Maui

Excerpt

Maui
By Martin Delacroix

I came to Maui to heal my heart.

My partner of seven years, Christian, a pediatrician, had left me for another guy, a professional tennis player who earned ten times my teacher's salary and looked like a fashion model. The break-up was nasty, too. We owned our home and bank accounts jointly, our investments as well, and the whole thing ended up in court, an embarrassment for us both. I walked away with a five-figure check, my financed car, some clothes and books, and little else. After all, as the judge pointed out, Christian had been the moneymaker in our household.

I couldn't stay in Melbourne Beach, or anywhere in Florida, really. Too many memories, and I'd be close to Christian and his tennis player.

I've surfed since I was a kid, and a friend and fellow shredder, Andy Barnes, told me about Maui. "All kinds of breaks," he said, "from gentle to monster barrels, and the island's a freaking paradise."

I did Internet research on Maui. With a population of ten thousand, the town of Lahaina seemed my best choice. There were two public elementary schools and a Catholic academy. And if I couldn't find a teaching job, I would wait tables at one of the town's many restaurants.

My folks weren't happy with my decision.

"Ishmael," my mom said, "it's so far away. We'll only see you at Christmas."

But I had to leave.

Losing Christian had devastated me.

I'd met him at age twenty-two, shortly after I came out of the closet, and he was my first boyfriend. Five years my senior, he seemed wise and stable, just the sort of guy I wanted for a partner. And sex with him was unlike anything I'd experienced. Each time he took me in his arms, every time we made love, it was special. I felt I belonged to Christian, and he belonged to me, and I believed things would always remain that way.

When Christian told me of his tennis player, when he insisted we separate, I thought I would lose my mind. How could he do this? After telling me he loved me, he would cast me aside? Dump me because the tennis player was better looking and enjoyed a measure of fame?

I told myself, I could never do something like that.

"Christian's a selfish bastard," Andy Barnes said. "You're better off without him."

I took a leave of absence from my teaching job. After moving in with my folks, I spent weeks doing nothing but sleeping and crying in my bedroom. I lost interest in food and dropped twenty pounds; I looked like a scarecrow. Evenings, I sat before the television, drinking rum and cola 'til it was time to go to bed.

Andy got me out of the house and onto the water.

"Your life is not over," he told me, taking me by a forearm and literally dragging me out the door. We brought our boards to the break at Ocean Boulevard. The surf was firing. When I caught my first ride—when I carved the face of a wave—my despair lessened. The warm water, sunshine, and the roll of Atlantic swells soothed me. I knew—right then—that I must settle someplace tropical, a location with surf, but someplace far from Florida.

Maui was the someplace.

* * * * *

I rented a cottage in Lahaina from Jake Beckmann. His wife, Izumi, was Japanese. They'd met and married while Jake was stationed as a Marine in Okinawa, twenty-five years earlier. Jake worked at the Lahaina post office, and Izumi sold her watercolors at a shop on Front Street. Their son, Corey, age twenty-one, was a competition surfer, presently in Bali.

"It's nothing fancy," Jake said when he showed me the little dwelling.

But it was perfect for me.

Wood framed, with a pitched ceiling and exposed beams, the building had more windows than wall space. No glass in the openings, just screens and matchstick blinds, so Maui's ocean breezes bathed the rooms. Roof overhangs kept rain from getting in. Cabinets in the galley kitchen were stacked with Blue Willow dinnerware and jelly glasses. Pots and pans hung from nails above the stove. The living room furniture was rattan. The bedroom had a Formica bureau, a ladder back chair and a queen-size bed. The bathroom had a metal shower stall, a porcelain john and sink, and a medicine cabinet with a flecked mirror.

Izumi's paintings—framed in bamboo—hung in every room: waterfalls, beach scenes, coral rock fences with bougainvillea blossoms spilling over them. My favorite was a portrait of Corey Beckmann; it hung in the bedroom. In the picture, Corey wore only board shorts, and he sat on a stool, his head turned slightly to the side, his gaze fixed on something other than the artist. He looked to be eighteen. His physique was typical for a surfer that age: shoulder muscles like softballs, carved chest, narrow waist, and rippling abdominal muscles. His onyx hair was bushy and straight as straw. His cheekbones rode high, his eyes were almond-shaped, and a turned-up nose gave his face a pretty look.

All I could think was, Hot.

The cottage sat at the rear of the Beckmanns' privacy-fenced property, behind their ranch style home. A Royal Poinciana, its trunk as big around as a Parthenon column, shaded the grounds. Just outside the front door was a patio created with popcorn pavers, furnished with two wrought iron chairs and a table. Birds chirped overhead, and the Beckmanns' garden fountain gurgled.

Jake quoted the rent, and I gave him a check. No lease, just a handshake.

"Welcome to Maui," Jake said.

My first evening in residence, while I stir-fried chicken and vegetables, Izumi knocked on my door. She presented me with a lei made from plumeria blossoms. Petite and graceful, with dark eyes, Izumi smelled like gardenias. Looking back, I think she knew I'd suffered a recent loss, though how, I don't know. When she slipped the lei over my head, she whispered, "Aloha, Ishmael."

Then she kissed my cheek.

* * * * *

Paul Koa looked more like a professional wrestler than a grade school principal. He ducked his head while passing through a doorway, his shoulders brushing the jambs. Wearing a polo shirt and golf slacks, he entered the office reception room at King Kamehameha III School and extended his hand, speaking in a baritone that echoed off the cinder block walls.

"Mr. Fanning?"

I nodded and rose. "Please," I said, "call me Ishmael."

He grinned while we shook. "I take it your folks are Melville fans?"

We entered his private office. Open jalousie windows offered a view of Break Wall, a reef where several guys bobbed on surfboards. The ocean was turquoise, and sunlight reflected off the face of chest-high waves. Between the windows and the reef, a gaggle of coconut palms swayed in an afternoon breeze, fronds rubbing, making a sound like cards being shuffled.

Koa sat behind a desk made of teak. It was big as a Ping-Pong table, littered with file folders and spread sheets. I took a chair facing it. Overhead, fluorescent fixtures cast a glow, and a pair of ceiling fans clacked. Golf trophies shared a bookcase with varied texts and notebooks. On the wall behind him, Koa displayed his UCLA diploma.

The principal dipped his chin, hands crossed on his stomach, his brown eyes upon me. "The position isn't permanent and does not come with benefits. You'd be a long-term substitute, paid only for the hours you work."

"Understood."

He fingered one corner of my application, raising an eyebrow. "You're new to Maui?"

I nodded.

"How long will you stay?"

I raised a shoulder. "Indefinitely."

Koa rearranged himself and his chair squeaked. "I spoke with the principal at your last school."

"Katherine Bleeker?"

He nodded. "She hated losing you. Your evaluations were excellent and your students did well on their standardized tests."

I gazed at my lap and made a thin smile. I must drop Katherine a note.

"So," Koa said, "do you want the job?"