Half way to Hawaii Read online

  All individuals depicted in this book are purely fictional – except in those cases where they really do exist. In some instances, I slightly changed the character or gave them a different name than they have in real life.

  The main plot is a product of my imagination and some true side stories. Somewhere between my convoluted brain and my typing fingers, these side stories may have also changed. Some still happened 100 per cent as you will read them; to others I have added a bit or left something out.

  To summarize: everything happened exactly like this. Or differently.

  Chapter 1

  Lieutenant Rogers opens his eyes. It’s dark and the drumming noise of a solid marine diesel engine is pounding in his ears.

  He has been held in the engine room of a freighter for almost a week now, bound at both the hands and feet. Rogers is not alone in his prison: Chang is just a few feet away. He was Rogers’ liaison at an undercover investigation by the US military in Asia. The pair still doesn’t really know what actually went wrong.

  They had dinner in a bar in Shanghai the previous Saturday to discuss the latest developments of their case. The next morning they awoke in their prison. Some kind of drug must have been slipped into their food. But how could this have happened? Their mission was top secret.

  Someone slides food for them through the door. Then the light goes on for five minutes. That’s all, no more contact with their kidnappers. They don’t know who abducted them, nor did they get any demands for money or information.

  But now they hear footsteps coming closer. The door swings open and a tall, athletic American enters the room followed by a small, but strong Asian man.

  Blinded by the light, the two prisoners turn away. Chang’s demand for an explanation gets answered with a rough kick into his stomach.

  Still tied up, the men drag them through an aisle on the ship’s deck. The sun has already vanished into the sea leaving a spectacular blood-red horizon. A red helicopter with American identifications is on deck – one of the small, fast and agile ones, like the military uses – its engine and blades still running. It has either just landed or is ready for take off.

  A helicopter’s range is pretty limited. After six days at sea starting from Shanghai, they could not have reached the US mainland yet. There’s only one place where this helicopter could have come from: Hawaii.

  A man hops off the helicopter.

  Chang and Rogers are secured against the railing by their guards and kept quiet. They are so frightened, they can barely stand upright. Is the man the international drug dealer they have been hunting?

  Their anticipation is confirmed when he comes closer and they recognize his face. In that moment Rogers suddenly realizes: he will not survive this day.

  The drug lord is totally relaxed. As he comes closer, a triumphant smile spreads across his face. Two feet in front of them, he reaches for his gun and with a sudden movement he shoots Chang twice in the head. Before his dead body can even hit the ground, the guards throw Chang backwards over the railing and into the ocean.

  Rogers is stunned. With eyes wide open his scream constricts silently in his throat.

  "Good evening, Lieutenant Rogers. I would be lying if I told you I’m happy to see you here. We’ve known each other for quite a while now. But still, you impressed me! No investigator, especially not such a young one, ever got as close as you did. Of course you don’t know much and are surprised to see me, but you were just about to find out everything. The message you sent to the headquarters in Honolulu last week was deeply disturbing. This forced me to take action. Well, what you don’t know is that your message never reached its recipient and yet it will cost you your life.”

  “Why?” Rogers manages to respond, his eyes not leaving those of his assailant.

  “That doesn’t matter. You won’t have a chance to tell anybody anyways. Lieutenant Rogers, out of respect for the achievements of your work, I won’t bump you off like a stray dog. You get the chance to fight for your life,” he says to Rogers then adds towards the Asian, “Liau, remove his handcuffs!”

  After the restraints are off, the boss slowly raises his gun and pulls the trigger twice. The bullets strike through Rogers' shoulders and crush both of his joints.

  The lieutenant can’t move his arms anymore. He can’t even press his hands on the aching wounds. Pain and shock force him down on his knees. He is pale and his eyes glaze over with a blank, empty stare. Without the grip of the two guards to support him, he would have simply collapsed face first into the steel floor.

  "Wake him up," the boss says quietly.

  One pours water over Rogers' head. After a moment, they lift him back onto his legs. A bit of life returns into his eyes: the first shock is over. He feels violent pain, but is conscious now and can think more clearly.

  "Well," says the boss, "I want you aware of everything that happens now!"

  "Throw him overboard!"

  Without another word, the boss turns away and heads towards the helicopter. Heaving Rogers over the railing, the helpers follow, and the trio climbs aboard.

  Rogers falls, hits the water hard and starts to sink. He immediately starts kicking his legs. His arms are useless, but his legs bring him back to the surface.

  The last thing he sees before the freighter vanishes into the darkness is the red helicopter lifting off. The boss had just come to kill him and Chang.

  Chapter 2

  "We have reached our cruising altitude of 32,000 feet and the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. For those who wish to participate in our Halfway-to-Hawaii game, we took off at 14:53 local time in Los Angeles. We currently have a slight headwind from the northwest with a force of 34 knots. During the second half of our flight, it will change to a westerly direction with wind speeds around 15 knots. The travel speed of our Boeing 767-300 is 458 knots. Local time in Hawaii is two hours behind LA. The passenger who comes the closest to calculating when we have covered half our travel distance of 2,496 miles at Hawaiian local time, will win a bottle of champagne and a free sandwich.”

  Who could resist such a bounty to join in this wicked game?

  After 13 hours on airplanes, I'm bored out of my mind. I’ve probably listened to my complete iPod playlist several times over and watched every single movie offered with the onboard entertainment. Thankful for a change, I pick up the pencil and begin to calculate.

  My overweight neighbor does the same. He already noted all the stats the charming flight attendant mentioned and is highly motivated.

  I didn’t write anything down, but I know we will touch down around 6:45 p.m. The flight takes about six hours. So half the distance should be covered around 3:30 p.m. give or take a bit. So I guess 3:24 p.m. – because of the headwind of course.

  My work completed, it's time for a nap. As I dose off, my neighbor is still frantically calculating winds, speeds and time differences.

  A tinny, rattling voice from the loudspeaker snatches me out of the dream world and brings me rudely back to reality. The winner of the game is being congratulated. Half the travel distance was covered at exactly 3:25 p.m. and 14 seconds. The winner is the doughboy next to me who is clearly happy about the sandwich. His bet was 3:23 p.m. and 30 seconds.

  My brain is still half asleep, but it eventually dawns on me: my guess was between the winner and the correct time! I look around, suddenly feeling grumpy. I was looking forward to the champagne; hopping off the plane on Maui and popping the cork while leaving the airport - how cool would that have been?

  Ah, there it is! The official Halfway-to-Hawaii voting slip is still lying next to me. Apparently I fell asleep before could I give to the flight attendant. Oh great, why didn’t the stupid trolley dolly just grab it? I’m sitting in the aisle seat
for crying out loud!

  Touch down. Kahului airport. Finally!

  On my way to the to baggage claim, I use the escalator to get down to ground level. Above the departure gate there’s a large banner ad saying: “Maui – Voted Best Island in the World!”

  I’d vote for Maui for sure. I just love this place.

  But whether a representative survey supports the statement on the ad remains unknown. My statistics professor at university used to say: “Do not trust any statistics you did not fake yourself.” He's right!

  I’m lucky at the baggage carousel and even my surf stuff is already waiting for me out in the hall. With my travel bag on my back and dragging the surf equipment behind me, I cross the street to the parking lot. I quickly double-check the text message from the car rental company with the promising name "Friendly Frank" telling me where to find my luxury vehicle.

  On the way, I watch the other passengers who have to wait in line at the counters of the big car-rental companies in order to get shuttled to the car rental office behind the parking lot, only to wait in line again. In about an hour, they will finally sit in their classic poser rental cars (usually a Ford Mustang) and head out to their five-star hotel.

  In the described parking spot, I find an ‘85 Toyota Tercel. Between a few rust spots, the original sky-blue paint is still recognizable. Wonderful, exactly my car! The owner will not notice if the wheels have a few more bumps in four weeks. And even if he does, he won’t care.

  I drop the surf luggage with a loud crash on top of the roof. You don’t need roof racks on Maui. The car is unlocked and on the passenger seat is the key, the parking card and - despite the "no public drinking" rule - an ice-cold welcome beer. Gotta love Friendly Frank!

  Leaving the parking lot, I wonder if my fellow passengers will find such a nice gift in their brand new rental car when they get in it in about 55 minutes. They definitely would have earned it after all the waiting…

  Just awesome! Finally back on Maui. I instantly relax, put the windows down and inhale deeply. This air is unique: hot and humid, it smells of red soil, forest, sugar cane and salt. I should fill a preserving jar with it and take it to a real wine connoisseur's nose; a real French one perhaps. Wine connoisseurs know adjectives normal people have never heard of. It would be pretty interesting to know how someone like that would describe this air. Unfortunately, I can hardly speak a word of French.

  I turn onto the Old Hana Highway. It beautifully meanders close along the runway. The term "highway" is out of place here. In Germany, you wouldn’t even call it a country road. Of course there is also the new Hana Highway; a four-lane highway where you’re allowed to drive a mind-blowing 55 miles per hour. That is about half the cruising speed of an average German on the autobahn. But here, even that feels way too stressful for me.

  After ten minutes, I arrive in Paia, a small friendly village with lots of hippies and do-gooders. I once met the great-grandson of Captain James Cook here. At least that’s what he claimed when I passed by him as he was sitting in the front yard of the Bank of Hawaii, smoking pot and babbling to himself.

  It’s good to see no major changes here. On the left-hand side is the “Flatbread,” a good pizza joint and one of the few places where you can have a beer. On the right-hand side, “Paia Fishmarket,” a MUST on every second evening – there is no better burger in the world. A little further up on the right side is “Jacques,” a restaurant with a sushi counter, waitresses with plus twos and the place to be on a Friday night.

  Well, it seems I have to think of something else for my Fridays; Jacques is shut down.

  Shortly after, I pass “Mama's Fish House,” one of the world's best seafood restaurants. Unfortunately, the prices are accordingly high, so I’ve only had the pleasure to dine there three times.

  Behind Mama's and through palms, bushes and houses, I finally get a free view of the sea. The Pacific. This is the reason I’ve come here every year for nearly the last 20 years.

  Two thousand, five hundred miles north of here, the Aleutian Islands part the Bering Sea from the Pacific Ocean. From autumn to spring, one low-pressure system after another comes through there. The forces of nature erupt into violent storms and pile up huge waves. These travel south towards Hawaii. Along the way there is nothing that can slow these monsters down.

  In the summer, constant trade winds are blowing on Maui, but the sea is flat. In the wintertime, huge waves crash on the rocky coast, but there’s no wind. In spring and autumn, there are usually some winter swells hitting Hawaii, and with a little luck, you also have trade winds. Perfect conditions for windsurfing. It’s dark already, but I can see the white water of the breaking waves and hear a muffled roar.

  Next, I pass Hookipa Beach Park, the most famous windsurfing beach in the world. I’m considering making a short stop to have a cool aloha beer at the beach to celebrate my arrival. But I’m tired after 30 hours of travelling and the sea view in the dark is rather poor.

  Five minutes later, I arrive at Dave’s and immediately feel at home. I’ve stayed here for the past few years whenever I'm on Maui. Dave's dog Hiina greets me wet and happy, while my other four-legged friend Sparky doesn’t even bother to stand up. Apparently the dogs consider me part of the family. If a stranger steps foot on the property, they go absolutely berserk.

  I get my bag and go up into the apartment. After another aloha beer on the balcony, it's time to finally stretch out on a real bed.

  My buddy Steve is still sitting in a cramped plane seat and has to wait until tomorrow before he can stretch out again.

  It’s 5:30 a.m. Maui time, 5:30 p.m. in Germany. I'm totally awake. My biorhythm is resentful and unwilling to drop the matter of the 12-hour time difference just like that.

  Outside, it's pitch black. The sun will rise in about an hour. I'm hungry. Of course: due to the ignorance of the trolley dolly, the fat American got my sandwich in the plane!

  A definite bonus in the States is the 24-hour supermarkets! On the other hand, if you’re an island in the middle of nowhere, you have to supply a permanent access to staple food. All European and many Asian travelers arrive at night, so it’s Hawaii’s damn duty to have 24-hour supermarkets!

  Another advantage of these supermarkets: fresh food counters with a wide selection of sandwiches, and hot and cold dishes. Germans can really learn something here: in most German supermarkets there are only ingredients – you buy food-construction-kits. In America, you can get finished products.

  I think one reason why McDonalds is successful in Germany is the drive-thru. If you’re on the road and get hungry, you’re almost forced to use their drive-thru. A stop at the supermarket would certainly be healthier and also cheaper, but would only be possible if you have half an hour to spare and happen to have dishes and cutlery in your car. Even then, you only get cold food.

  Hey, you German supermarket managers! Come here and see how a supermarket should be run – this is what we want!

  I buy basic stuff for a healthy breakfast at the grocery store and go to McDonalds. After all, in Germany it would be time for a warm dinner now and it is important to adapt to the local culture. “Integration” is the key word.

  On my way back, the sun rises and there are already sixty surfers in Hookipa. In Hawaii, windsurfing is permitted after 11 a.m., after surfers and spear fishers spare the water. This is why I windsurf – I’ve never been good at getting up early.

  After a quick digestive nap, I arrive in Sprecks around half past twelve. The full name of the beach is “Spreckelsville,” and is the other good place for windsurfing, besides Hookipa. The locals used to call it "Sprecken-Sie-Deutsch-Ville" (Do-you-speak-German-Ville) because of the many Germans here. Funny enough, the beach and the surrounding area are actually named after a German. Claus Spreckels came from the German city of Cuxhaven. In the late 1870s, he controlled the lion’s share of the sugar business in Hawaii and called 40,000 acres of land his own.

  Today, you can’t assign a single nation to the b
each. Not because there are so many different nations frolicking around – no – more because there’s hardly anybody here at all. There are only three other cars in the parking lot.

  Amazingly, a fixed basic crew of interesting people has formed in Sprecks: a small, American masseuse, whose best years are long gone; a policeman from Berlin, who slogs through night shifts in order to come to Maui several times a year; a Swiss couple, both ski instructors, who spend the summer on Maui; a German pensioner who previously owned a travel agency; a dubious middle-aged Israeli with long hair; and finally, a horny female anesthetist working in Kahului Hospital. I honestly wouldn’t want to be caught defenseless in a hospital bed on her shift.

  Just as I park my Toyota, I hear wild honking, followed by the sound of skidding tires on gravel. With all four wheels jamming, a Jeep Wrangler comes to a halt next to me. Out pops – none other than – Steve.

  "Hey Tom, you old bastard, saving money on your rental car again?" he yells at me. Tact has never been his strong suit.