Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“We’re doing everything we can to sort it out, ma’am. Just be patient. A few of our computers are up, but the records were online, and we’re having to manually arrange …”

My attention shifts to a young husband trying to calm his wife. “… there’s nowhere to plug into, Molly.”

“I don’t know how much longer we can wait.” The wife holds a toddler in her arms, and she’s almost in tears.

“Just …” Her husband glances around in defeat. He’s holding on to a device connected to a tiny mask by a coiled hose.

“Excuse me,” an older man says. He’s guarding a phone plugged into the wall. “Is that a nebulizer? Do you need to use it?”

The parents nod. The mother says, “Our boy has asthma. He hasn’t had his treatment today.”

“Oh, well, here you go! Why didn’t you say something?” The older man yanks his phone charger from the socket. “Use this.”

We step into the elevator; the door shuts.

I try to imagine needing electricity to take my meds. That poor boy.

The elevator jolts but continues rising. I laugh nervously. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“No. But neither is a seizure in the eighth-floor stairwell.”

“Oh.” Why did he have to bring that up?

Dad and I pack our bags. He occasionally pauses to go out on the lanai, looking out at the sailboats and the yachts in the bay milling about like students in a crowded school hall waiting for the first bell to ring. He’s deep in thought.

I examine the water, looking for signs of the tsunami. There’s debris washed up on the beach, but no obvious destruction. Lucky for Waikīkī that the east side of the island absorbed most of the wave energy. But what if something happens on this side?

A few surfers glide back and forth on the gentle waves, and I can feel what it’s like. Cool water. Breeze. Salty taste.

I can find that back on the Big Island, too, without nineteen thousand hotel windows facing me.

I finish zipping my pack, and Dad suggests that we grab one last meal before heading off. I can tell that he’s as reluctant to execute this crazy plan as I am.

“I’m starving, Dad, but we have plenny snacks. We can skip it.”

“Better to eat now.”

Dad and I sit at a cantina near the beachside pools. Both of us face the bay. Any hint of rising waters and we bolt back up to floor twelve.

The surf looks perfect for me. Not too big, not too small, spaced far enough apart to make getting out past the swell easy.

“I should be surfing right now.”

“Lei, please.”

“You got to surf on this trip.”

“Just … order something, will you?”

“Dad, I know I wouldn’t actually be going out there. I just don’t know why you have to get all high and mighty about it.”

“How else am I supposed to react? You’re an epileptic. Your mom and I breathe into paper bags whenever you surf. Don’t you realize that? I never should have taught you how to do it. I should have known …”

“What?”

“That you’d fall in love with it, just like your old man.”

I cross my arms. “You use the same excuse for not letting me drive. Great.”

“Lei!”

I’m silent, staring out at the waves.

“Come on,” he says kindly. “Let’s eat, okay?”

I open a menu.

There’s a note taped on the inside of the first page:

Sorry for the inconvenience, but we must regrettably double the menu prices across the board in order to remain in operation today

.

Mahalo for your understanding ,

—Management

Dad says, “Order anything you want, Lei. Eat up.”

“Fine, I’ll have two of everything.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “Meals may get scarce before things improve. Good thing we stocked up at Costco.”

At the next table, four men in company polo shirts bark at their waiter for more chips and salsa. The waiter nods at them as he approaches us. A Hawaiian with a battered smile, he musters his best aloha.

Dad says, “Thanks for keeping things running for yet another day. I hope those fellows are tipping you well.”

The waiter smiles. “ Mahalo , sir.”

Dad says, “We’ll start with your biggest plate of nachos, and a liliko`i and mango margarita.”

I order a hearty carnitas meal. We sit back and watch families play in the long string of pools. The kids are having a blast. The parents all look like they’re Bill Murray caught in Groundhog Day .

When does a vacation in paradise start to grow old?

Today, apparently.

There are even more yachts anchored in the bay now, like some sort of Pacific fleet of millionaires has arrived to launch a surprise attack on Honolulu. A military helicopter buzzes low on its way toward Pearl Harbor.

“We should try those yachters,” I say.

“Sounds good. I hope we can figure something out without too much hassle.”

The four men are loud enough to overhear.

“That was no presidential bunker. He would have had a room set up to look like the Oval Office, if he were down in some compound. Did you see that curtain? Thrown up to keep us from knowing he was in a cave.”

“Why does he get to run off to safety while we’re left to … pound mai tais on the beach?”

They all laugh.

“He knew it was going to happen as early as Sunday night, right? Canceled big events in Miami.”

“What if China has some new bug they used to coordinate a satellite attack? They could have been planning it for years.”

“Or an electromagnetic pulse. But none of that explains a tsunami.”

“Could nuclear bombs interfere with electronics and cause an earthquake?”

“I don’t know. That doesn’t sound right, either, though. We still have hair.”

“There was the meteor. And lots of falling stars the past few nights. Maybe we’re going through an asteroid belt, like the Millennium Falcon .”

“Still doesn’t explain the electronics.”

“No. Dark matter? A black hole? Or a Stargate! Alien invasion. The green haze is spaceship exhaust.”

“We’re not in a movie, pal. I just want to get on a plane. I’m ready to empty my pockets to one of those boats over there.”

“And how many do you think could make it twenty-five hundred miles to the mainland without GPS?”

“How could you miss it? Point east and go.”

“With what fuel?” one snaps. “You going to help crew a sailboat?”

“Sure!”

“I’d rather take my chances with a native. Sail by the stars. If they could leave Tahiti a thousand years ago and hit Hawai`i on a canoe, my money’s on the locals.”

Our waiter arrives at their table. He drops off another round of mai tais and chips, saying, “Better watch out. What makes you think the ‘natives’ would help you get anywhere?” He’s smiling.

The other three rock with laughter.

The first guy isn’t laughing. “Jesus, what is this? Where’s your manager?”

“Probably dealing with another asshole. Get your own chips next time. They’re right over there.” He leaves, smiling.

“Jerk!” the guy shouts.

I share a stunned look with Dad. “Just ignore them,” he says. “Let’s move.”

We choose another table. I stare at the sea, thinking about the first Hawaiians, the ones who arrived from Tahiti, like the guy mentioned. Why did they come here? Why did they leave home? How scary the voyage must have been—and how miraculous when they found these shores.

The waiter brings us nachos and Dad’s margarita. Dad gives him a high five and we all share a knowing smile.

It is a good thing .

“What?” I ask Dad.

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you say something?”