Tommy Bahama gear from head to toe. “Sorry about that, Kai! You ready?” Kai walked in and was quickly surrounded by pictures of himself: him endorsing all kinds of products; him on a Wheaties box; him launching his clothing company nearly two years ago.
Kai had made Kirk rich, but Kirk had done the same for Kai. Kai never thought in marketing terms. He just liked to surf. When Kai was at the top of his surfing game, the relationship worked perfectly. These days, however, Kai felt as though it was only a matter of time before Kirk found out his knee hadn’t healed right. Then the endorsement deals would disappear overnight.
Hanging above Kirk’s desk was a giant photo of Kai surfing a stomach-churning nearly forty-five-foot wave at Mavericks, California, the break so heinous even some pro surfers steered clear of it. Kai thought about his performance earlier that week on a wave not even a fifth that size. He’d made his fortune risking it all on big waves, and now he couldn’t even stand upright on five measly feet.
“How are you, man?” Kirk asked Kai, who simply shrugged.
“Fine, I guess,” he said, studying the old picture on the wall.
A quarter Hawaiian, a quarter Japanese and half Irish, Kai had always felt as if he had the pulse of the water. All of his ancestors came from one island or another, and that brought with it a healthy respect for the sea. But lately, it felt as though he’d simply lost his gift.
A knock at Kirk’s office door drew Kai’s attention. He realized with a start that Bret Jon stood there. Bret was Kai’s tow partner, or had been, before the tsunami. Bret was the one who’d driven the Jet Ski that took him out to the big waves, the seventy-footers that no one could physically paddle to. Bret was also the one who had risked his life to go in and get him whenever Kai wiped out.
Bret glanced at Kai and frowned.
“You didn’t tell me he would be here,” Bret said. “You asked me to come here to talk about a new job. Now I see why you didn’t want to do it on the phone.”
He had good reason to be angry. Kai couldn’t look his once-good friend in the eye. He lived on Maui, so what was he doing here?
“Maybe I ought to go,” Kai said, standing.
“Both of you—sit. You used to be the best team in big-wave surfing, but now you’re not speaking.” Kirk looked back and forth between the two men, who weren’t saying anything. “You guys have been doing this for more than fifteen years. Come on, you and Laird Hamilton, Buzzy Kerbox, Sandra Chevally...you invented this sport. You guys found a way to surf waves that everyone else said were impossible to surf. Tell me why you girls are fighting so we can put this behind us.” Kirk leaned back in his chair.
Bret, who was built like a linebacker, all broad, hefty muscle across his back, stared a hole through Kai. “He knows why.”
“Bret, I said I’m sorry.” Kai moved toward his old partner, but Bret backed away, hands up.
“I don’t want your apology, man.” Bret’s eyes had gone cold and flat. “You can keep that, along with your endorsements and your clothing line. Just...stay away from Jaws. I told you once.”
“Bret, come on, man,” Kirk pleaded. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. The Big Wave Championship is coming up. You and Kai, you’re like gold.”
“Keep your gold,” Bret muttered, shaking his head. Kai wished he could say the right thing, but no matter how often he apologized, he could never make it right. He knew it and Bret did, too.
He felt a pang. He remembered, years ago, back when only a few crazy souls would even attempt a ninety-foot break, and yet there the two of them had been, taking turns towing each other into waves that should’ve killed them. They’d learned as they went, instincts and grit the only things keeping him upright and alive, out of the mouth of the beast. Together they’d been brave or crazy or both. They’d been pioneers. And now here they were, barely speaking.
“Look, Kirk, nothing personal, but I’m done talking.” In seconds, Bret had stalked out of the office. Kai watched him go, feeling as if a chapter in his life was closing, yet he wasn’t done reading it yet.
Kirk let out a long sigh. “You going to tell me what’s going on there?”
Kai shook his head. “Not my story to tell.” If Bret hadn’t told him the details, then Kai wouldn’t.
“You’ve got a new tower? Someone you can trust?”
“I’m working on it,” Kai lied. He wasn’t. Why recruit a tow partner when his knee was 50 percent at best?
“You’d better work fast.”
“I know.” Kai shrugged, thinking about his wipeout earlier in the week. He hadn’t been on his board since. In fact, the very thought of getting out there again made his stomach buzz with nerves, as if he’d drunk too much of the Kona coffee served at his sister’s café.
Kirk studied him a minute. “Knee okay?”
“Still stiff,” Kai admitted, avoiding all eye contact, as if the truth would be evident on his face. Kirk nodded, looking somber, and then leaned forward, clasping his hands together on his desk.
“Gretchen says you’re blowing off training.”
Gretchen was Kai’s personal trainer, but even he had to admit he hadn’t been very trainable lately. Gretchen had told him to cut back on the bar life, but there wasn’t anything scarier than not being able to surf again except dealing with that sober.
“You gonna be ready?”
Kai met Kirk’s gaze and for a split second considered spilling his guts and admitting everything. I’m not going to be ready. I might never be ready again.
“I’m gonna try,” Kai said. He thought it was safely the truth, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wasn’t sure. Was he trying?
“The new surfboards are ready to go, but we need some promo shots,” Kirk said, leaning back in his chair. Pure Kona sunshine filtered in from the big bay window behind his desk. “Maybe you on a big practice wave? Maybe on Jaws? You know, after you find a new tow guy.”
“Yeah, sure. Sometime.” No way. Never.
“How about next week? Photographer has openings a week from Sunday.”
“Can’t do it.” Kai nearly clipped off the end of Kirk’s sentence in his haste to decline. The idea of a photographer or anyone else recording one of his recent surfing disasters filled him with white-hot embarrassment. He glanced at his fine form in the oversize photo above Kirk’s desk. He was a lifetime away from the Kai Brady of two years ago.
“Kai, this has to be done.”
“I know.” Kai eyed Kirk, who didn’t blink as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“Fine.” Kirk sighed, frustrated. “You’re going to have to talk to me sometime about what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on with me.” Nothing that can be fixed by talking about it. Kai stood, and even in that brief motion, he felt the loosening creak of his right knee. He didn’t care what the orthopedic surgeon said—those tendons and bone just hadn’t healed right. He nearly stumbled a little but righted himself in time. “Is that all, Kirk?”
“Need your signature on this,” Kirk said, sliding contracts his way. “Just a renewal for the Mountain Dew endorsement. Oh, and Todd Kolkot wants to talk to you. Says he needs to get your approval on the new fall line.”
Kai bent down and signed his name with a flourish, all the while wondering how fast Mountain Dew would have dropped him if they’d seen him surf this week. Kai turned to go.
“One more thing, Kai. Somebody from Time magazine keeps calling. They’re doing an anniversary piece on the tsunami, you know, ‘The Big Island a Year Later,’ and wanted to interview you for it.”
“No,”