Sharkey said, “It’s all right. I’m cool. I’ll stay home.”

“I’d rather you joined us,” the captain said. “That’s an order, son,” and he laughed.

But riding to Waikiki, seated in the backseat of the captain’s car, Sharkey felt all the old ambiguity and confusion—his mother on a date, the man looking at him in the rearview mirror and sizing him up.

“Table for three?” the hostess asked. She wore a frilly blouse, a flower behind her ear, her hair drawn back like his mother’s.

“Near the beach. Edge of the lanai,” the captain said.

“Mai-tais at sunset,” Sharkey’s mother said. “Maybe we’ll see a green flash.”

But when they looked across the beach they saw a Hawaiian man in board shorts staring at them, a lei around his neck, and he too had a flower behind his ear. He walked toward the rail of the lanai.

“Aloha.” He was smiling. “How’s it?”

Uncle Sunshine, a softly smiling Uncle Sun, in a clean shirt—laughing, but respectful and a little subdued.

“I know this keiki,” he said.

Sharkey had wanted to keep Uncle Sunshine his secret, his other life, his real life—the tough kupuna teaching him moves on the board and insisting on his being in shape, guiding him, and counseling him in his dealings with the boys at school.

“He da kine—kolohe,” Uncle Sun said with a giggle.

It was a different Uncle Sunshine—a little silly, submissive, speaking in a broader comical pidgin, standing with his bony knees together, his dark sinewy arms folded, playing the role of a genial Beach Boy. Sharkey’s secret was safe.

“You know kolohe—mischeevious,” Uncle Sun explained.

“I hope you keep him out of trouble,” Sharkey’s mother said.

“He keep me out of trouble,” Uncle Sun said, saying tchrubble. “We talk story. We—”

Captain Van Buskirk said sharply, “You’ll have to give us some space. We haven’t ordered yet.”

And then Uncle Sun did an extraordinary thing—he apologized.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, and he saluted, saying, as he turned to walk away, “Me, I was military.”

“Thank you for your service.”

But it was too late—the captain had lost him, and the captain had failed Sharkey. What was apparent was that Uncle Sunshine had behaved like a colorful Hawaiian, goofy and a bit bumbling and inarticulate, and Sharkey held the captain responsible. So he would never know what Sharkey knew, that Uncle Sun was a brave big-wave surfer, a great teacher, a fierce soul, and a decorated veteran of battles in the Solomon Islands.

“He sweet on you mother,” Uncle Sun said the next time they met at Magic Island.

“How do you know?”

“My mana‘o. The way he sitting, how he stay. His feets. His hands. His eyes.”

But when Sharkey asked about the captain, his mother said, “I’m not dating him anymore.”

“He’s not interested?”