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“Why name anything something it isn’t?” Ronin shrugs, pulls out the cooler. “The Polynesians already sailed these waters and knew these islands. They referred to them by their nature—Hahalua Bay for the mantas that lived in the water, or Puakenikeni Beach for the flowering bushes along the shore. For the Europeans, discovery wasn’t about observing the world but claiming it as their own.”
“Or on behalf of their canine companions, apparently.” I understand what he’s saying, though. “Isn’t there a movement to return places to their tribal names in recognition of their history? And not just in Hawaii, but on the mainland as well.”
“Yes. It’s possible MacManus will consider such options here. Though he is under no obligation. Pomaikai has always been privately owned. It has a unique status as an unorganized incorporated possession of the US. Technically, it’s not part of Hawaii but falls directly under federal jurisdiction.”
I stare at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Because there is no equivalent. Pomaikai is Pomaikai.”
“A territory that reports directly to the feds? How does that even work? I mean, if you’re working on the environmental impact statement of the proposed development project for the state of Hawaii, and Pomaikai isn’t part of Hawaii…”
“We work closely with the US Department of the Interior. It would be unusual for them to ignore our findings.”
I catch the nuance. Unusual, not impossible. Meaning a man of MacManus’s wealth, status, and power… I regard Ronin, but once again his features are impossible to read.
He’s a very smart man, I’m beginning to realize. And definitely the strong and silent type, but maybe for good reason. There are a lot of dynamics at play here. I wonder what Aolani’s opinions are on the subject.
“So, umm, pirates?” I ask finally, grabbing the cooler and heaving its strap over my shoulder.
He unsheathes his machete. “This way,” he says.
Without any other choice, I follow him into the underbrush.
WE REMAIN IN sight of the beach, but tucked behind the enormous trees with their towering branches and umbrella of waxy green leaves. There’s already the imprint of a crushed trail through the carpet of ferns and grasses. It’s still slow going, Ronin weighed down with a giant backpack as well as two more black equipment bags, me banging my legs against the cumbersome cooler. Ronin uses his machete not to attack the undergrowth but to bend fronds out of the way before taking the next step. It makes me wonder what lives in the dense vegetation, but I’m too busy trying to maintain my balance to give it much thought.
“How far are we from base camp?” I call out, catching my toe on a fallen branch and just managing to halt my stumble.
“Half a mile.”
“You’re mapping that far away?”
“I’m inspecting the entire island. I started at the beaches and have been working my way in.”
“Because beaches are where ancient people would have first landed.” I feel compelled to show off my smarts.
“Yes. But nature is in a constant state of change. What is beach now versus jungle before is a steadily evolving line. Big storms can rip out trees, expanding the beach, just as enormous waves can carve out the sand, narrowing the border.”
“So how do you know what you’re looking for? Especially…” It’s green all around me. And not just green, but Green, as if the undergrowth itself is a monster crab, jealously staking out territory. I have a vision of collapsing where I stand and my entire body disappearing by nightfall, completely absorbed by the plant life around me. Maybe I don’t want the trees to talk. They’re predators in their own way, or at least opportunistic.
“Experience,” Ronin states now.
He has me there.
“What are these giant trees, ’cause they’re certainly not palms.”
“Pisonia trees. They’re the preferred nesting habitat for red-footed boobies, frigates, and noddies. This atoll is a seabird paradise.”
“I’m guessing that’s a good thing?”
Ronin glances over his shoulder. “Very much. But also the major challenge for developing this island. Most tropical resorts promote ocean views. In this case, that would mean cutting down a significant portion of these trees. It would not only make the beach more susceptible to erosion but it would also vastly reduce the bird population.”
I peer to my left, where I can still see dozens of seabirds cartwheeling through the sky in a noisy, jubilant display.
“Maybe not so bad from a tourist perspective,” I venture. “The birds are a little… loud… by most standards.”
“Hitchcock movie loud?”
“Exactly!” I’m pleased he understands.
