Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“Volcom Pipe Pro.”

Oh, man … he’s just a surfer .

“Get away from my boat, will ya?”

“We need to go to Moloka`i,” Dad says, a tremble in his voice. “We’ve been trying to leave here for three weeks.”

“Will you take us?” I ask. Dad shakes me, but I don’t care. “No one wants to steal your boat. Will you take us? We have food. We have iodide pills to stop the radiation. We’ll help you find more gas when we get there.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The guy takes another step closer. “I’m getting goddamned sick and tired of this. Can’t come ashore without someone begging for help. Get away from my boat. Grab your stuff and move along.”

Dad pulls the pistol from his hip. I can feel his quickened breathing. The gun wavers in his outstretched hand. The man hops backward and then steadies himself. He puts his hands up and smiles thinly. “Hey, come on, man. Don’t do this. Your daughter …”

“Dad,” I say.

“Shut up!” Dad shouts. The gun shakes at the end of his stiff arm. We fall silent. “Now, you can take us to Moloka`i, and then keep your boat. We’ll pay you in iodide. Or we’ll just take it. Up to you.”

“I don’t want this to end badly any more than you do, man. Just chillax, okay?” He’s slowly advancing. “Is there … is there radiation? Where’d you hear that?”

“Stop right there.” The surfer doesn’t listen. Dad raises the gun skyward and clicks the trigger. Nothing. The man rushes to tackle Dad. But Dad pushes the safety off with his thumb and pulls the trigger lower. A thunderous crack pounds against my ears. The bullet fires high over the surfer’s head. He stumbles backward. “Jesus Christ! All right.”

He looks behind him and glances at the boat, deliberating. “I’ll take you. Don’t screw with me, though; I need this boat. Okay?”

“We just want to get off O`ahu.” Dad unwraps his hand from around me and wipes his brow. “I promise. Now, we’re going to get in the boat. Don’t try anything like that again, okay? Once we’re in, you can come on board.”

“It took three days to siphon all this gas.”

“You can sit up front,” Dad continues. “I’ll drive. I’ll have the gun trained on you all day.”

“No worries, man. You win, all right?” The man stays back, glances nervously behind himself into the trees, and stands with his arms upraised.

My ears are ringing fiercely. I had no idea how loud a gun is. Dad directs me onto the boat, keeping an eye on both of us. “Stay at the back,” he says. I crouch in the boat and drop my backpack.

Dad steps into the boat and takes the console, his eyes on the surfer. He still has a shaky grip on the gun as he uses the other hand to flip the motor from neutral into reverse. The boat’s rear pulls away from the dock, and Dad steadies his free hand on the steering wheel. “Now jump onto the nose if you’re coming, and untie us.”

The stranger carefully walks forward, hops on, and turns his back to us, glancing at the trees, stalling.

“Now!” Dad cries.

The surfer loosens the rope from the pier and starts to pull it in.

Another man emerges from the trees with a heavy red gasoline tank. He drops it and reaches for his own pistol.

“Dad! Gun!” I shout.

The surfer yells, “Hurry!” and turns, rising, about to fling himself at Dad.

Dad ducks, punches the throttle downward. We’re in reverse, and the surfer falls backward into the water. Gunfire echoes in my ears. I have no idea where it’s coming from.

A bullet hole materializes next to my foot, and I yelp. Dad flips the throttle all the way forward. The boat slams to a halt, churning the water behind me white, and then accelerates forward. I grab on to a compartment to keep from tumbling out.

The gunfire continues. Dad crouches low but never lets go of the wheel. He reaches across his body and fires blindly at the shore. I glance back as we race away. The gunfire pops continue, and I stare dumbly at the man on the shore with his arm outstretched, too confused to realize that he’s firing directly at us.

The canal is straight and narrow. We race down the center. Dad slows only when a sharp bend approaches. He takes the turn and then pushes the throttle forward again.

My heart stops. There’s a wet stain spreading outward from a small tear in the back of his shirt.

“Dad, you’ve been shot!” I cry.

“Lei, sit down!” he shouts. “Sit down.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” I whimper, hands to my mouth.

“I’m okay. I’m not shot.” Dad glances back at me. “You’re spooked, that’s all.”

I shake my head. The back of his shirt near the right shoulder has grown a dark, tear-shaped stain.

We come to the fork in the canal. Dad turns left and speeds up. Soon we fly under a road, past Kailua’s formerly famous white-sand beach, and out into the bay. Dad cranks the throttle and we scream away from shore.

Ten minutes later he slows the boat to a crawl on the open ocean and checks the back of his right shoulder with his left hand. His fingers come away red.

He half smiles, stunned. “I’m shot.”

I can’t believe this is happening. No. Take it back!

“You’re right.” He looks around, as if checking the rest of his body for holes. “Are you okay? Are you hit?” His voice rises.

I shake my head, but then I check. “No, nothing. Dad … is it bad? We need to get you to the hospital.”

Dad shakes his head. “We’re not going back. We’re finally out.”

“Dad! Don’t be stupid.” His image grows blurry as my eyes well with tears.

“I’ll live. We’ll make it to Moloka`i.”

“Dad …”

“Lei, please, sit down! ” He winces.

I plop down and run my hands through my hair. The waves are big, and the boat, crawling forward, rocks back and forth. “Is it still in there? Aren’t you going to get infected?”

Dad doesn’t answer. I wait for what feels like minutes. He’s deep in thought, at war with himself.

“Please, Dad.”

“There are no hospitals to run to, Lei!” he shouts. He sits down next to me. The boat rises over a giant wave and sinks down into the next rolling trough. “I don’t think I’m hit anywhere important. We have to gun it for Moloka`i, okay? See it, there?”

He points east, to a faded mound of land that looks farther away than thirty miles.

“If we gun it, we can be there in an hour and a half. Twenty miles an hour, give or take? Right? I’ll take it easy, okay? We’ll find help there.”

“Dad, the base is only ten minutes away. We know they’ll have equipment.” My heart is pounding. He’ll say no. There’s nothing I can do.

He stands up, trying to hide a grimace, takes the wheel, pushes the throttle forward, and steers toward the distant break in the horizon.

“We could’ve gotten away if I had listened to you.”

“Look, we got away, Lei. We did it.” He pauses. “Your way would have been better.”

I search the boat. Empty, aside from the three gas tanks. No life jackets, no water, no first-aid kit. I don’t see any oars. Dad can’t swim now. And even if he could, he’s covered in blood, which would delight the sharks. If we don’t make it to land on our first attempt, we’ll be at the mercy of the tides and the currents. We could drift out to sea.

I approach Dad, try to examine his shoulder tenderly. His shirt is sticking to his skin.

He barks. “Ow. Please. Don’t touch.”

“I just want to try to stop the bleeding.”

“No. Not right now.”

Forty-five minutes crawl by, and though O`ahu has grown distant, Moloka`i doesn’t look any larger.

The waves are taller than our boat. I never could have guessed that the open ocean would be this powerful. I’m sure that every swell that rushes toward us will capsize us. The boat muscles through but sways alarmingly.