But each time Hunter returned to Hawaii was a reality check, both men older: Sharkey, the reflective nonreader, watchful, cross-legged in a yoga pose in the hotel suite, beside Hunter the writer, agitated and explosive. The gypsy and the outlaw, Hunter said, the one man who admired him without wanting his life. Hunter’s life was big enough, full enough, and Sharkey looked forward to Hunter’s arrival when, around Christmas, the Honolulu Marathon was about to start and the winter swell was building on the North Shore. Hunter eager too, so he said, to hear Joe’s stories, to watch football in his hotel suite, to snort coke and drink whiskey, usually all at the same time.

“Mushrooms,” Hunter said one of those times. “See if you can find some.”

Sharkey asked Moe Kahiko, who said, “Got choke. Got plenny,” and brought him some in a plastic bag, saying “They magic. Eat one or two.” He took one from the bag, a damp gnome’s cap, holding it by its stem, stroking the gills on its underside. “Try eat.”

“What’s it like?”

“Insane.”

“Maybe later.”

“More better when they not come dry.”

Sharkey ate one that night, chopping it into small pieces and chewing a small handful. Then he sat, and the glow heated his head, he saw a sparkle in his house he’d never seen before, chairs and tables tingling. He was uplifted, he was on a wave, and the wave swelled, became phosphorescent and didn’t break but carried him through the luminous air. He walked to the lanai to enjoy the entanglement of starlight, whirls and blobs blazing in the night sky, and his body shriveled so small his muscle was tissue-thin. He thought, When have I ever been this happy? He sat weightless on his favorite chair and was propelled, steering it through the widening room.

Overtaken by exhaustion at the end, he dozed, and the next day asked Moe where he’d found the mushrooms.

“You know where you get da kine cows in Mokūle‘ia, near Dillingham? Plenny there, after one big rain. They growing around the cow shit.”

“I want to see.”

They went, Sharkey and Moe, one day after a sudden shower, hiking up the hill to the pastures where cattle were grazing. As Moe had promised, the small tawny gnome caps had sprouted on the fresh cowpats.

“Psilocybin,” Hunter said over the phone. “Hot damn. That’s the mother lode. Save some for me.”

Sharkey anticipated an outing, a mushroom hunt, and planned it carefully to please Hunter. He’d take him for lunch in Hale‘iwa, he’d supply baskets for collecting the mushrooms, they’d go to Sharkey’s house at Jocko’s and eat them, getting high while watching waves—a field trip followed by an evening of visions.

“I hate hiking,” Hunter said. “Fucking mosquitoes.”

“It’s an easy walk,” Sharkey said.