One Shark, No Swim

2. Research

2

Research

I ka nana no a ‘ike

By observing, one learns.

On TV, the shark jaws unhinged in slow motion, the rows of teeth gulp, gulp, gulping the half-frozen fish carcasses, slicing through the heavy rope strung through empty eye sockets, and untethering the rotting mass from the side of the dive boat.

“Crikey!” said the narrator from the safety of the shark cage. “That was close.”

From my perch on the living room couch, I snorted into my guava juice, the straw almost going up my nose.

You call that close, I thought. Brah, try swimming outside the bars.

The great white shark cruised past the cage, its flat black eye watching the divers wave chunks of melting fish through bars wide enough for lenses and arms, but not heads or snouts. I paid close attention to the way the shark moved, watching to see if it would reveal its nature in ways Australian researchers never considered.

The shark’s after the bait. It couldn’t care less about the divers.

I rattled the ice in my glass, careful not to touch the condensation with bare skin.

Not Niuhi.

I took another sip as the dive team scrambled back into the boat.

“Confunit! Now you, Alexander Kaonakai Westin?”

Three names!

I jumped up from the couch, narrowly avoiding dumping ice and guava juice down my front.

“Uncle Kahana!”

“That’s right, Zader. Drinking and eating in the living room. Busted. Spill your drink, and it’s a trip to the emergency room for sure. If the ice doesn’t blister you, your mother’s lickin’s will.”

Uncle Kahana and his dog ‘Ilima stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. More than just my great-great-uncle, he was the person who found me abandoned on the reef at Piko Point when I was a newborn and brought me to my Westin ‘ohana, the family who adopted me and raised me as their own. He was the one who taught us about my water allergy, about how a single drop of water on my skin burns like acid, and how I can’t eat raw seafood or rare meat because they give me nightmares.

Uncle Kahana claims we’re all ‘ohana by blood as well as by adoption because his Aunty Lei had the same allergies, but he won’t tell me who my birth people are or where they live except to say Hohonukai-side, which isn’t on any map. It drives me crazy, but he keeps saying, “Patience, Grasshopper,” like some gray-bearded kung fu sifu in a bad Chinese movie.

Uncle Kahana had his hands on his hips and his head c****d to the side.

Not a good sign.

“I hui’d the house from the back, Zader, but you never answered,” he said.

“Sorry, Uncle. I didn’t hear.”

‘Ilima stood next to Uncle Kahana, panting a little and wagging howzit with her tail. I love ‘Ilima. She’s been Uncle Kahana’s shadow and part of the family from before I was born.

Wait, I frowned, thinking about it.

That would make her over 120 in people years.

I blinked.

No way, that can’t be right.

As I continued to look at her, she dropped her eyes and tail. She licked her lips and put her nose to the ground as if all she was thinking about was the next snack she could hoover from the carpet.

Uncle Kahana followed my eyes to ‘Ilima and her new obsession with the floor. Suddenly, her head lifted, and her eyes gleamed. Perking her ears, she made a beeline for my bag of jalapeno jerky on the coffee table.

Uncle Kahana dropped his hands from his hips and muttered, “Yeah, I wanna see you take just one bite, titah.”

‘Ilima sniffed the bag.

“Go for it. I dare you. You’re gonna be scraping that carpet with your tongue, bumbai. Remember the Mexican buffet? Remember jalapenos? Remember fire-futs fo’days?”

She got a little closer and inhaled. The spicy jalapenos went right up her nose. ‘Ilima snorted and backed away, blinking at me like I was some kind of monster who’d popped her favorite balloon.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, ‘Ilima,” Uncle Kahana said. “Discretion is the better part of valor, no matter how delicious you think the jerky.”

‘Ilima shook her whole body and flopped on the carpet, eyes watering.

Uncle Kahana turned his attention to the TV.

“Why are you watching this crap, Zader? I thought Jay was the one fascinated by Shark Week shows.”

Jay’s my hanai brother, my almost twin from different parents. Last fall Jay had a shark scare while surfing at Piko Point. For a long time all Jay would watch was Shark Week shows, but before eighth grade ended, Jay had gotten over his fear and was back surfing.

When I turned on the TV this morning, he sat with me for a minute or two, then wandered outside to wax his surfboard for the millionth time. This summer Jay was helping Nili-boy coach a junior surf camp, and I thought he was taking it all way too seriously.

I shrugged. “Jay’s surfing again. He doesn’t care about shark shows now.”

I looked down at my glass wrapped in a dish towel and inched my big toe deep into the carpet. I didn’t like talking about sharks or surfing. I pretended I didn’t care about things like going to the beach or playing soccer without worrying about sprinklers coming on or having to carry a stupid umbrella and wear shoes everywhere I go. But the truth was I hated being different in ways that made me special.

Special is way overrated.

Last summer, Uncle Kahana helped me figure out a way I can be out on the lava flow near the action and not stuck at the pavilion. I look like a space alien freak in all my gear—long rubber hip waders, a jacket with a hood, a deep-sea diver’s helmet, and vinyl gloves—but at least I can sit at Piko Point and feel like I’m part of the surfers lined up for the next wave.

Since I can’t surf, I spend a lot of my time drawing what I see in the tide pools at Piko Point. Some people think I’m a good artist; it’s how I got into Ridgemont Academy for ninth grade. My painting of a ti leaf lei on the bottom of Jay’s surfboard even helped him get back in the water after his shark scare. But I’d trade all my sketchbooks and pens for surfing in a heartbeat.

Back when Jay was afraid of sharks, he watched Discovery Channel Shark Week reruns twenty-four seven. Mom hated it then and doesn’t like it now that I’m watching them. I’m not afraid of sharks, exactly. I watch for a different reason, one I haven’t told anyone.

If Mom knew, she’d approve even less. She’d probably throw the TV in the trash and send me to counseling.

Uncle Kahana said, “If Jay’s surfing again, why are you still filling your head with all this shark shibai?”

Is that why Uncle Kahana and ‘Ilima are here? Did Mom send him to talk to me?

Before I could answer, ‘Ilima sneezed more jalapeno dust, rocking her whole head back and forth.

“You sure you don’t want a bite? Just a little taste, ‘Ilima,” Uncle Kahana teased.

‘Ilima gave Uncle Kahana stink-eye and sneezed a third time, but turned her head so no doggy germs got on my snack. She’s polite that way.

“Seriously, Zader, what’s with all the shark shows?” Uncle Kahana wasn’t giving up.

“Research,” I hedged.