They were shouting, probably “Haole!” or worse, but at this distance he couldn’t hear it, and anyway it didn’t matter, because, buoyant in the mild milky ocean, all he heard was the consolation of the waves.

4

Father Figures

Uncle Sunshine said, “I cannot teach you surf. You can only teach yourself surf. If you stay akamai and surf every day, you improve. I can tell you what you doing wrong, that’s all.”

“What am I doing wrong?”

“You too much smoking, boy. Try stop.”

“So I’ll stop.”

“It more better if you wen’ stop. You need good lungs for swim, for surf, for paddle out, for win. Kids too much smoking, is more worse.”

Uncle Sunshine—his nicknames were Sunny or Feesh, he said “sweem” not “swim,” he said “keeds,” he said “ween”—was an old Hawaiian with a wicked grin and kindly eyes who sat with the other men his age at the rack of long boards at Waikiki, where Sharkey surfed on some days. Harry had introduced him and vouched for him, saying My kupuna.

“You got one fadda?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where you fadda stay?”

When Sharkey told him that he was in Vietnam and said, “Special Forces—he’s a colonel,” Uncle Sunshine softened and said, “E komo mai,” patting his shoulder. “I stay army too—all over the Pacific,” and pointed to the sea, dabbing with his fingers.

He was brown, very lean, his skin wrinkled and slack, with brown bony legs and weeds of yellow-gray hair. Though he was probably in his fifties, he could have been any age, and was always boyish and agile on his board. His boast was that he had surfed with Duke Kahanamoku and that everything he told Sharkey was the wisdom of wave-riding, passed down from the ancient Hawaiians.

“Duke, he talk story with me. He say . . .”

The first time Sharkey heard the name, spoken with reverence and awe, he had no idea who the man was, but he learned about him from Harry Ho and realized how lucky he was. Uncle Sunshine pointed him out on the beach, the tall brown man, his neck looped in leis, posing beside his thick board for photographers. He’d won medals swimming in the Olympics, Uncle Sunshine said. He was the living link to the ancient Hawaiian surfers, he had met Jack London, he was the most famous surfer who’d ever lived, and there he was, twenty feet away, in a bathing suit.

“How’s eet!” Uncle Sunshine called out.

The towering figure of Duke Kahanamoku loosened, the man smiled and flashed a shaka with his free hand, and it seemed like a blessing. And Sharkey again felt that he was part of a larger group, more important than the school, which now seemed merely an unavoidable interruption in the day, between the parentheses of waking and surfing.