Chapter 4
The House
Hale: house, building, lodge, hall
Minnow stood on the porch wondering what kind of weirdness she had gotten herself into. Her beam swept across the inside of the house and she heard the scurry of rodent or insect somewhere in the dark recesses. A gust blowing in from behind stirred up the faint smell of decay and memories of the first time she had stepped foot in the old house on Southeast Farallon. This felt like a tropical version, but here she was alone. Hoping Nalu had changed his mind about leaving, she peered around the corner. But the crunch of rolling tires and taillights pulling away gave Minnow her answer.
There was one consolation, though. Upon closer inspection, she saw the house was, in actuality, all windows. It was also all one room, dormitory style, with a kitchen off to one side. Along three of the walls were ropes on pulleys to pull up the boards blocking each window. Quickly she went to the closest wall and began unlatching the screens, pulling up the boards, and tying them off on a cleat. Fresh, salty air blew in and the sound of the surf out front filled up the house, completely changing the vibe from suffocating and stuffy to possibly habitable.
Once she got everything open, she found a battery-powered Coleman lantern that surprisingly worked. From her bag she dug out the paper with Woody’s instructions for turning on the water, the generator and the propane-powered fridge and stove, and began reading. According to Woody the gasoline-powered generator was out back in a cobwebby shed and started on the second pull, the propane tanks were easy, but the fridge would require her to lie on the peeling floor and stick her arm way back underneath to light the pilot. That could wait until tomorrow when Woody came.IfWoody came.
The eight beds were twins, all soft and saggy. She picked the one on the ocean-side corner and set her bags on a card table next to it. Under the warm glow of incandescent lights, the house felt more inviting. A small doorway opened into the sliver of a kitchen that felt more like the galley on a boat than an actual kitchen. But as long as she had a place to lay her head, she would make do.
Faded photographs hung along one wall and she walked closer to inspect them. Old family pictures of a beautiful, smiling couple with three young kids, two boys and a girl. The father looked part Hawaiian, the woman, white. In some they were holding fish, in others playing ukulele. Always sun-kissed and smiling.
Off to the right there were some newer ones. A series of portraits. One in particular caught her eye. A close-up of a dark-haired man wearing a coconut hat, green eyes creased around the edges and looking straight into the camera with a half grin, as though in on some universal secret.
She had seen a much younger version of him in a photo album of Uncle Jimmy’s. Woody Kaupiko, a man he spoke of with uncommon admiration. Someone who was born of the sea because his ancestors depended on it. Looking around at all the shells, driftwood and Japanese glass fishing floats, she felt that connection in her bones. She looked forward to meeting him but also felt a shiver of nervousness.
Off the kitchen another door opened onto a concrete deck area under a trellis of some kind of twining plant. She noticed at the far endanother smaller house. All of it bordered by a lava rock seawall and a certain kind of rustic charm. She let herself out and walked to the edge. Again, she felt a strange familiarity. Maybe the scene reminded her of Catalina and the rocky edge of the sea or of the Farallones.
The beach out front, if you could call it that, was all sea-smoothed pebbles, clattering as the waves rushed in and out. Minnow stood there for some time, wind on her face, feeling the invisible pull of the ocean. She thought of her father, now dimmed through the fog of time, and wished he were here. He would have loved the ruggedness of this place and its proximity to the water. But she also often wondered how he would have felt about her chosen profession—though the profession had really chosen her. Studying and trying to save the creatures that cut his life short seemed such a strange twist of fate.
When she was younger, school had been her least favorite thing. One day in first grade, she’d snuck out during nap time, walked down to the beach, torn off her clothes and jumped in the water as naked as a piece of whittled driftwood.
That night at home, her parents had gotten into a huge fight over it. The fights usually started the same way—over something Minnow did or didn’t do. Or something Bruce did or didn’t do. Layla seemed to take personal offense at everything, as though these perceived transgressions were done specificallytoher.
The truth was, her mother had been the furthest thing from Minnow’s mind that morning. She’d wanted to be near the fish and sharks and circling gulls. She wanted to be surrounded by seaweed and dolphins and shell-stealing hermit crabs. Not chalkboards and notepads.
“Minnow, you can’t keep doing these kinds of irrational things,” her mother would say. “It worries me and it makes us look like bad parents.”
Then Bruce would stick up for Minnow. Always. An alliance that had formed early on, its grooves only deepening as time passed.
Until they didn’t. Until Bruce was gone.
A vicious attack, they said, when really it was just one bite.
But one bite was often all it took.
I miss you, Dad.
As she stood there on the rock wall, a wave lightly splashed her, reminding her of where she was. Her gaze swung north, and she realized the flickering lights in the distance must be the Kiawe. By all accounts, the resort was one of a kind. A haven for rich people who wanted to pretend they were camping on a remote island in the Pacific, but with all the amenities of a five-star hotel. No Vienna sausage or Tang there. And instead of a building, the resort sprawled out in a village of thatched-roof huts, home to its own restaurant, poolside bar and spa. Minnow had seen photographs in the magazine on the way over, and though the Kiawe wasn’t her style, it looked pretty cool—if you were a gazillionaire.
Funny thing was, in his instructions for opening the house, Woody had mentioned he had a running tab at Reef House Restaurant and the Saltwater Bar, so Minnow could mosey on over anytime she wanted. Just follow the white coral path. She figured that tomorrow night she might take him up on it, depending on how the day went and whether he showed up. She had no way of reaching him, so she’d just have to wait and see.
After sitting on the wall until the sky turned an inky black, she went back inside to eat her apple. She decided to call it an early night and brushed her teeth, turned off the generator, pulled off the bright floral coverlet on the bed and slid into the crunchy sheets. Weary as she was, sleep terrified her because she knew what was coming. But her eyes kept closing as she tried to readThe Perfect Stormby lantern. Eventually she switched off the lantern and hoped the ocean would lull her to sleep. It did not. Instead, her mind wandered to old memories, and to sharks.
Journal Entry
From the journal of Minnow Gray
August 18, 1993
We call themwhite sharks,notgreat white sharks. Why? Because there is no lesser white shark so there is no reason to have a greater white shark. Except I would argue you could usegreatto mean “large” or “superior” or “substantial,” which all define theCarcharodon carchariasperfectly.
Chapter 5
The Man
