The canal is straight and narrow. We race down the center. Dad slows only when a sharp bend approaches. He takes the turn and then pushes the throttle forward again.
My heart stops. There’s a wet stain spreading outward from a small tear in the back of his shirt.
“Dad, you’ve been shot!” I cry.
“Lei, sit down!” he shouts. “Sit down.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” I whimper, hands to my mouth.
“I’m okay. I’m not shot.” Dad glances back at me. “You’re spooked, that’s all.”
I shake my head. The back of his shirt near the right shoulder has grown a dark, tear-shaped stain.
We come to the fork in the canal. Dad turns left and speeds up. Soon we fly under a road, past Kailua’s formerly famous white-sand beach, and out into the bay. Dad cranks the throttle and we scream away from shore.
Ten minutes later he slows the boat to a crawl on the open ocean and checks the back of his right shoulder with his left hand. His fingers come away red.
He half smiles, stunned. “I’m shot.”
I can’t believe this is happening. No. Take it back!
“You’re right.” He looks around, as if checking the rest of his body for holes. “Are you okay? Are you hit?” His voice rises.
I shake my head, but then I check. “No, nothing. Dad … is it bad? We need to get you to the hospital.”
Dad shakes his head. “We’re not going back. We’re finally out.”
“Dad! Don’t be stupid.” His image grows blurry as my eyes well with tears.
“I’ll live. We’ll make it to Moloka`i.”
“Dad …”
“Lei, please, sit down!” He winces.
I plop down and run my hands through my hair. The waves are big, and the boat, crawling forward, rocks back and forth. “Is it still in there? Aren’t you going to get infected?”
Dad doesn’t answer. I wait for what feels like minutes. He’s deep in thought, at war with himself.
“Please, Dad.”
“There are no hospitals to run to, Lei!” he shouts. He sits down next to me. The boat rises over a giant wave and sinks down into the next rolling trough. “I don’t think I’m hit anywhere important. We have to gun it for Moloka`i, okay? See it, there?”
He points east, to a faded mound of land that looks farther away than thirty miles.
“If we gun it, we can be there in an hour and a half. Twenty miles an hour, give or take? Right? I’ll take it easy, okay? We’ll find help there.”
“Dad, the base is only ten minutes away. We know they’ll have equipment.” My heart is pounding. He’ll say no. There’s nothing I can do.
He stands up, trying to hide a grimace, takes the wheel, pushes the throttle forward, and steers toward the distant break in the horizon.
“We could’ve gotten away if I had listened to you.”
“Look, we got away, Lei. We did it.” He pauses. “Your way would have been better.”
I search the boat. Empty, aside from the three gas tanks. No life jackets, no water, no first-aid kit. I don’t see any oars. Dad can’t swim now. And even if he could, he’s covered in blood, which would delight the sharks. If we don’t make it to land on our first attempt, we’ll be at the mercy of the tides and the currents. We could drift out to sea.
I approach Dad, try to examine his shoulder tenderly. His shirt is sticking to his skin.
He barks. “Ow. Please. Don’t touch.”
“I just want to try to stop the bleeding.”
“No. Not right now.”
Forty-five minutes crawl by, and though O`ahu has grown distant, Moloka`i doesn’t look any larger.
The waves are taller than our boat. I never could have guessed that the open ocean would be this powerful. I’m sure that every swell that rushes toward us will capsize us. The boat muscles through but sways alarmingly.
Moloka`i is far out of reach. “Twenty miles an hour? Maybe that’s what the current is doing against us.”
Dad is stiff at the wheel.
The motor sputters. Dad shuts the engine off and instructs me while I refill the gas. I do my best to pour a full canister into the tank. The rocking of the boat on the high swells makes me slop gas all over the motor. I lean my head away from the tank as the fumes engulf my face.
“Careful, hon; we can’t afford to lose any—”
“I know that!” I yell, panicky.
I take a deep breath. Slow down. Finally, I train myself to pour a little at a time, syncing my tipping with the rolling ocean.
Dad fires the motor back up. We cut through the enormous, choppy waves like an ox driver plowing a lava flow.
The motor dies again. I pour in the second red tank.
I’ve never been to Moloka`i. “What’s it like over there?” I ask above the wind and the roar of the motor.
“Not sure.”
I refill the motor. The last canister is only half full. Dad winces at this news. We veer northward and head due east as the nearest tip of Moloka`i approaches. It’s obvious that Dad’s hurting, and the strain of talking over the noise requires effort, but he explains, “If I didn’t have a hole in my shoulder, we might play this safer. But we’re going to shoot the moon.” He wants to situate us so that we’ll drift toward land and not away from it if the motor fails. He thinks we might be able to reach Kalaupapa, halfway along the northern coast of the island. That’s the famous refuge of Father Damien. It’s the nearest town that we can reach along the north shore. Kualapu`u is technically closer, but it’s perched a thousand feet up sheer cliffs.
Though we’re half a mile offshore, we’re finally alongside a new island. Finding help for Dad is no less urgent, but relief blankets my anxiety. Home feels nearer, the horrors of O`ahu distant.
The coastal cliffs rise ahead of us, and the ocean grows angry. My grip on the bench tightens as we pass our last obvious landing before the coast becomes a wall. We’re asking for too much. Dad knows; his left fist is clenched around the steering wheel.
With the low-lying shelf of Kalaupapa visible miles away, our motor dies. We have nothing more to feed it, and no way to steer the boat forward.
We drift toward the rocks at the base of the cliff face.
Why was I fooled into hoping?
I hear Dad stifle a moan of frustration or despair. He circles the boat, gripping his right shoulder, searches the cabinets, finds nothing new to help us. I watch hopelessly as he ducks over the port side of the boat and attempts to paddle with his good arm.
“Dad,” I plead, but it comes out as more of a gulp. He sits up and wipes the ocean spray away from his eyes—or is it tears?
“Lei, we can’t get there.”
Kalaupapa: I can see it. It’s within our grasp, maybe four miles away. But we’ll never reach it now.
A giant wave lifts our boat and carries us toward shore like a surfboard. I cry out in alarm. Dad stumbles over and wraps his good arm around me. We rebalance and brace for the next wave.
“Inflate the packs,” Dad says. “We may need to abandon ship.”
“The suitcases?”
“Forget them. That’s why we rearranged things. Hurry!”
I jump to work, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. The current is carrying us backward as the tide pushes us in. There’s no way around it: if we try to scramble to shore by leaping off the boat as we reach land, we’ll be crushed against the rocks for sure. We’re going to have to beat the boat to shore. If we can find high ground on the steep slope, crouched atop a boulder or tucked into some crevasse, maybe we can escape the onslaught.
Maybe we can walk a strip of land during low tide.
Dad’s shoulder oozes. Sharks … Stop. No second-guessing. We will jump. No Dad heroically staying on the boat to keep sharks away from me. If we bail, we go hand in hand.
“Dad, can you swim?”
He hoists his inflated pack loosely up on his left shoulder. “We’re both strong swimmers, Lei. We’ll stick clos
e, but if you can scramble onto a rock, do it. Don’t come for me. Don’t. I’ll make it. We’ll meet up as we can.”
I can hear what he’s actually saying, but even so, panic recedes. My senses focus. My mind clears of doubt. I see what we must do, and my muscles are ready to act, with or without my blessing.
We watch the wall grow nearer. Among the jagged rocks are occasional inlets clattering with tumbling stones. If it’s the only beach, we’ll take it.
“Lei, go!”
I look into Dad’s eyes. I see a bravery that sears itself into my knowledge of my father. The pain eats at him. He knows he can’t swim. The forces churning below will swallow him. He knows that we must jump. He wants to send me to safety.
“Go, Lei. Go! I’m right behind you.”
He won’t give up the act. I see the good-bye on his face. He hasn’t given up, but he knows that only a miracle will save him.
But this is the end of the world. God has run out of miracles.
I dive into my suitcase. The climbing rope springs out. “Lei, go! No TIME!”
I invent a slipknot, hand him the loop of my lasso. “Under your shoulders!”
He drops his pack. “Stubborn as your mother!”
I pass the loop through the shoulder straps of his inflated backpack and hand it to him. He slips it tenderly over his arms. The boat surges toward the cliffs. We will dash against a jagged outcropping within another wave or two.
I tie the rope around my waist, seize my inflated pack by a strap, bunch up the slack rope, hold it in one hand. “Swim with the current. We can make that cove.” I point with my chin. “Hold your pack. Kick. I’ll do the rest.”
“Promise you’ll free that knot if you have to.”
“Okay.”
One shared look. We leap.
A wave swells up and nearly knocks us against the hull of the boat. I scramble to secure my pack. Dad is beside me, chest up, holding on to his pack with his good hand, kicking, breathing labored. I hold on to the rope near him, reducing the slack, and swim away from the boat as hard as I can.
We rise several feet with the crest of another wave. The next one will break right on top of us. Hold your breath, Dad, I think. Then we’re underwater.
I surface several feet closer to the rocks and study my options.
I must navigate us through a narrow gauntlet, time the swell just right so that it delivers me right up to the wall of the nearby shelf without smashing me against it.
Then I’ll have seconds to scurry up the rock face before the next wave pounds, loosening my grip. Meanwhile, how to hoist up Dad and two packs?
The boat slams into the rocks with a deafening crunch, as if they were the jaws of a sea monster. The hull scrapes along the ocean’s sharp teeth, splintering open. I don’t look; my sights are set on the lava shelf before me. I detect a crude natural stairway a little to the right, and swim feverishly to align with it.
The next swell carries me up to the low wall. I seize a handhold in the volcanic rock as the tide reverses, my pack hooked in the crook of my opposite elbow. The rope disappears into the water, but it’s still tied to my waist. Beneath the surf, my feet scramble for purchase, hindered by the weight of my hiking boots. Finally, my toe grips a ledge and I pull myself up the crude stairway, racing the next swell. My leg is tangled in the rope, but plenty of slack remains. Just as I reach the top of the shelf, the waves break on the wall, and a geyser of ocean water pummels me.
I crawl farther ashore, gasping for breath. And then I’m tugged backward by my tangled leg. My forehead smacks against the rock and I grope wildly for a handhold as my pack and I slide toward the ledge, Dad rushing away with the reverse tide. I turn and lock my free foot into a deep pock and, now on my back, whip my arms out behind me to grip the rough rock.
The tugging finally stops. I spring up and free my leg. Blood drips into my eyes from my forehead. I wipe my face and search for Dad in the swell.
I see the bag. Not him. Is he already gone, sunk below the waves? Then I spot his head behind the bag. His good hand grips a shoulder strap. His face is contorted in agony, and he’s struggling to keep his head above water.
“Hang on!” Frantically, I reel in the rope.
I’m blasted by another wall of water; the tide reverses. I loop my hand around a bight in the rope and pull fiercely. Nāmaka-o-Kaha`i wants Dad for herself, but I want him more. Jealous witch! I sob with rage. Pull. Pull.
I drag him up to the base of the crude stairway. “Ditch the bag!”
He releases the backpack and clutches the same handle I used. The bag bobs away, but the rope is still looped through the shoulder strap. As the swell relents I stoop down the shelf and grab the strap of his empty gun holster. He pulls himself upward with three good limbs, and I yank him forward with all my might.
We tumble into a heap atop the shelf as another wave punishes us. Dad crawls forward, coughing violently, while I pull on the rope to reel in his backpack.
A moment later, we huddle together just out of reach of the spray, our packs piled beside us amid a nest of tangled rope.
“No way I could have done that alone,” Dad pants, coddling his shoulder.
Emotions swell and wash over me. Nausea.
The boat has capsized thirty feet away, pinned against jagged boulders. The monster sea feeds on its prize, grinding, twisting, cracking, and splintering fiberglass with each lash of its watery tongue.
Dad coughs, looking around. I follow his gaze. We’re on a thin shelf of volcanic rock, pinned against a cliff wall at least five hundred feet high. There’s no path forward, no path backward, and the tide is still rising. The village of Kalaupapa sits serenely in the mid distance along a low-lying plain, but it might as well be on the shores of New Zealand. Our packs are waterlogged. The suitcases and the gun are lost. My head hurts, my eyes sting with salt and blood. Dad bleeds from his shoulder—it’s been like that for two hours now, which can’t be good. I have no idea what our next move is.
“That’s one island down,” Dad says. Every word is painful. “Two to go. Welcome to Moloka`i.”
CHAPTER 20
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20
We sit as far out of the reach of the rising tide as we can, our backs right up against the cliff face. No way to know whether the shelf we’re on will eventually be submerged. Our wrecked boat continues to grind and splinter on the rocks like a bone gnawed by a hungry dog. We’re just barely shaded from the sun by the high cliffs. It’s getting warm. And Dad is growing sleepy. I shake him out of another trance and he sits up. We have no plan. I’m on the brink of despair.
But perhaps there are a few miracles left.
I watch with confusion and then with mounting hope as an outrigger canoe materializes against the churning sea from the direction of Kalaupapa. Its crew of three is aiming toward us.
“Dad! Look!” I nudge him and he drowsily follows my gaze.
They have come for us. I can scarcely believe our good fortune as I watch the outrigger stop sixty yards out from shore, directly in front of us. The middle rower stands. He lifts up two life vests and a rope, and then dives in.
Dad and I watch as he swims over. I help the swimmer get his balance on the edge of the shelf. He’s haole, in his fifties. Strong.
His eyes are kind. “Are you all right? Is everyone here?” He speaks with some sort of accent—French?—long ago worn smooth.
I nod. “It’s just us. My dad is badly hurt.”
“What’s wrong?” He hands me a vest and glances over at Dad.
Am I supposed to say that Dad was shot? How will he react? Will he guess that we stole our boat and leave in disgust? I could make up a story.…
“Quick. What’s wrong?”
“Shot in the shoulder.”
“You? Deep cut.”
“It is?” I raise my fingers to my forehead.
“No biggie: you’ll wear it well. Can you follow the rope back to the canoe?”
“Yes.”
“Go. I’
ll take care of him.”
I turn to dive, but remember: “Our bags. They float. We need them.…” I stop. Is it wise to confess that we have food and medicine? How much can I trust these people? But why would they row all the way out here if their intentions weren’t good?
“I’ll tie them to the end of the rope. Your dad’s the priority.”
I pull myself along the rope, struggling against the water. One of the rowers rises and hauls in the line while the other steadies the oars, maintains the canoe’s position. I hold on tight and let the puller do the work. Behind me our rescuer, Dad, and the bags are reeled in.
The man pulling the rope helps us all aboard the canoe, and we turn toward Kalaupapa. The front rower has only one leg.
“We’ve been averaging a rescue a day,” the middle fellow says as he rows. They push hard to increase speed, but they haven’t even broken a sweat, and none are short of breath. “We all saw your boat stop. You’re very lucky to have made it to solid ground—both of you.”
Dad and I are tucked into the hull of the long, narrow canoe, covered in towels to protect us from the blazing sun. I’m behind him. “Keep pressure on his bullet wound,” says one. I see to my task, even though I’m afraid of hurting Dad. “She did it all,” Dad says. “She saved my life.”
“You saved our lives.” I try to change the subject. “Thank you. Thank you.”
The one-legged guy says, “That’s what we do now. In Kalaupapa, we vowed to serve the distressed. Traffic has been heavy, and so many don’t make it.”
“Lei. I’m …” Dad’s thought stalls.
I pat his good shoulder. “Hang in there. We’re getting you help. Don’t go to sleep, okay?”
He nods.
We land at Kalaupapa within the hour. A handful of people help us to shore. When they realize the extent of Dad’s injury, we’re ushered into an old Land Cruiser parked at the beach. Someone fires up the engine, and we’re off. I don’t know what’s going on, what’s happened to our bags. I don’t care. We’re racing now—and it feels like we’ve just lapped Death.