks up with regret and loss. She touches his hand, and assures him that Moeava’s boat is the biggest and fastest dive boat around, with the best reputation and a full manifest daily from the best hotels, whose guests are more likely to tip most handsomely.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because!” She takes his hand in both of hers. “It will be the very best boat for you.”
“But he’s your husband!”
“My husband? Tu es bête, mon pauvre Ravid. He is my son.”
“Your son? But he’s... What?”
“What? He’s my son. What what? Believe me, no son wants to see his mother do what I did for you, but he wasn’t made to watch, and besides, every son wants to see his mother satisfied, so she can relax and calm down and be nice for the people around her. You did that for me. And for him. So why should you not have a job on my son’s boat, after what you did for the whole family, after all?”
Ravid’s slow nod indicates difficult acceptance of the strange ways of random events; they seem so inevitable, so much a result of prior events. Another cup of rich coffee underscores the meaning of the moment, and a big bite of pastry tastes like it did only moments ago. She watches him till he laughs and asks, “Does he need somebody like me?”
“Mais oui! Of course, we need somebody like you! I thought I just told you that. I’m not saying that I haven’t been nice, but it’s been difficult, with that strange little female taunting him with her little parsley patch. I know it’s not my place to tell him what not to do or chase at his age, but I can’t help it. I’m his mother, after all. Not that I would care a fig, but I worry for his safety. Who needs to swim a bay at night if they don’t need to?”
The short answer is nobody, unless he does need to swim a bay at night because it’s the only route to feasting on the sparse parsley of his dreams. Moeava could be nineteen or thirty, but ignorance may be bliss on this one — and the better part of salvation. What if he’s thirty-five? He looks to be thirty-five from some angles, which would make Hereata thirteen at the time of his birth. Unless he’s thirty-five and she had him when she was twenty.
“Come. Finish. I have a cot in my office.”
Ravid takes a brief moment to register her meaning and intention, causing his eyes to bulge over his bulging cheeks. Not to worry, she reaches across to ruffle his hair with great good cheer. “Hey. I’m joking. You rest. Okay? Till later. Later tonight. Okay? Maybe this afternoon, if I can get off early, you know, but don’t worry, even if I can’t. We’ll get an early start tonight so you can get your rest. I know you are tired, and really, my needs are very simple — I already have a job and a place to live, unlike you. I need only love, which isn’t always simple, but it can be. It should be. I think you may be l’homme gentil to make it so. Maybe you will see. You know the French know so much when it comes to simplicity. I am not French. I am Tahitian, but the influence is unavoidable. You know?”
“I can only imagine.” He smiles with resignation: Whether facing big seas or demanding women, his life will endure these challenges, or it won’t. At least the choice this time will not be life threatening. Will it?
He sighs with the fatigue a young man should not feel in the evening or morning after caffeine and sugar, unless he’s already dead but doesn’t yet know it. But this isn’t that. This is simply fatigue, a demoralizing failure to motivate because futility is standing on his throat. He’ll know when he’s dead, because then he won’t fear anything. Then he might wish for another fuckfest at Hereata’s. He laughs short at the other prospect remaining to the living, of begging off more sex in deference to exhaustion, in favor of sleep. But the words won’t come, as if they too sense an indefatigable force.
She ruffles his hair again, her strong fingers moving deftly into a scalp massage, as if to knead the worries away. Then comes the other hand, moving about the vessel of too many thoughts, squeezing and rubbing till thought and worry are set aside. In a minute she takes his hand and tells him they can still catch Moeava at the dock, if they hurry.
Ravid follows like a good pup — or a fogbound man with fuzzy cognizance that momentary drift may be incidental to the course plotted on the big chart.
But few courses lead to nowhere. Her son? The best boat around? He shoos sand flies and pesky doubts. She squeezes his hand. He feels awkward and untrue, fulfilling a fantasy for her that cannot last. But these steps feel necessary — they are without alternative — and they may be harmless. So why not?
The picture perfect morning is charged with energy and scudding clouds nose to tail to the north and the south, linked weakly with distant squalls that hardly threaten; they’re so far away on the far rim of the deep blue dome, with aquamarine out front. Flat as a slowly cooled soufflé, the bay undulates with no froth, ruffles or wispy cat’s paws. The surface shimmers and clears on darting cardinalfish just below, along with other species carousing in the water column and close to the reef that borders this eastern side of the bay. He laughs short again, resigned to magic and autonomy in many things.
“What? Tell me what is funny.”
Swim this bay? I could drift this bay. “Nothing is funny. I only laugh at how things go.”
“Yes. It will go.” She squeezes his hand. Hers is now damp, but she won’t let go for the walkway past the over-water bungalows. “Eight hundred dollars US per night,” she says, waiting for his eyebrows to rise. “Plus a hundred dollars per day per person for meals.” Here too is a dramatic pause. “Plus tax.” She laughs. “This tax and that tax. And the other tax.”
He’s not interested in luxurious accommodation because he’ll not soon move in those circles and fortunately doesn’t want to; it’s lucky that he prefers the squalid fundamentals up the road, across from Taverua and the shallow reef there. Surely she senses his simple tastes —
“We can stay here,” she says with a squeeze to underscore the fun times ahead, as if to assure: You are not yet dead, and this is no dream but the true Paradise, which is different than the one you fled...
Turning from the top-drawer bungalows they walk the shoreline past the hotel grounds and across a vacant lot to a dock with a scuba shack at the end. The boat sits opposite the shack, across the dock. Moeava is aboard, sorting lines, shackles, bumpers, anchors and the endless hardware of boating. She stops short with another squeeze and leans intimately close to moan, “Nous sommes ici. Bonne chance, mon amour.”
When she steps back and beams, he asks, “You’re not coming along? To introduce me?”
“No. You are a man. He is a man. You make your introduction. He will hear you. He will see. No need for Mommy. No more.”
That’s not what you said when he wanted to swim the bay for skinny pussy. “Yes. Okay. If you think it best.”
Moeava stops arranging so he can better watch the lovers up the dock. She takes her leave without a kiss, leaving Ravid relieved and alone with nothing to lose. Anyone with sea time knows that if the best boat doesn’t work out, there’s always another best boat in need of services.
No sweat, except for the beads forming in their usual places. And rolling. It’s last night’s liquor and hardly any sleep and general stress, not to mention the strange bed and aftermath of a woman of indeterminate but advancing age and boundless effusions. Hereata’s heart is big, with largesse to match.
Though here she leaves me to face the fiddler alone.
I’m really in no mood for this.
Ah, well, it’s time to buck up and face the future, which is here and now, its moments falling away wasted, into the past, even as we contemplate the first day of the rest of my life and all that blah, blah, blah. Okay, time for a first impression — no sweat, figuratively speaking, but what the hell; it’s hot. Every tomato on this rock is sweating under Sol’s big grin. Never mind. This is it, new life on a chance, first dots connecting, something to separate a man of potential from a loser. Make the best of it.
So Ravid drags a hand across his forehead and through his hair. Given a choice he’d shower and change, and a major morning dump wouldn’t be too bad and will demand attention directly, but not right now. Right now it’s focus on opportunity and adaptability. Besides, few people notice grooming details as much as the person who’s missed his shower and toothbrush. Imagining a telltale scent is merely a symptom of anxiety; nobody knows what his mother’s estrus smells like, except maybe in deep psychiatric terms, but even that is sheer mentality, because it can’t be smelled any more than it was back then. Besides that, this won’t be the first job interview to happen on the fly, and adaptation succeeds when the self and its petty foibles are forgotten.
Confidence is second nature for anyone with potential, especially anyone with sea time and firsthand experience in freedom, beauty, blue skies, sunshine and a wealth of stimulation that converts to no other currency...
There. That’s the stuff.
Besides, many frogs stink and don’t brush. So? “Hello. Bonjour,” he offers, a few steps out.
“Hello.” Moeava is ponderous and soft-spoken, his movement and attitude those of a grazer. Ravid wonders if mermaids have sons. Moeava’s downcast eyes indicate humility verging on shyness, or maybe he’s focused on the line he coils, so it will lay precisely, with no twists, in coils of consistent diameter. A waterman sees. A waterman knows that coiling can occur in the dark — during sleep, if you will — though from time to time it’s not a bad thing to watch. So maybe it’s shyness along with uncertainty. Why else would Moeava be coiling a bow line when the stern isn’t even tied off?
Ravid knows the difference between American and French, between gregarious cheer and a casual meeting with the man who bagged Mom last night. As if pathological timidity is not enough for the big man to bear, here is the ultimate obtrusion on the family scene.
Moeava is more palpably powerful in the clear light of day. Big as most big men get, he casts a bigger shadow. He’s obviously young, hardly twenty-five. Certainly not forty.
“Your mother is a character,” Ravid offers. Moeava’s smile tweaks up or down; it’s hard to tell which. “She’s a lovely woman,” Ravid clarifies, ready to lead the younger man through the social graces to the clearing just yonder, where mutual benefits might await a dive boat and a dive instructor.
“Do you love her?”
A seasoned waterman is acutely familiar with sudden challenge, yet he gasps, clearing his regulator, as it were, blurting, “Well, we only just... I mean, I think she... She’s...certainly...”
“She’s not my mother.”
“Oh... I thought she was...you know. I mean, I assumed...” She may be an aunt, or maybe the big boy was adopted, or maybe she simply raised him, one of the surrogate or hanai parents common to tropical latitudes. At least we’re past the brambles. Now we let the path open gently; don’t force it. That’s how a thicket is penetrated with minimal thorny scratches.
“She likes to tell people she’s my mother. But she’s not. She likes for people to think she’s younger. But she’s not my mother.” Moeava drops the last two coils and stares down at them, as if daring them to twist again on the recoil.
“You can’t blame her for taking the credit. It’s not easy raising a son.”
“I told you, I’m not her son. She’s my nana — my grandmother. I’m her grandson. It’s different.”
“Ah... Yes...”
“What is it that you want?”
Well, this is not the clearing just yonder, unless it is, and we arrived on a bold step. The terse question warrants a straight answer. “A job.” Moeava looks puzzled. “I’m a dive instructor.”
“You have no job?”
“No,” Ravid laughs with the humorless and humbling deference of applicant to potential employer. “I only arrived yesterday. I want to work.”
Moeava smiles, equidistant from mirth. “I think you work fast, no?”
Ravid shrugs off the apparent implication that the humble applicant hustled a quick piece of pussy from the potential employer’s grandmother. Best ignore any unfortunate reference and focus on the task at hand: “Fast, slow; it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you have to go fast — like now, with these squalls pressing in.” Ravid nods up to the clouds, as if Moeava hasn’t seen them. “They’re closer than a few minutes ago. They close very slowly, so you won’t notice their approach. They’re feeding but don’t want to look hungry. You’ve seen it many times. In a few minutes or an hour or two they may move away, or they may bump and pounce. So, what can you do?”
Ravid feels good, showing his stuff with insight, experience and a cool head, yet he doubts this giant lump will comprehend subtlety or threat. Moeava fairly stares, perhaps wondering what he can do, or should do. He breathes with his mouth open, which seems natural in a big man, for more air intake, but it does make him look dim; and the heavy lower lip hanging lower still from its own weight doesn’t exactly help. “What I got to do?”
Ravid shrugs. “You got a boat load of paid divers, you want to get them in the water, you know, so the cash register can sing its little song. You know, cha-ching cha-ching?” Moeava gets it now. He smiles at the sound of money. Ravid sprinkles water wisdom on their new understanding: “Sometimes, blue sky, sunshine, flat seas, a few big tippers on board, you go slow. The important thing, fast or slow, is safety with attention to detail. You want to make the most money fast without losing more money even faster.”
The big head nods. “I think you are right. I think you have experience in this area. I saw you, with your attention to detail. I saw you with my nana. For her, I wish happiness, but if she chooses you, it’s for her to have those concerns. My concern is for what is mine. Cosima is mine. Mine to love. Mine to have. Not for you. Mine. Do you see this as clearly as you see what serves you?”
Ravid shrugs with indifference for the meshugena putain with the little parsley patch who now stands between him and livelihood. He shrugs again to indicate his innate independence. Which is not to say that the big man or any man can take his job and shove it up his ass, but only to remind a potential employer that Ravid Rockulz is required to take no affront without a response in kind.
He is, above all, a natural man — a man of integrity — who speaks truth to power, or to potential employment at any rate. So he ditches the deference if not the grace and makes his best effort to set the big man straight. “I’m not interested in taking what is yours. Or what you think might be yours. I’m interested in a job — not any job but a job on a boat. I’m told your operation is one of the best.”
“You’re too old for her.”
“You’re too fat for her.”
Moeava steps up. “I am not fat. Not too fat.”
“Then why don’t you swim the bay?”
“I will swim the bay.”
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”
“Okay. I’ll still help you. I’ll give you a week to swim the bay. I won’t even try. If you can’t do it by one week from today, I’ll do it — backstroke. Okay?”
“What is it that you want?”
“A job.”
Moeava looks down, burdened by a new worry, a new challenge. He looks up. “How can you help me swim? You can’t help me. I still have to swim.”
“Why haven’t you done it?”
“I will do it.”
“You haven’t done it for one of two reasons. The first is that you can’t, because you’re not a good swimmer. The second reason is fear. That’s what your...nana said. I heard it.”
“I am not afraid!” Here Moeava yells on another step forward, underscoring his fear along with his ability and willingness to crush it, especially if its source is the skinny fellow before him. He still grasps the coiled bow line in one hand, as if the boat is a dog on a leash.
“Tell me, Moi... Moiv...”
“Moeava.”
“Tell me, Moeava: What creatures live in this bay?”
Moeava’s eyebrows rise quickly, then collapse inward on the crux of the situation. “Creatures? We got...fish.”
“Shark?”
Moeava nods gravely.
“Big shark?”
Moeava tilts his head with gaining gravity.
“Tiger?”
Moeava pumps a single nod. Ravid smiles. “Mano.”
“Why you laugh?”
“I no laugh. I mean, I’m not laughing. Mano is my guide.”
“Mano?”
“Shark.”
“Ah. Ma’o.”
“Yeah, her.”
“What you mean, guide?”
Ravid shrugs, tentative as any reflective person will be on the meaning of spirit. “Spirit guide.” He smiles again, though his brow bunches. “Ma’o is scary, yeah? But...not to worry...”
“Yeah. You no worry.” Moeava walks the coiled line to a dock cleat, where he’ll need to uncoil it in order to tie it off. Moreover, he moves away from his skinny tormentor, as if perfunctory tasks are easy two at a time.
“I worry too, like you do. Because I sometimes forget to have faith. The faith is the hard part. You know Ma’o is around, so you want to be scared. Ma’o is a scary fish. That’s the catch — if you get scared, Ma’o will get you. You no scared, Ma’o leave you be.”
Moeava nods again in concession to fear and understanding. He looks up at the dirty scud piling closer in ominous grays, gunmetal to ashen, like predators cautiously gathering, circling, seeking weakness or death, or an opening to test with a nudge or a little taste.
Then he comes back down to sea level and the feisty little squall before him. “You no scared?”
“I was. I was so scared I used up all my fear. Not too long ago. That’s when it doesn’t matter what you remember or believe, because Mano — Ma’o — will be your friend. You must not doubt your experience, or you’ll spend your whole life doing it wrong again.”
“Why you want to tell me Ma’o your friend?”
“Everybody wants a friend, no? Besides, you run shark dives, don’t you? You make money on Ma’o. He takes care of you, doesn’t he? So why shouldn’t you like him?”
“Black tip on shark dive. I not scared of him.”
“It’s all the same, but... It goes deeper than that. The idea is, well...” Ravid wonders if this interview will best be served by esoteric bantering, by pressing what is apparently a sensitive issue relative to fear and lust. “...kindred spirits,” he says at last, looking up to see Moeava’s face skewed in perplexity, along with the ominous presence overhead, closing on a romp.
Cats’ feet scurry and a water witch rushes out of nowhere, fifty yards or a half mile away or both, here and there in moments, ten or fifty feet in diameter, whipping froth like an egg beater, reaching skyward a thousand feet. The swirling dervish has enough huff to blow your house down and blow the rubble away. Hats are foregone, gone in the melee of dust and debris. Moeava yells something in French or Tahitian that sounds like gibberish but doesn’t need translation with the stern bucking and swinging. Moeava squeezes the bow line in both hands even as it slides between them. He crabwalks toward the cleat, where he should have taken a wrap twenty minutes prior — the wrap that would spare his boat from drifting free for a few brief moments before foundering on the rocky banks running north and south out of the little cut around the dock.
By the time Moeava reaches the cleat he has a handful of line but can’t gain purchase. Nor can Ravid fend off the stern quarter, which he reaches by running past Moeava to the end of the dock, where impact seems certain. Ravid does meet the rub rail with both hands in time to dull the thud in the same brief moment that Moeava loses his last inch. So the bow swings free and away as the stern rounds into the dock — between two pylons so the outboard leg and prop aren’t crushed. Ravid fends again, this time grasping the cap rail behind the engine, just as a fat, steep wave with no fetch crests on its way over the starboard rail and dumps a few tons of water on deck. It could be six inches deep or ten, yet she still floats level — inches from the dock. The fluky gusts round the compass, lifting the boat, so Ravid’s tenuous grip on the stern is wrenched free — after the non-skid gelcoat skids across his palms, raking flesh. Ouch, but later — sooner Ravid follows the next wave aboard, jumping from the dock to topple into the wash on deck. With instant sea legs, he sloshes and rabbit hops to the console and, as luck and life in the new neighborhood would have it, finds the key in the ignition.
Moeava yells again, no doubt something about starting the engine. Ravid can only assume as much, hoping that some things are common to many small boats, such as that the first key position gives the little beep to indicate electronic cycling, and the second position will engage the starter, just like the key on a rust bucket Toyota Tercel that started first time every time, until...
“Aarrrgghh!” Ravid’s excitement is not based on nostalgia for the dreamy old car. It signals a complete circuit, which is not the same as full circle but delivers voltage with a touch of irony rather than a sense of fulfillment. That is, the deck is submerged, so the boat’s batteries are immersed at the same depth as Ravid’s ankles. The perfect conductor sends twelve volts up both legs on each turn to the second position, which may be bearable in short bursts but still elicits the startling complaint.
Moeava yells back, presumably orders that Ravid should stand on something, which Ravid does. So the boat starts up within ten feet of the northern rocky embankment. Forward gear chunks in on a thousand rpm, pulling the stern another ten inches down for what could be the final poop and sinking. Heavy torque on the low could sink the stern, already dangerously low — never mind. Ravid eases the throttle till the prop grabs gently, and the little boat growls to the open bay.
Which is a bright spot on a brand new day, hailed by the sudden collapse of the waterspout. Clouds cleave. Blue sky pours again through the fissures. The sun slides into every opening and Cook’s Bay lies down flat like glass — wrinkled glass, maybe, but still a thing of beauty.
So ends the job application, with Ravid at the helm, tooling out from Moeava’s dock for a victory lap of a mile radius or so, hardly joyriding but allowing drainage through scuppers that need time and movement to empty so much water. Coming back around for the approach, he throttles down fifty yards out, finds neutral, jumps to the bow to shag the bow line and lead it back to the helm, where he bumps the stick briefly into reverse. Easing expertly up to the dock he tosses the line casually to Moeava as the vessel gently kisses the rubber tires dockside.
Back on the dock, he rigs the stern line quick and snug as a doggie roper. He hates that imagery but can’t help tying off a perfect half hitch and throwing his hands in the air, not so much to stop the clock but to demonstrate proper seamanship as it relates to vessels at a dock with dock lines waiting to be secured. The clock has only just begun.
Ravid rises and turns to Moeava, who waits with as little emotion as he’s shown so far — till he changes on a lunge, grabbing Ravid’s hand for a vigorous shake, then pulling Ravid in for a bear hug. Ravid holds his breath, wondering if overbearing affection runs in the family. Not that affectionate displays are a bad thing. They are abused to a fault in the hipper urban core, but more demonstrations of affection would likely make the world a better place. Because humans busy hugging each other aren’t out destroying nature. Then again, one thing leads to another, and next thing you know, it’s another spike in population density, unless it could all be same-sex affection.
Stop that.
Thus the beautiful morning is replete with heroism and reflection.
But what’s this? Come on. Enough is enough. Do we really need to go through this little python-on-rabbit routine?
Breaking free, Ravid sees that Moeava’s focus is elsewhere, out in the bay, but not too far.
The thing about a dorsal fin on the surface is that it rarely measures the fish. Sightings are rare, so most people have no basis in experience. Is the fin completely exposed? Or is it only teasing the surface?
This particular dorsal looks about average, maybe ten inches, indicating a young adult in the seven-foot range. Moeava says, “There. Là-bas. Your friend.”
Ravid nods, watching the fish swim a lazy circle, angling toward the dock. “Moeava. You know what this means? How many times have you seen a fin like that? This is contact. This is aumakua, brother. On the day of our reckoning. Can’t you see it? Or feel it?”
“I see it. I see it every day. Now you want me to go swim with that guy?”
“Every day? You see her every day?”
The shark rounds closer, coming in from under the reflective sheen. “Ooohhh.” Moeava emits a guttural mumble on seeing that only the dorsal tip is above the surface. Then he moans, setting up a tremble.
“Bigger than I thought. Maybe eleven feet. Maybe twelve. Maybe fourteen. You want to count all the way to the tip of the tail. Maybe fifteen.”
Moeava steps back when the big fish cruises by at spitting distance. “Not every day. Three, four times every week.”
The shark rolls ninety degrees to show a flank and her bottom. “Moeava. I’ve never had it this close. She’s beautiful. Look at her skin. She’s in perfect condition.”
“Why you say ‘she?’”
“Look. No nuts. A male tiger that big would have nuts two feet long. Hey. Tell me you don’t feel it.”
“Oh. I feel him.”
“You got to admit, seeing this shark isn’t nearly as scary as being in the water and imagining her and not seeing her.”
“Oh, yeah. This is not scary. We standing on a dock. Hey, your own self. Why you not go swim with your good friend.”
Ravid covers like a politician, with a hearty laugh. “I think we will one day, my friend.”
“You crazy.”
“Yeah, well. I heard that before.”
“Why you wait?”
“I’m telling you what I believe. I believe she is my friend. I don’t know that for certain, because staring at faith and questioning its basis is the cause of fear. And that’s what we’re doing. Get it? That’s what makes us young men — we still have things to learn. That’s why they call it faith, because you don’t know. You can’t know. This is something I want to have. But if I’m wrong, I want to die with a job.” The big shark cruises south along the rocky embankment, lazily lolling, on the scenic route with no agenda. “See her easy rocking. She’s not afraid or hungry. She’s enjoying life. Everyone does sooner or later. You believe that, don’t you?”
Moeava nods, sanguine at last. “I still think you crazy. Okay. Interview over. You get the job.”
“Thank you. But...what job? You mean dive leader?”
“Yeah. That job. And you be captain too.”
“But I thought...”
“No. I just learning. Better you be captain. You show me what to do. I be crew.”
“But Here...herae...”
“Hereata.”
“Yes. Hereata said this is the best dive boat on the island.”
Moeava smiles. “Ah, oui.” He shrugs. “What else can she say? She is my mother in all things.”
So the two men agree that Ravid will begin the following day, assuming that the hotel will book passengers in the meantime. This will give Ravid time to get his gear down to the dock and to rest after his long travels and longer vigils seeking employment on the island of his dreams. If the hotel — meaning Hereata — cannot find paying passengers on such short notice, they’ll go for a practice dive, though it’s obvious that two inveterate waterdogs like these need no practice. Never mind; all waterdogs who plan to run together want to check each other out, to see how they move, respond and relax in the water, each to see the comfort level and air consumption of the other.
Ravid wonders if Moeava’s comfort is actually level, nautically speaking. But Moeava must know how to run a boat. But then why would he fiddlefuck with a bow line at their first encounter, more like a wanna-be than seasoned crew? Then the boat got away from him on a flash squall blindside — so avoidable, so basic. But extreme squalls are rare, and it took Ravid by surprise too. Yet any waterdog who doesn’t know that shit happens hasn’t been wet for too long.
Well, Moeava can likely figure out what to do if something happens when Ravid is overboard with six tourists, like a flash squall or a dragging anchor or both. If the anchor drags, and Moeava doesn’t know squat, and the boat drifts faster on the surface in building seas than do divers at depth, and Ravid surfaces with six tourists, and they’re barely visible on the crests and invisible in the troughs...
Well, fuck it. This was your idea.
But why would a guy go out and get a boat and have it rigged for tanks and have a prime spot with a dock and a shack and all and not know how to run the operation?
These and other niggling anxieties mix with the gnats in the tepid downdraft, their little buzz blending with the ceiling fan. Ravid dozes, a subliminal smile spanning his dream, as he savors a homecoming replete with workaday worries over life and its optimal progression.
Won’t it be great in a year or two, looking back on these small problems, so manini and laughable in the context of the bigger picture?