Aloha, Ray
(Maui, 1975)
Who was pounding on my bedroom door at this ungodly hour? I opened a bloodshot eye. Sunrise already? It seemed like I’d just gone to bed. But only because I’d been up all night.
“Go away,” I said, and put a pillow over my head.
More pounding.
“Who’s there and why won’t you leave me alone?”
Heavy Chevy stuck his goofy head inside the door. “Ah, good, you’re awake.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sounds like it to me.”
“How can you be so hyper after partying all night?”
“Years of training.”
Chevy was an upbeat kind of guy. Or, as most people said, “Out of his mind.” Give him a little cocaine and he was a force of nature. Picture John Belushi on a binge. In other words, not someone you’d want waking you. Not at 7 a.m. when you’re suffering from the blues and a world-class hangover. I blamed the hangover on Chevy’s attempt to cheer me up. I blamed the blues on the flash flood that swept my best friend and life savings into the Pacific. I fought the blues as best I could, but the marijuana, cocaine, and tequila hadn’t cured me yet.
“Why are you bothering me?”
“Why are you bothering me?” said Chevy, imitating my grumpy whine. “Get your mopey ass up; we’re going to Honolua Bay.”
“Maybe you are.”
Chevy yanked my covers off. “So are you.”
Partying with Chevy and the guys provided temporary oblivion; but what I really needed was time. Then again, staying active helped with grief and it was senseless to decline. Not that I didn’t try. But Chevy was relentless in his pursuit of a good time and insisted his friends go along for the ride. His motto seemed to be: Why just have fun, when you can have way too much of it? Which, according to Dr. Chevy, was just what I needed to get out of my funk.
We usually went to Honolua, ninety minutes away on the far western side of Maui, to ride waves, but after the winter swells died, Honolua was glassy as a lake, perfect for water skiing. Exciting, too. If you timed it right (or wrong, depending on your point of view), you’d see day-glo coral heads flashing by, only inches below your ski. They were not only beautiful, they were razor sharp and they’d shred you like a cheese grater. Something I’d learned the hard way.
“I hope you checked the tide charts this time.”
“I did; it’ll be going out. That’s why we gotta hurry.”
“Aw man. . .”
“What are you moaning about? Danger turns fun into a scary adventure.”
I pointed at the scabs covering my arm. “Also, bloody and painful.”
“Only if you fall.”
“That’s my point.”
“You gotta get back on the ski you were riding.”
“I thought that was horses.”
“Don’t be a pussy. No matter what it takes, I’m gonna cheer you up.”
“Really? Can you bring Ray and our drowned fortunes back?”
“All right, not that cheered up. I’m not God. On the bright side, Dr. Chevy’s got strong drugs.”
“I need a different prescription. Your remedies are killing me.”
“You gotta be more philosophical; take a Buddhist attitude.”
“Sit under a tree, meditate, get obese?”
“No, man, learn how to accept loss, go with the flow.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just lose your stash, your money, an almost-ready crop, and your best friend.”
“That’s true; I’ve never lost anything.”
“Thanks for the empathy. It’s just what I needed to cheer me up.”
“Aw, don’t worry, you’ll bounce back. You always do.”
That was also true. Only to be crushed again. I felt like a yo-yo. In the five years since college, I’d had several victories. Not to mention, several setbacks. Big ones. The problem was a society stifled by outdated marijuana laws and a father nicknamed Dr. Strangelove. Dad, Mad-Scientist-in-Chief for the CIA, had a Secret Weapons Lab, no sense of humor, and serious control issues. Or, as he called them: “A son gone wrong.”
I did the math. So far, I’d lost three million bucks in cash or product. It was getting old. Three million in 1975 dollars was a lot of money for a guy with no job skills. I tried to be philosophical. At least I was still alive, able to give it another try. I know Ray wished he could say the same thing. Also, that he was a better swimmer when he raced into the flash flood.
Just a few months earlier, Ray had said, “This gulley will make a great stash spot.”
He meant the gulley in our front yard that hadn’t seen water in decades. I wondered if Ray, while body rafting down Haleakala, found that ironic. I know I did. But Chevy was right, I lived in paradise; moping never solved anything. A day having fun with my crazy surfer pals would raise my spirits—once my hangover went away. And so, after a cup of coffee, a shower, and a handful of aspirin, I climbed into the Beamer and followed Heavy Chevy past emerald pasturelands dotted with cows and purple-flowered jacaranda trees to his farm near Makawao. Horrible Hagar, the Panda and Jewels, and Chevy’s girlfriend Cherry were loading coolers, towels, and snorkeling gear into Panda’s boat when I got there.
“Ready for some fun?” asked Panda. Picture a friendly bear with blond hair. Then make him a surfer.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. No more feeling blue and that’s an order. Here, smoke this.”
Cherry held out a glass. “Now drink this.”
Cherry was hapa-haole, half Californian and half-Japanese, but all fox and sweet as honey. As I was seriously infatuated with her, I couldn’t say no. On the other hand, afraid it was a cocktail, I asked, “What’s in there?”
“One of my special smoothies. It’s great for hangovers.”
“Just what I need. Um. . .delicious.”
“And then some,” said Chevy.
Half an hour later, as we cruised downhill through cane fields on winding Baldwin Ave., the cloud-topped West Mauis and the glistening Pacific ahead in the distance, I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Thanks for dragging me out of the house, Chevy. This is just what I needed.”
“You mean the Clear Light?”
“What Clear Light?”
“I spiked our smoothies.”
“You dosed me?”
“Well, yeah. You said the other drugs weren’t working.”
“That’s true, but. . .”
“No need to thank me. Anything to put a smile back on your face. I’m not used to you being grumpy.”
“Me neither, but it’s been crazy lately. And by lately, I mean the last couple years. Ray isn’t the only partner I’ve lost.
“Well, stop acting sorry for yourself and do something positive.”
“You mean trip out?”
“That’s a good start. Remember what we said about that horse.”
“Which one? Not to brag, but I’ve fallen off several.”
“You know what I mean. Ray’s gone, but he’d want you to stay on your mission.”
He meant my mission to make the world a happier place with excellent marijuana, and he was right. By then, Cherry’s smoothie had me feeling groovy. So did the scenery on the way to Honolua Bay. We drove through central Maui’s vast sugar plantations, mighty Haleakala rising 10,000 feet to our left, the craggy, cloud-topped West Mauis to our right, past Maalaea Bay, and through the tunnel to West Maui. The islands of Molokini, Koolawe, Lanai, and Molokai off to the left. So were a few late-departing humpbacks. Aside from that, we saw nothing but beaches, cane fields, and mountains till reaching tourist-plagued Lahaina. We crept through town, the only way possible, then wound our way past Kaanapali, Napili, and Kapalua, before finally reaching remote Honolua Bay. By the time we got there, I felt exhilarated. Living on Maui was a tonic for the blues. So was Cherry’s smoothie.
With the water calm, I could see hundreds of day-glo-colored coral heads from the road. They seemed to be saying: Looks like you didn’t learn your lesson. So unlike the winter when twenty-foot waves came crashing down. With no surfers around, and tourists still nursing hangovers in Kaanapali, we had the amazing place all to ourselves.
Panda made a command decision. “Men first.”
We took turns skiing for a couple of hours. As usual, I had a fall or two, but I avoided a shredding, which was a nice change.
“Want another turn before we let the girls go?” asked Hagar.
Hagar—picture a surly linebacker with red eyes, a redder neck, and a constant smirk—was a practical joker of the first order, and I didn’t trust the mischievous look on his face.
I checked the water level. “I’ll quit while I’m intact.”
The girls went out with Jewels at the helm. Panda had warned her to watch the tide, stay further outside. Half an hour later, with the ladies oblivious to the coral heads starting to peek out of the water, Panda jumped up and waved his arms. So did Chevy.
They were yelling, “You’re too close.”
Unable to hear him, the girls waved back. Cherry from her ski, Jewels from the boat. A moment later, we heard the clunking sound you don’t want to hear coming from your outboard motor.
Panda smacked his head. “I just replaced that propeller.”
So much for water-skiing. By the time we got back to Chevy’s, my blues were on the back burner. Nothing like LSD to clean out the pipes. I’d spent several days bummed out; now it was time to think positive, plan my next move.
One thing I knew, it wouldn’t be to Happy Valley, a gorgeous hundred-acre chunk of rainforest off the Hana Highway. With waterfalls, pools, and a stream that ran to the ocean, our property was a mini-Seven Sacred Pools. Though it resembled the Garden of Eden, Happy Valley was cursed. Our humongous crop, already in flower, developed a mystery plague. A plague who’s only cure involved moving the crop somewhere else. We found that ironic. Also, a major bummer.
To make matters worse, Maui’s legendary buzzkiller, a humorless brute named Moses Lei, head of Maui Vice, stopped by to visit. (Picture a professional wrestler, except bigger. Then make him one of the bad guys and put him in a narc car.) And by visit, I mean raid. Ray’s lawyer skills had delayed the raid, but two weeks later, Moses returned with a search warrant to find two enormous-but-empty plots and millions of rampaging centipedes. So Happy Valley was out. So was my old coffee farm in Kona, where fleets of flying narcs filled the skies. Another problem: I didn’t have enough money to fund a new project.
“If you need money, Mikey, you can always deal blow,” said Panda—AKA: Mr. Big, a specialist in that field.
“How am I gonna buy it?” On the retail level, kilos ran about sixty grand. With Panda as my connection, I’d get a discount. Which meant I’d still be 50 g’s short. “Thanks to the flash flood, I only have a few thousand bucks.”
“So? I’ll front it to you. With all the people you know, you can make a good living middling coke.”
I sighed. “I appreciate the thought, but you know my passion.”
“Getting high, enjoying life?”
“No, well, yeah. But I meant my life’s mission.”
“Ah, changing the world.” He always rolled his eyes when he said that.
“Right, and changing it with cocaine will take it in the wrong direction.”
He shrugged. “Certainly a profitable one.”
“Still. . .”
I’d gone to Peru, over-indulged, done a bit of smuggling, and learned something about self-control. Mine sucked. One of those too much of a good thing situations. With pot, if I over-indulged, I got hungry and sleepy and woke up feeling great. With coke, if I did too much. . .I did a whole lot more, then drank to soothe my nerves. I didn’t get hungry, I couldn’t go to sleep, and the next morning I felt like shit. Somehow, that seemed wrong.
“Well, you’ll find something,” said Panda. With a chuckle, he added, “If any growers will still work with you.”