The canoes appeared off the southwest tip of Moloka’i as little more than a pair of dots against a rolling backdrop of inky-black water and scattered whitecaps. He’d been watching since sunrise, monitoring their approach from his rocky perch over the span of several hours. By midmorning, they were close enough to make out individual occupants.
Ruan raised his binoculars and brought them into focus, confirming what he already knew. His new friends were back. The same group of fishermen had been making regular crossings every few days for nearly two months, invading his island to cast their nets along its southern shore.
Aside from the considerable distance they traveled, there was nothing remarkable about his unwelcome visitors. Their two-man outriggers, clothing, and gear were typical of what he’d observed among the locals when he first arrived. Maybe they were just looking for the best place to fish, but the hairs pricking up on the back of his neck told him otherwise. It felt like a recon operation. No matter how good the fishing, it couldn’t justify an eight-hour trip across the Ka’iwi Channel.
He pulled a worn map from his ruck and laid it out, revealing a scattering of hand-marked villages that no longer existed on a printed backdrop of places that never would—not here, at least. Placing a finger where they’d set up last time, on the reef off Queen’s Beach, he traced it along Waikiki Bay to a spot directly below his lookout. If their pattern held, that’s where they’d cast their nets.
With a rumble in his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten since before dawn, Ruan pushed back from the edge on his belly and eased himself out of sight below the ridgeline before sitting up. An artifact of his training, unnecessary under the circumstances, he exercised the stealthy maneuver without thought.
Reaching into his pack, he retrieved a beat-up thermos and a neatly wrapped banana leaf packet. As he took a sip of water, he imagined a cup of steaming black coffee. Did he even remember the taste of coffee, or had his mind gradually replaced it with some new flavor to supplement a fading memory?
The mixture of poi and dried fish, serving more as fuel than food, proved equally uninspiring. He picked it from the leafy pouch with his fingers and dumped the remaining morsels into his mouth before washing it down with another gulp of water. Then, laying back against the incline of the ridge, he settled into a state of restful alertness.
Ruan’s eyes blinked open twenty minutes later. He rolled onto his belly and crested the ridge to see where his friends were.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Although not the highest peak on the island, the south-facing promontory made an ideal place to keep watch. The southwest quadrant of O’ahu lay before him, offering a clear view of several places where visitors might choose to come ashore, should they be foolish enough. He crawled forward on his elbows, not wanting to draw attention with sudden movement.
The fishermen had arrived, positioning their outriggers about a hundred meters apart on the far side of the reef, where the ocean floor dropped off, and the fishing was especially good. Ruan studied them through his binoculars, looking for clues in their gear or behavior that could betray their purpose.
On the nearest boat, one man swung a weighted net over his head, releasing it at just the right moment. The angular momentum opened it to a near-perfect circle by the time it splashed down on the water. He and his companion worked in unison to haul it back in, dumping its writhing contents into their canoe. They squatted down to examine the catch, throwing back whatever they deemed unworthy of keeping. If acting a part, they were convincing.
Occasionally, the men yelled back and forth between the two boats and shared a laugh. He imagined they were mocking each other’s fishing prowess, or perhaps commenting about who may have seduced whose sister the night before. Even if he could hear them from such a distance over the roiling surf, he’d never bothered to learn their language.
With little else to keep him occupied, Ruan kept watch from his hidden perch as the sun climbed to its midday apex. After four hours of fishing, it was nearly time for his visitors to haul in their nets one last time and start the journey home. It had been a productive day, and they’d filled both canoes with glistening fish of all colors and shapes to take back to their families on the other side of Moloka’i.
The two boats moved alongside each other, and the men chatted as they passed around food and gourds of fresh water. After finishing their meal, they stowed the remaining loose gear and retrieved their paddles for the long trip home.
Ruan’s shoulders stiffened as the fisherman broke from their established routine, turning westward to follow the shoreline instead of heading back home. He edged his way along the ridge line to keep them in sight, hoping they would turn south. Instead, they continued past Waikiki Bay and disappeared into the mouth of Pearl Harbor. With such a large catch, it could only mean they planned to come ashore—and stay awhile. Perhaps they needed a reminder of why their people had abandoned O’ahu in the first place.
The elevation difference wasn’t that much—a bit over two hundred meters from the top of the ridge down to the flat, grassy patch where Ruan had built his hut. He’d made the steep decline of tight switchbacks and near-vertical faces passable using makeshift bamboo ladders bound with coconut fiber. Navigating it quickly and efficiently, but without undue haste, he made a disciplined descent to the isolated plateau he’d called home for ten years.
His heart pounded by the time he reached the bottom—more from the promise of imminent contact than from exertion. A plan was already taking shape by the time he reached his hut.
