cottage.
No surprise
. Maile’s feelings run deep. She doesn’t get over things quickly. And I have to admit—I hurt her. Kula is like a child of divorce, and I have visitation rights.
I walk around to the back yard and there he is—mane and feathering luminous in the sun. He glides toward me with the grace of a stallion. His blond lashes set off dark brown eyes.
Golden boy
. I open the gate and he sidles up to me.
“Hey, Kula.” I stroke his sunny fur. “Let’s hit the waves.”
He barks. His tail sweeps like a golden plume.
He’s stoked already
.
From Maile’s carport I fetch the tandem board on perpetual loan from my cousin Alika and strap it on my roof racks. Then Kula and I head for the surf. The retriever sticks his head out the window—fleecy ears flapping in the breeze. He’s got a big goofy smile on his face.
Dogs aren’t allowed in Waikīkī. That’s why we pull into Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park, to the uncrowded break called Flies. When Kula hears the waves crashing beyond the dune and smells the salt spray he goes ballistic. A boy after my own heart.
I grab the board and Kula prances over the dune to Flies, at the
Ewa
end of the park. I set the big board in the water and Kula steps onto the nose. He knows his spot. I hop on behind him and paddle toward the break.
The one and only surfer in the lineup this early on Sunday is gazing out to sea. In the distance he sees a set coming. He paddles for it. When the first shoulder-high roller reaches him, he’s on it.
I paddle into the spot he leaves behind. Another wave rolls in. I swing the tandem board around and point the nose toward shore. The retriever hunches on the nose. I paddle until I feel the rush of water under the board. The nose drops and the board takes on the steep pitch of the wave. I pop up, turn right, and try to stay in front of the curling lip. Kula balances as I trim the board, keeping his paws spread. He barks and barks.
What a rush!
When the wave fizzles and the board glides to a stop, I swing the nose around to paddle back into the lineup. Kula suddenly pitches into the water.
Oops
. He swims back like nothing happened, and I help him on. He stands on the deck on all fours and shakes. The salty spray flies all over me.
“Good boy, Kula.” I pat his wet fur.
He barks again. And doesn’t stop until I paddle back into the waves.
Kula’s a lucky dog. He almost died after his rescue. The guy who shot him, a pet thief named Spyder Silva, wasn’t so lucky. It’s a long story, but the short version is that the retriever was trying to protect Maile—held at gunpoint by Silva. When I saw Kula go down I pulled my Smith & Wesson on Silva. I had to answer to homicide detective Frank Fernandez. Ultimately Fernandez grudgingly agreed I’d acted in self-defense. I was in the clear. But Kula barely hung on. It took months for him to recover. Kula and Maile bonded around that experience. I should be glad she lets me take him surfing. But I’d be gladder if she’d talk to me.
While we wait for another wave I wonder again what I can possibly tell Ransom’s daughter, other than I’m sorry for her loss. I wonder even more why she wants to see me.
After Kula and I catch our fill of waves at Flies, I bathe, dry, and return him to Maile’s yard. Carrying cousin Alika’s tandem board back to her carport, I notice she’s home this time. I get bold and pop into her cottage to say thanks.
Maile’s three cats curled up on rattan chairs—Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo—barely crane their necks. They know me. Lolo, the shy calico, doesn’t even bolt. Scattered about the living room are Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow tennis balls, braided tug ropes—and food and water dishes inscribed with his name. He lives like a prince here.
Wish I did, too
.
Maile steps from her bedroom in her Nikes, running shorts, and sports bra. Seeing her tanned limbs and lovely curves again kind of smarts. I remember them too well.
Her face used to light
No surprise
. Maile’s feelings run deep. She doesn’t get over things quickly. And I have to admit—I hurt her. Kula is like a child of divorce, and I have visitation rights.
I walk around to the back yard and there he is—mane and feathering luminous in the sun. He glides toward me with the grace of a stallion. His blond lashes set off dark brown eyes.
Golden boy
. I open the gate and he sidles up to me.
“Hey, Kula.” I stroke his sunny fur. “Let’s hit the waves.”
He barks. His tail sweeps like a golden plume.
He’s stoked already
.
From Maile’s carport I fetch the tandem board on perpetual loan from my cousin Alika and strap it on my roof racks. Then Kula and I head for the surf. The retriever sticks his head out the window—fleecy ears flapping in the breeze. He’s got a big goofy smile on his face.
Dogs aren’t allowed in Waikīkī. That’s why we pull into Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park, to the uncrowded break called Flies. When Kula hears the waves crashing beyond the dune and smells the salt spray he goes ballistic. A boy after my own heart.
I grab the board and Kula prances over the dune to Flies, at the
Ewa
end of the park. I set the big board in the water and Kula steps onto the nose. He knows his spot. I hop on behind him and paddle toward the break.
The one and only surfer in the lineup this early on Sunday is gazing out to sea. In the distance he sees a set coming. He paddles for it. When the first shoulder-high roller reaches him, he’s on it.
I paddle into the spot he leaves behind. Another wave rolls in. I swing the tandem board around and point the nose toward shore. The retriever hunches on the nose. I paddle until I feel the rush of water under the board. The nose drops and the board takes on the steep pitch of the wave. I pop up, turn right, and try to stay in front of the curling lip. Kula balances as I trim the board, keeping his paws spread. He barks and barks.
What a rush!
When the wave fizzles and the board glides to a stop, I swing the nose around to paddle back into the lineup. Kula suddenly pitches into the water.
Oops
. He swims back like nothing happened, and I help him on. He stands on the deck on all fours and shakes. The salty spray flies all over me.
“Good boy, Kula.” I pat his wet fur.
He barks again. And doesn’t stop until I paddle back into the waves.
Kula’s a lucky dog. He almost died after his rescue. The guy who shot him, a pet thief named Spyder Silva, wasn’t so lucky. It’s a long story, but the short version is that the retriever was trying to protect Maile—held at gunpoint by Silva. When I saw Kula go down I pulled my Smith & Wesson on Silva. I had to answer to homicide detective Frank Fernandez. Ultimately Fernandez grudgingly agreed I’d acted in self-defense. I was in the clear. But Kula barely hung on. It took months for him to recover. Kula and Maile bonded around that experience. I should be glad she lets me take him surfing. But I’d be gladder if she’d talk to me.
While we wait for another wave I wonder again what I can possibly tell Ransom’s daughter, other than I’m sorry for her loss. I wonder even more why she wants to see me.
After Kula and I catch our fill of waves at Flies, I bathe, dry, and return him to Maile’s yard. Carrying cousin Alika’s tandem board back to her carport, I notice she’s home this time. I get bold and pop into her cottage to say thanks.
Maile’s three cats curled up on rattan chairs—Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo—barely crane their necks. They know me. Lolo, the shy calico, doesn’t even bolt. Scattered about the living room are Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow tennis balls, braided tug ropes—and food and water dishes inscribed with his name. He lives like a prince here.
Wish I did, too
.
Maile steps from her bedroom in her Nikes, running shorts, and sports bra. Seeing her tanned limbs and lovely curves again kind of smarts. I remember them too well.
Her face used to light
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