She said, “Because you have no ambition.”

How wrong she was; yet he would never have been able to explain what he felt. He was now sixteen years old. To say, “I’m going to be a big-wave surfer” was preposterous, something like saying, “I’m going to write a book.”

“So what will you do about money?” he imagined her saying.

“I’ll go on the tour. Prize money,” was the reply he did not dare to make. “Maybe get some endorsements.”

His mother had a peculiar mocking laugh, like a parrot squawk, which she would have used on him, hearing that, her mouth wide open, the roots of her teeth exposed.

Uncle Sunshine did not mock. He had faith in Sharkey’s ability, but such faith was oppressive too—it was also a burden, it came with high expectations. What was the answer? To dream, to harbor his secrets and keep them pure; to avoid revealing anything of his yearnings or his self-belief. The Colonel had been right: No friends. Keep to yourself. Trust no one. Find your own way down the face of the wave.

Harry Ho called him. Harry always felt he owed Sharkey a favor, because way back when Dr. Emmett Chock had asked him to name the Punahou boys involved in drugs—the group of stoners that smoked after school—Sharkey had shrugged and said nothing, refusing to cooperate, hardly acknowledging the question. And for his refusal he had been expelled, condemned to Roosevelt High School and the gangs and “fucken haole.”

“I could ask for the day off,” Harry said. “Something like compassionate leave. Say it’s a family matter. And it’s kind of true. You’re like ohana.”

It sounded to Sharkey like pity, or an obligation. Sharkey hated hearing it. Harry had plans to surf and was competent, but always put his schoolwork ahead of surfing, and that meant he would never be a great surfer—he was not wholehearted, he’d be a weekend surfer like his father, who was a dentist.

“I changed my mind,” Sharkey said. “I’m not going.”

“Really?” Harry was silent a moment, then said brightly, “Okay. Keep in touch.”

Harry’s tone had changed. He was relieved; he had not wanted to take a day off. Sharkey had spared him—not as a favor; he had decided that he didn’t want to surf with him, he needed to be alone, to concentrate, to make his mistakes without witnesses, or friends, or antagonists.

He skipped school; he borrowed his mother’s car. Driving along the freeway past the exit sign, FORT SHAFTER, he mourned his father and at the same time was rueful, knowing that being a mediocre student, not aspiring to the academy—he’d never get in anyway—he would have disappointed the man, who had had hopes of Sharkey being a soldier.