Dragons Awakening

If only he could float forever. The Pacific Ocean swelled beneath Akolo Duboff, who straddled his surfboard, inhaling the delicious Hawaiian brine. Out here, the roar of the surf against the beach faded to background music. Troubles which anchored him on dry ground faltered beneath the relentless tide. The brilliant sky and warm water, far from Kilauea’s ever-present shadow, provided refuge, welcome solitude.

He stared into the blue-green depths. A rush of thought waves, not his own, resonated beneath him. Akolo pushed the invisible fingers of his mind toward the creature. A sea turtle. He wasn’t alone after all. Inside the minute brain of the turtle, thoughts of food took precedence. If only his life could be so simple.

“Come up here,” Akolo whispered, not that his voice had any effect. Years of practice wrapping his thoughts around those of animals taught him his voice meant nothing in this situation. Akolo pushed his desire into the turtle’s mind, gaining control over the simplistic animal.

A few inches from Akolo’s knee, a leathery head popped above the glistening water. Akolo slid his fingers over the slippery shell. Amazing. The patterns engraved in the surface showed masterful artistry. Turtle and boy floated side-by-side, soaking up the peace of the moment.

Plop. Splash. The turtle dove beneath the water. Akolo furrowed his brow. He hadn’t sent the turtle away. The tail gyrated, and the creature disappeared toward deeper water.

Akolo searched the immediate area with his mind, seeking the brain waves of a predator. Nothing but a few schools of fish swam nearby.

“Hey, haole!”

Akolo’s head snapped up. At the surf line, a group of dark-skinned native boys waved at him, smirking and cat-calling. Their bright boards--red, cobalt, lime green--flashed beneath the sunlit swells. So much for escaping the constant pushing and shoving he endured at the high school. Now the group of island boys--who called him a half-breed, hapahaole, as often as they called him a mainlander--had invaded his haven.

Junior, the ringleader, motioned to where a cleft of jagged rocks cut the beach short. He laid on his board and paddled in that direction. Idiot. He was heading for the reef break. Predictable regularity marked the slab at that point, but the sharp coral hidden beneath the surface could cut a surfer worse than Jack the Ripper.

On the beach, a group of girls waved and cheered for the boys. Like a line of monkeys, the boys all dropped onto their bellies and paddled toward the breakers. Showing off for the girls was a perfect reason to act stupid and risk an injury.

Another wave rocked Akolo, a hand on the cradle, but he was beyond its soothing power. A glance toward the group of girls sprawling on vibrant beach towels confirmed Junior had their full attention. Akolo rolled his eyes. If a wipeout was in anyone’s future, no one deserved it more than Junior.

“Negative thoughts sour a personality,” his mother’s voice whispered in his ear.

He shrugged his shoulders, but the thought implanted itself firmly in his mind. Just because those other boys were jerks didn’t lessen his responsibility to be a decent person. He wished his mother was a real presence so she could remind his father of that fact.

Several yards from the cliff, a wave curled. Behind it, Akolo saw another one, bigger yet. He held his breath until Junior popped up on his flashy board and dropped into the wave’s trough. A blinding reflection made Akolo blink, and he imagined it was the glint from Junior’s broad grin. Heat climbed up his throat. He exhaled.

A whitecap engulfed the dark-skinned figure for a heartbeat. When he emerged through the spray, he crouched beneath the lip of the wave, cutting within several feet of the cliff before pulling free from the wave’s onward sweep. Akolo ground his teeth. What a show-off.

Behind Junior, another surfer was up, catching the next wave. His timing was off, and he didn’t drop in at the right moment. The breaker shoved him close to the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. Akolo’s eyes widened until he saw the boy paddle out of the danger zone, safe from being crushed against the rocks.

Junior and the other boy met up, slapping hands and elbows. Their joyous accolades floated over the open water. Look at me face down danger, they seemed to say. Aren’t I just the coolest? Akolo stifled a groan.

At the edge of his thoughts, Akolo felt the niggle of fishy brain waves. Near the two surfers, a family of swordfish flitted in the shallows. Tiny brains were like a switch Akolo could flip with ease. A single thought from him, and they could be surrounding the biggest bully Akolo had ever known.

“Treat others with respect.” His mother’s voice echoed in his ear.

Not that Junior deserved respect, since he never offered it to others. Still, Akolo shouldn’t stoop to his level.

Akolo watched the other boys ride breakers close to the cliff with varied success. The gaggle of girls cheered for them like crazed fans. As always, Akolo was on the outside looking in. This time, he didn’t want to be part of their immature competition. He would ride the waves with heart and soul, like his mother had taught him all those years ago.

Decided on a course of action, Akolo focused on the breaking zone. He eyed the next swell, rising, blocking out the distant horizon, melding sea and sky for a suspended moment. The deck slid beneath his stomach. He paddled, judging the distance until the water would break. At that exact moment, he pushed himself upright.

After a smooth pop-up, he directed his board into the trough. In seconds, he would ride the shoulder of this breaker. It might not be a daredevil run, but it would be his best. The curl of the wave required a cutback. He concentrated on getting the right angle on the drop.

The surf sang her dance tune. A precise amount of pressure from his feet and a tilt of his hips maneuvered the board into the surf line. The wave crested, not high enough to form a barrel. Instantly, he decided to execute an aerial breakthrough rather than a floater. For a second, he imagined himself in a contest. This move would be a winner.

Akolo anticipated the crashing water, prepared to pull his board clear and catch some air. At the crucial moment, the crest flattened, petering out. The sea resembled a calm lake. His board slowed, offering no time for a kick out. A wobble sent him face-first onto his board. At least he had avoided a wipeout.

In the absence of surf, the water rocked like an unbalanced kayak. What on earth happened?

A sonic boom answered his question. He twisted toward the high point of the island. Mauna Loa’s peak blotted out the caldera of the Big Island’s most active volcano, Kilauea, but filled the eastern horizon. The mountains, often shrouded with clouds or steam, burst into a spasm of molten rock followed by a long belch of black smoke. Nothing from Mauna Loa, but Kilauea was giving them a show.

Water slapped into Akolo’s gaping mouth. He spat it out, hardly noticing the gritty residue it left on his tongue.

Fireworks might be more colorful, but they couldn’t match the height and scope of the fiery sparks shooting from the volcano. The plume of smoke ascended so high Akolo craned his neck to watch. Burning orange, yellow and red rocks flew half that distance. The island continued to waver like an interrupted swing.

A bubble of deep red spilled beneath the shattering rocks. None of this was typical of Hawaiian eruptions. Usually molten rock poured from the lava lakes in the crater. Not once in the nearly five years he’d lived here had Kilauea spit chunks of rock during her eruptions. The volcano leaked lava into the Pacific with familiar regularity, yes, but this display appeared to be a steam-blast eruption. The fiery dispersion of rocks was a mark of a Strombolian eruption. Wouldn’t his parents be impressed he could identify all of this in just a few concentrated moments?

Akolo paddled toward shore. Ash darkened the sky over the highest point of the island. Sure, it might be miles away, but the plume of rock dust billowing outward worried him. Once the wind currents shifted, the ash could spread anywhere.

Even the presence of ash was an oddity. Hawaiian eruptions involved steam and eruptive columns, not ashy debris. A stench of rotten eggs pinched his nose.

Was his dad watching this? Was he in the geology laboratory at the university reading data from sensors inside the volcano? Most afternoons, he guzzled beer and lazed on the sofa.

Akolo pushed the troublesome picture from his mind. It clouded his positive mood faster than ash blotted out the pristine sky.

No waves rose to propel Akolo toward solid ground. In the absence of the surf’s roar, voices from the beach drifted over the water. Two mamas hustled their young children toward the wide roadside used as a parking lot. A group of tourists standing on the sea wall gestured wildly toward the mountain, one recording the activity with a camera. Junior’s group stood transfixed, staring at the eruption. A dozen yards from them, the girls twisted toward the spectacle.

Still paddling, Akolo glanced toward the ever-expanding ash cloud, wondering when it would begin falling. Breathing ash caused pulmonary problems and could even be deadly. He needed to get inside or form a make-shift mask. Hawaiians treated eruptions like mainlanders treated car accidents. Something to gawk at, sure, but nothing to worry about. Did they know the ash was harmful?

The stink of sulfur smothered the crisp scent of ocean and tang of fish. He wrinkled his nose. The overwhelming smell of volcanic gases warned that the ash was headed their way. What did these irregularities mean? His dad would know. But would he be coherent enough to discuss it?

In the shallows, Akolo slid off his board. Rolling surf broke against his thighs. Finally, the ocean’s regular rhythm had returned. Was it normal for an earthquake to interrupt something regulated by the gravity of the moon? Another question for his dad, a man acclaimed for his theories regarding the connection between volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. But that was before.

Akolo couldn’t afford to dwell on thoughts of his father at the moment. A jumble of nerves pressed against his stomach. A glance toward the expanding ash plume made his gut feel like a bottomless pit. The water-slick epoxy board rubbed his side with every step, marking off the distance until he reached the huddle of teenagers. The narrow strip of beach, nothing more than a roadside turnout, was nearly empty. Even the gawking tourists had the good sense to get inside their automobile.

The girls had their backs to him, some shoving towels in beach bags and others staring toward the eruption.

“That was a big one,” one of the girls said.

“What is all that dark smoke?”

“It’s not smoke,” Akolo said. As if controlled by a single mind, the girls faced him. “It’s ash and we need to get inside before it gets here.”

“Volcano expert, haole?”

Typical Junior. Akolo’s eyes would have rolled on a normal day, and he would have given a snappy comeback. At the moment, he didn’t have time to waste on word duels.

“My dad is a vulcanologist,” Akolo said. “That means a scientist who studies volcanoes.”

“Use your big fancy words. Just proves how much you don’t belong here.”

The other boys, holding their surfboards under their arms, nudged closer. All their heads nodded in agreement. Most of the girls paid little attention.

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” one girl said. “I’ve never seen ash come from an eruption.”

“This is no normal eruption,” Akolo said. “We should get home. Breathing the ash is dangerous.”

“Scared of a volcano.” It wasn’t Junior who made this jibe but one of his cronies.

“Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about,” a tall, slender girl said. Akolo didn’t know her name. She was a senior and he’d seen her around.

His gaze locked with hers. She nodded and a small smile curved her lips.

A shrill call of “Akolo” broke the moment.

The teenagers pivoted toward the sound. A petite island woman approached. Sunlight glinted off a headband holding her glossy black hair away from a delicate face.

A pool of acid simmered in Akolo’s stomach, squelching his urgency. The smile fell from his lips. Why was she here?

Junior gave a quiet wolf whistle, not meant to compliment the new arrival. Akolo glared at him.

“Time to get home,” she said.

“I’m headed that way,” Akolo said.

He brushed past the woman, eyes searching the gravel shoulder of the road as he walked toward it. He spotted his dad’s battered Fiat parked haphazardly, rear-end still on the paved portion of the shoulder. Heat scorched his spine. Of course she would be driving that. Another perk from her professor.

“Who is that?” one of the girl’s asked.

“His dad’s playmate,” Junior said. All the boys laughed.

“Your father wants you home.” The unwelcome voice intruded again.

“She’s a little young, isn’t she?” Was that the senior girl? Akolo’s heart shriveled.

“That’s the way he likes them.” The remark earned Junior another round of laughter.

“Do you have everything?” The pitch of her voice grated along his spine.

Akolo walked faster, hoping to leave all of them behind.

“You’re such a rude boy.” He was rude? What did that make her? At least his cruelty didn’t extend to whips and chains. But he didn’t have time to think about that.

“We need to get inside.” Once he reached the car, he twirled to face her.

She stood with hands planted on her voluptuous hips. The stance drew attention to the swath of smooth, brown skin exposed between the waistband of her shorts and hem of her top. Akolo despised himself for noticing her curves. And hated her even more for having them.

“I’ll drive,” he said.

He envisioned himself speeding away, if only getting rid of her were so simple. While he secured his surfboard to the roof rack, she settled into the passenger seat.

He eyed the darkening sky and held his breath. Twilight descended as the ash stretched overhead. Could he make it home before the ash storm descended?