The Islands (52 page)

Fleetingly, thoughts of Bradley would flutter across the sunshine of Catherine's day like a small dark cloud. But she pushed these moments of sadness to one side. The thought of what her life might have been with Bradley in Washington seemed a world away. She felt an occasional pang that perhaps she should write to his family, but knew very well there would be no warmth or understanding from them. They were probably angry about what she'd done to their son. It crossed her mind that the only person who might have some awareness of why she couldn't remain married to Bradley would be Aunt Meredith.

Instead, Catherine wrote chatty, happy letters to her parents enclosing pictures of Kauai and copies of what she was writing for the paper. She did not mention PJ, only that she had a group of supportive, fun and caring friends to spend time with. Her mother had stopped asking about her plans and when was she coming home.

One morning PJ asked Catherine to come and stay on the other side of the island as he'd heard the waves were running. Steve, another surfer friend, lived there in a small farm house. Steve sold a few boards but also, between the rows of sugar cane in his small field, he grew healthy marijuana plants. He asked PJ to shape some boards for him, offering him the use of his beach shack in return.

The shack was a cottage once used by field workers and it was filthy as well as decrepit. Catherine and PJ cooked outside over an open fire and she likened the experience to roughing it on a camping trip. The few times they went to Steve's farm house Catherine was uncomfortable, disliking the heavy drug use and strange people who drifted in and out. It didn't have the happy, casual, creative feel of
Nirvana.
The music was wild heavy metal, there was cocaine and heroin being used as well as marijuana and there was an aggression and unfriendliness she didn't care for. The people were using surfing as an excuse to drop out and Catherine knew they were not serious soul surfers.

Catherine was glad when they returned to Miranda's little gallery. PJ told Catherine that he had made money on the boards and he'd done a deal with Steve to shape more, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. Catherine was pleased as she had no desire ever to see Steve and his cohorts again. She was comfortable with their life on this side of the island.

One afternoon as she pottered around the gallery after a couple had left with a small painting, the phone rang and Miranda's laughter bounced down the phone line.

‘Everything is great,' Catherine assured her. ‘Just sold a small oil of hibiscus and shells. Your work is selling really well.'

‘Fantastic. Can you stay on a while longer?'

‘Of course. You having a good time in Venice?'

‘Am I what! I've met the most glorious guy. We are having a ball. So . . . figured I might as well play as long as I can.'

‘That's fine by me,' said Catherine. ‘Is he Italian?'

‘Venetian, sweetie. He's a gondolier!'

‘Really! He must be handsome. Does he wear a striped T-shirt and sing love songs?' laughed Catherine.

‘He does for me. Actually he owns a fleet of gondolas . . . quite the little tourist operator. A touch younger than me, but that's how I like it. If you can stay on, that's great, if you have to leave, ask Molo to get someone to help in the gallery a few hours.'

‘I'm not going anywhere. Have fun, Miranda.'

‘Ciao, bella!'

‘Miranda rang from Venice. You'll never guess what she's up to!' exclaimed Catherine to PJ later.

‘Sock it to me,' he grinned.

‘She's madly in love with a gondolier and is staying on a while longer.'

He shrugged. ‘She sounds quite a gal.'

‘But it means we can stay on here longer too,' said Catherine.

‘Makes life easy. I was talking to some of the boys and they're thinking of heading to the Mentawai Islands off Sumatra which has unreal breaks. Be a good test for the new boards. It's totally rugged,' he added. ‘Just sleeping on the beach. Nothing there apparently. I thought I might take off with them for a while.'

‘Sounds kind of exciting,' said Catherine carefully, wondering how long he'd known about this. ‘When are you leaving? Will you be gone long?'

‘No idea. One of the guys, Stewart, a New Zealander, has a movie camera and he's been making a surfing film. Been chasing waves for six months. He gets the word and he's off. Wants Damo and me to be in it.'

‘Sounds . . . expensive. Well, time-consuming. But very interesting. Is there a big audience for a film about waves and surfing?' asked Catherine.

‘Sure is. The surfing world is getting bigger. Far bigger than when Lester was in his prime. He'll get a kick out of seeing places he'll never get to surf.'

‘Me too,' said Catherine. ‘I'd better lock up the gallery.' She went downstairs knowing that she was excluded from this part of PJ's world. He would never ask her on this adventure. It was clearly just for serious male surfers.

The subject wasn't mentioned again. But suddenly a dozen surfers moved into
Nirvana
.

‘The sea is up. Big sets coming in. Bring your camera. Damien wanted you to get shots of him and his Aussie mates,' said PJ. ‘They'll be heading to Oahu to Waimea, Sunset, Pipeline in a few weeks.'

Catherine was at the beach before sunrise and spent hours focusing her lens on the specks riding the enormous, spectacular waves, often disappearing into the snarling white lip that doubled over on itself. Capturing the moment, the essence of the ferocious yet glorious surge of translucent water was, she felt, a bit like grasping at rainbows. She had to divide her attention between photographing the surfers and trying to capture the ephemeral and dynamic moods and movement of the ocean. Now, with some surfing experience, she tried to imagine what it must feel like out there, to be picked up, to be part of that explosion of water, to be in its heart, to experience the exhilaration, the sensuous pleasure as well as the fear and respect, and to know, as one surfer said to her, what it was like to be ‘in the eye of god'.

She took it upon herself to drive to the nearest hamburger joint on the coast road and pack a box with sandwiches, fruit, drinks, cakes and snacks and take it back to the beach for the hungry surfers. They'd leave the water, flop on the sand, eat, discuss their rides, talk about where to surf next and either return to the water or head to a further point to check how the waves were breaking there. Catherine was always repaid and the boys were keen to know what she might have captured in her shots, especially if one was considered an epic ride.

Catherine learnt the capriciousness of waves from the solid reliable reef rollers to the here-today-gone-tomorrow sandbank breaks and the brightly lit, cathedral-like iridescent underwater ‘green room' of a tube. She captured some frightening wipe outs, which, though dangerous, never dented a surfer's keenness.

Days like this just dissolved, time was fluid. Suddenly sunset loomed. The waves had diminished, but when the last stragglers came in from the surf, PJ was still out there, looking for a last wave. The sea was gilded, waves the colour of melting gold, he and his board a dark silhouette until the final wave that carried him towards her. She waited for him at the water's edge with his towel.

‘Almost too dark for any more pictures. But you got one more ride in before night came,' she said. ‘You were a long way out.'

‘Magic time. Even out there the offshore wind carries the scent of flowers, cries of birds and somewhere an engine rumbling. A tractor in a field maybe.' He kissed her. ‘And I imagined I could smell your perfume, your hair.'

That night he made tender love to her. His sweetness, his endearments brought tears to her eyes. Yet in his gentle lovemaking she experienced the most powerful sensations her body had known. Like waves sweeping over her, great rolling, quivering, surging explosions rocked through her. She was drowning in his body. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as he drifted to sleep.

Catherine watched him sleep, breathing deeply and slowly, in the pale light shining through the window. She hadn't asked when he was heading off on his surfing safari. Soul surfers like PJ surfed from the heart, not for money, not for the adrenalin hit, not for kudos, not for recognition. It met some primeval need, it was a drug, an addiction.

The departure came suddenly, when Stewart the filmmaker finally decided that it was time to head out. Catherine found herself driving PJ, Damien and Leif in Miranda's car, while their bags, boards, Stewart and his camera and tripod and the other surfers crammed into two kombi vans. At tiny Lihue Airport there was a lot of laughter as the boys cracked jokes and farewelled friends.

Catherine's goodbye to PJ was not very private, nor very emotional. They hugged tightly, he stroked her hair and as the final boarding call was shouted by a flight attendant in the little terminal, they kissed fiercely. They drew apart and PJ hoisted his small bag onto his shoulder. His blue eyes were shining.

‘You're excited about this trip, aren't you?' she said.

PJ nodded. ‘Hardly anyone's surfed this spot. If it's as good as Stewart says and the film comes out, then everyone will know about it. But I think he has a few more places up his sleeve. He's been doing some heavy research. He's quite the adventurer.'

‘All very Robinson Crusoe. Unspoiled paradises,' she said lightly. ‘So I suppose getting word back to me will be tricky.'

‘Yeah, don't count on it. No mail or phones out there on deserted islands, remote coastlines. But listen, even though you don't hear, you know I'll be okay. I'll think of you, Catherine.' He kissed her quickly. ‘Gotta go. Want to make sure those boards aren't damaged when they load 'em. See ya. Take care!' He waved and hurried through the departure door.

Catherine watched him walk across the tarmac, dressed in sandals, cotton chinos and a blue shirt hanging loosely over a white T-shirt. It was the most formally dressed she'd ever seen him. His sunglasses were pushed up on his head over his cloud of long blond curls. At the plane's hold he talked to the handlers and watched the surfboards being loaded. He then raced up the steps to the plane without a backward glance to reassure the boys that the boards were safely stowed.

She was the last to leave the terminal building, standing alone at the window watching the small plane disappearing into blue sky until her eyes burned and she could only see spots. As she walked outside she passed a woman in a bright muu-muu threading leis at a low table covered in flowers. Her young daughter squatting beside her was sorting blossoms for her mother. Lengths of fragrant leis hung behind them. The woman smiled at Catherine.

‘Aloha. Here, take one lei. Please, no look so sad.'

Catherine stopped and fumbled for her purse but the woman waved her hand away. ‘Come.' She held up a lei and Catherine bent down as the woman slipped the flowers over her head. ‘You throw dis one into the sea at sunset and your love will return.'

‘Mahalo,' murmured Catherine, tears spilling from her eyes.

She didn't want to go to
Nirvana
, nor to Miranda's. She wanted a distraction. So she drove to see Beatrice as she'd been meaning to do for several weeks.

Beatrice welcomed her with a large embrace. ‘Dear child. How are you? You have not decided to return to your husband?' She lifted her shoulders, her dark eyes were warm and her slight smile was philosophical. ‘These things happen, okay? Far better you do this now than suffer in silence believing things will right themselves. All that means is your being a doormat longer and bearing the guilt and burden of domestic duties and children. It's much harder to leave when there are children.'

‘Eleanor said much the same.'

‘Yes. Well, she knows what she's talking about.' Beatrice turned inside the house. ‘Come along, Verna is here. Tea and cakes time. We're throwing around a few ideas for the next meeting.' She slipped her feet from her zori at the door and Catherine followed suit. It was a local custom she'd adopted as a matter of course and supposed it had come from the Japanese influence in the Islands. Barefoot they padded down the polished-wood hallway. ‘So what have you been up to?'

‘We've been looking after an art gallery for someone on the other side of the island.'

‘You say “we”. Who might “we” be?'

Catherine paused, then said candidly, ‘A mainlander called PJ. He's been here a long time. Taught me to surf. I was very attracted to him but didn't realise how much until Bradley left. Then we, kind of, got together.'

Beatrice glanced at Catherine but only said, ‘Enjoy your freedom. That's what you've been after. Don't exchange one restricted life for t'other. You be in charge.'

‘I'm still learning to take control,' said Catherine. ‘It's a new experience. It hadn't ever occurred to me there was another way of doing things. Thinking for myself, I mean. My dad always looked after the practical matters and then I was married before I knew it and Bradley ran our lives.'

Beatrice nodded. ‘A familiar story. Fortunately Kiann'e comes from a line of powerful women. All I'll say to you, Catherine, is don't waste this opportunity.'

As always there was a lot happening at Beatrice's home. People coming and going, talk of plans for lobbying and meeting with groups and individuals Beatrice thought could help their cause. Only once did Catherine hear mention of the Palm Grove and she realised the discussion was about the future of the heiau and the sacred stones that had been unearthed. Beatrice again warned that there would be retribution, divine or political, if the building for the new wing disturbed the sacred site. Catherine didn't say anything, but she was worried for Eleanor's sake. The owner of the Palm Grove was literally between a rock and a hard place.

The busy and stimulating day with Beatrice had taken her mind off PJ's departure so that by the time she got back to
The Joss House
she thought she would be fine about being on her own. But the moment she walked into the space she and PJ had shared, his absence came home to her. She looked at the tumbled bed where they'd made love. She picked up the coffee cup he'd used and drained its cold dregs, pressing her lips to where his had been. In the bathroom she picked up his still damp towel and lifted it to her face, burying her head in it, seeking the smell of his skin.