Ultimate Sports (14 page)

Forget sitting in the shade. Now David came early and did push-ups while he waited for the rest of us to show up. Or sit-ups, or lifted stones like dumbbells. I figured he had to be dead tired before he even got there, because he
worked—he had a job—which is more than I could say for the rest of us that summer. He worked for his father. Every now and then one of us would catch a glimpse of him, scowling in the front seat of his father’s beat-up truck that had Ford Electric painted on the side.

After a while, David Ford became “Shark Bait” to us, a name that meant, in a joking kind of way, that he was dangerously white. And he never complained about it. But then, a lizard made more noise than he did.

We heard a rumor that David and his mother had been seen at the hospital the week before. All the guys made up reasons for why they were there. Butchie thought maybe Mr. Ford had had a heart attack. Lanny thought it was probably a car wreck, and that’s how David got the sore eye. “Couldn’t be a wreck,” Butchie said. “The guy’s truck no got new dents.” Duck-Young said his cousin got in a wreck once.

“You guys really idiots,” Johnny said, breaking in.

“What?” Butchie said.

“I said you idiots. Shuddup, already. Leave the haole alone. You don’t know nothing.”

“And you do?” Butchie said, puffing up to Johnny. But not too close.

Johnny laughed, which made Butchie madder.

“Come on, you guys,” Lanny said, stepping between them. “We got a race coming up. We don’t need to fall apart now.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Come on, Butchie. Shake with Johnny.”

After a long burning glare, Butchie stuck out his hand.

Johnny spit in his own hand and grabbed Butchie’s before he could take it away.

“Confonnit,” Butchie said. “Shet!”

We all laughed, and Butchie went down to scrub his hand in the ocean.

•   •   •

For the next two weeks we worked until we had-it, until we dropped dead, almost. Two weeks of pain—the last two weeks before the state regatta, which this year was being held in Hilo. Canoe clubs from all over the islands would be there, some of them with world-class crews, not punk kids like us sixteens. Our club, Kai Opua, was one of the top three canoe clubs in the state… and we, the sixteen-and-unders, were its one embarrassment. We
had
to do well.

Other than what we’d heard from Johnny’s brother, we had no idea what our competition would be like. Mr. Freitas didn’t believe in telling us. He wanted us not to worry about that, just develop our strength and endurance, and get our timing right. When he said
Who can beat us?
the answer always had to be
Nobody
.

I had to admit, though, we were getting better. Shark Bait was doing his share. And so were the rest of us. Butchie even gave up checking out girls for a while. Everything would have been perfect, if Johnny hadn’t dislocated his middle finger punching a coconut tree… because of Mr. Ford.

David’s father came looking for him three days before the regatta. We’d just finished a killer open-ocean workout and were sprawled half dead on the beach when he pulled up in his truck. David flinched when he heard the truck door thump. Sometimes you can do that—recognize the sound of a familiar car door slamming shut.

Mr. Ford got out and studied the pack of kids on the beach. David didn’t sit up and wave at him or show him
where he was. In tact, he tried to sink down into the sand. But it didn’t work.

Mr. Ford spotted him and strode down to us. “Get in the car,” he said. “We got a job. I need your help.”

David hesitated, then said, “We—we’re not finished yet,” softly. “We have to go out again….”

Mr. Ford’s fist bunched up, like he was going to slug David or something.

David’s gaze fell. Small beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, just below his hairline. “The races are in three days… I…”

“Races? What races? You ain’t going to no races. Get in the car.”

David picked up his towel and headed toward the truck. They gunned away, the flapping tailgate hidden in a cloud of stinking smoke. Johnny swore and punched a coconut tree.

•   •   •

There were thirty-eight canoe clubs at the State Championships in Hilo, but the best ones, beside Kai Opua, were Kamehameha of Hilo, the Outrigger, and the Waikiki Surf Club. If we could beat any one of those, we would be heroes.

Reggie Hoang was back in number five, more nervous than we were depressed. I felt bad for him. Johnny told him more than once that he was taking a good man’s spot and that he’d better give it everything he had. Reggie said he’d try. Johnny just shook his head, and poor Reggie stared down at Hilo’s dirty-gray sand, probably praying for a miracle.

And a miracle came.

One hour before our race, Shark Bait strolled up out of
nowhere and stood over Reggie. “Coach wants you,” he said, and Reggie took off grinning like an idiot.

We all jumped up and slapped hands with Shark Bait, saying things like “You punk,” and “You gave us a scare, man.”

“I thought your father said you couldn’t paddle,” Johnny said.

“He changed his mind.”

“How you got here?” Lanny asked.

David stuck up his thumb.

Amazing. Almost a hundred miles, and the bugger hitchhiked. And
made
it. In time to race.

•   •   •

There was a charged sharpness in the air over Hilo Bay. It rose from the sand, from the mud, from the soil. It shot like dry lightning over the water and over the lush, green strip of land along the waterfront. Thousands of people mingled there, and watched, cooking on small hibachis… miles and miles of people, and smoky barbecues… and canoe clubs, clumped together in their various colors, rows of folding tables checkered with half-filled paper cups of lukewarm orangeade, the empties crushed on the grass; small kids running around like goats; victorious crews from early races walking around dazed by their good fortune, peeking over the tops of leis piled so high around their necks they could hardly see; parents, girlfriends, boyfriends, strangers, all waiting with leis hanging from their arms, waiting to congratulate their loved ones, win or lose….

Mr. Freitas, scowling… pacing…

At noon, our race was called. We got up, nervous as rats, and silently walked to the water.

Beyond, the ocean was calm and unusually blue for Hilo. I studied the buoy, the quarter-mile halfway point where we would turn and head back to finish. A half mile. And it would all be over. Months and months of practice to paddle one half mile.

Johnny dipped his ringers into the ocean and crossed himself. I did too, for good luck. My stomach turned when I slipped into the canoe, into my position. With slow, easy strokes, we paddled to the starting line. Nose to nose, a long line of canoes waited.

At the call, we raised our paddles and held them, poised above the water. In that moment I felt grief, and sadness… sadness that I had not done enough to prepare for this moment, had not worked hard enough, had not—

Pop!

Iwalani
leaped ahead, shooting away from the starting line, quick as a lizard’s tongue. I could see canoes on either side of me and hear paddlers grunting, fighting for position, setting a deadly pace. But our start was perfectly timed, and we shot forward with them. The question was, could we sustain it?

“Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Duck-Young called behind me, his rhythm becoming the only thought, the only point of focus, our common heartbeat. The canoe lunged forward in the smooth ocean of Hilo’s gigantic harbor, taking long, striding glides with each forward thrust of our six perfectly timed paddles. Reach, pull, release. Reach, pull, release. I had trouble concentrating. Shark Bait, hitchhiking, kept popping into my mind. Why did he do it? Why didn’t he just get on the bus with us? Shuddup! Concentrate!
“Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Two canoes ahead of us. Only two! And one neck and neck with us, trying to creep ahead.
“Reach it out!”
Johnny yelled.
“Pull! Pull!” My ribs
touched the gunnel with each entry, white water splashing, blurring my vision.
“Fourteen! Changed
Duck-Young called, and we all switched sides, swinging our paddles over the canoe without missing a beat.
“Hut! Hut!*
The rhythm—hypnotic, pulsing like the blood in my throat.

In minutes, it seemed, we were approaching the midpoint, the quarter-mile buoy, where we would turn and head back. Closer, closer. I could sense Lanny’s steering, and paddled wide to help make the turn. Smooth. Sweet. Staying with the leaders. Turning. Turning. Still two canoes ahead of us. But not too far. Turning, heading back. Lanny steering, Lanny the pro, Lanny the best ever, gliding away from the buoy, aiming toward home. The world felt unreal, everything silent, except for the knock of paddles against the hull. The forward surge. The grunt of breath on each entry. The thrust, the pull, the rhythm, the rhythm. The fluid, silky ocean. Concentrating, thinking of nothing but the rhythm, the energy of six. Six as one.

Only two canoes now, two in my eyes. The finish ahead, closer.
“Pull!”
Johnny shouted. Butchie, Duck-Young, Lanny, Shark Bait, me. Paddles thunking. One canoe falling back. Then the cheering… yelling… the sound of winning surging through me, lifting me, filling my rubbery arms, renewing them. One canoe to beat. One, one…

We crossed second, inches after Waikiki, their paddles held high in two hands, the sign of victory.

Then Outrigger.

Then Hilo.

Johnny was ecstatic. Mr. Freitas ran down and called us the best sixteens he’d ever coached. He told us he was going to take us all to Huggo’s Steak House when we got home. James came over and gave Johnny a bear hug and
called him a cock-a-roach. Shark Bait smiled for the first time. Duck-Young and Lanny lay grinning on the beach, and Butchie puffed up like a balloon fish and walked into a pack of girls, coming back with Linda Medieros, one of his old flames from Kawaihae.

I looked around for Dad, who was supposed to have come over with Mom after work.

Johnny, as always, had brought along a couple of bags of sunflower seeds. One of them he passed around to all of us. He split the other with Shark Bait, who had never eaten them before and spent more time spitting than enjoying the salty pleasures.

Then Mr. Ford showed up, mad as a volcano.

Luckily, Dad wandered over at the same time, so Mr. Ford didn’t make another stink scene. But he did drag David away.

David, we soon found out, had taken off without his father knowing it. Hitched a hundred miles. Starting before dawn. Shark Bait, who had worked his brains out to be good enough, strong enough. And had come through like diamonds.

We all walked with him to the Ford Electric truck, his father tailing us. Dad watched Mr. Ford, squinting at him. And so did Coach Freitas, who’d run over to see what was going on.

“How did he know you were here?” Butchie whispered to David.

“I left a note.”

“You left a
note
? Are you crazy?”

“No,” Johnny said, putting his hand on David’s shoulder. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Butchie shook his head. “You guys weird, man. Weird.”

Shark Bait opened the truck door and got in, then
thumped it shut. Mr. Ford, with a face that could kill, drove off in a hurry.

As they passed, David glanced over at us, a slight smirk growing on his face. In a slow, easy motion, he raised his hand above the window and flashed us a classic Johnny Bias Shaka sign, cool as deep water.

“Just for five minutes, I’d like to get my hands on that boy’s daddy,” Coach Freitas said.

“Don’t worry about that punk, Coach,” Johnny said softly. “His daddy can’t touch him.”

His daddy can’t touch him….

Dad put his hand on my shoulder as the truck sped away. As much as I hated to admit it, Johnny was right. When it came to guys like him—and David Ford—I didn’t know nothing about nothing.

How could I?

A descendant of a Hawaiian missionary, Graham Salisbury grew up on the islands of Oahu and Hawaii, where he played soccer and was a long-distance runner on the track team, becoming MVP twice. Like the boys in “Shark Bait,” he paddled. “I was the junkiest paddler in my age group,” he admits, “but all my buddies were very supportive.”

Mr. Salisbury is relatively new to the field of books for young adults; his second novel,
Under the Blood-Red Sun
, was published in 1994. Set in Pearl Harbor at the time of the Japanese attack, it is a story of friendship, trust, and loyalty, and family relationships are crucial to it.
Under the Blood-Red Sun
received the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction and was named an American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults, an American Library Association Notable Children’s Book, an International Reading Association Teachders’
Choice, and a
Booklist
Editors’ Choice. It also won the
Parents’ Choice
Honor Award.

Graham Salisbury’s first book,
Blue Skin of the Sea
, catapulted him into the forefront of publishing for young adults. Set in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii, where he grew up, and presented as a series of short stories,
Blue Skin of the Sea
traces the growth of a boy and his relationships with friends and family members as he learns to respect the sea and understand his fisherman father’s way of life.
Blue Skin of the Sea
was named an American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults and a
School library Journal
Best Book of the Year, and received the 1992 Bank Street College Child Study Book Award, the
Parents’ Choice
Award, the 1993 Oregon Book Award for Young Readers, and the Judy Lopez Book of the Year Award. Graham Salisbury was named the recipient of the PEN/Norma Klein Award as an emerging voice among American writers of fiction for children and young adults.

Educated at California State University, Northridge, and the holder of a Master of Fine Arts in writing from Vermont College of Norwich University, Mr. Salisbury has worked as a deckhand on a chartered deep-sea fishing boat, a skipper on a glass-bottom boat, a songwriter and musician in the rock group Millennium, a graphic artist, and an elementary-school teacher. Today, in addition to writing, he manages a handful of historic office buildings in Portland, Oregon, where he lives with his family. He still runs for exercise.