Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

North Shore—Sunset, Pipeline, and nearby Pupukea. Down the road a hop, skip, and jump is Waimea Bay. Ke Nui is near the center, in other words, of the surfing universe. Legends have called this street home—along with some young hopefuls. It didn’t surprise me that Corky, by way of this woman named Maya, was associated with Ke Nui Road.
    In less than an hour, with Corky’s board lashed on top, my Impala rolled into the sandy lot overlooking blown-out Sunset Beach. The wind-whipped sea was the color of marbled jade—dark green riddled with stark white. Signs posted on the beach warned: “High Surf . . . Dangerous Currents . . . No Swimming . . . Beach Closed.” Above these signs, Day-Glo orange flags stood stiff in the wind.
    Nobody—swimmer, boogie boarder, or surfer—was out today. Not just because of the signs, but because even the regular crew at Sunset knows when to battle and when to retreat. The roar of the tumultuous waves resembled the H-1 Freeway at rush hour—amplified tenfold. It was a din that filled the air completely.
    From Sunset Beach, I drove a short quarter mile to oceanfront Ke Nui Road, where the surf continued to roar. Maya’s address was attached to a cottage with shake roof whose beach side stood on stilts in the sand at the high tide mark. You couldn’t get much closer to the water than this without swimming.
    I knocked and soon a wet-haired surfer girl stood before me in a string bikini top and skin-tight jeans. Her baby-white skin and pale blue eyes had “mainland” written all over them. She appeared to be about Leimomi’s age.
    “Is Maya here?” I whiffed the fresh scent of lavender on her.
    “No,” she said in a voice lower pitched than the young woman I had spoken with on the phone, but no less defiant.
    “I’m a friend of Corky McDahl. I wondered if Maya could tell me anything about his wipeout—just to soothe my mind. I still have his photo.” I showed her the snapshot Summer had given me.
    The surfer girl didn’t respond.
    “Does Maya still live here?” I tried again.
    “No.”
    “Do you know where I can reach her?”
    “No.”
    “Did she leave a forwarding address? Or a phone number?”
    “No.”
    “Was Corky Maya’s boyfriend?”
    “You’d have to ask one of my roommates.”
    “May I?”
    “They’re not here,” she said matter-of-factly.
    “Would you please have them call me at this number?” I handed her my card, hoping the surfer image on it would reinforce my pose as Corky’s wave-riding buddy.
    “I can’t guarantee they will.“ She shoved the card deep into a pocket of her jeans.
    If she wasn’t hiding something, someone was. Why else would she be so rude?
    I knew the North Shore wasn’t all good vibes and big waves. There were drug-related crimes and violence, like everywhere else. Recently at a birthday party at Laniakea two men were stabbed to death and several others beaten senseless. The culprits slipped away into a dark underworld the tourist bureau doesn’t advertise. That makes the North Shore not a place to go poking around into other people’s business, especially the wrong people. You might end up dead.
    Up the road from Sunset Beach I stopped in at the Foodland in Pupukea, a chain supermarket, and larger than you’d expect in this country setting. I wandered around until I found the crack seed display. I pulled from the hanging rack a small package of my favorite
Sweet Li Hing Mui
—pungent, sweet-sour dried plum pits—and headed for the checkout line. A local guy, who from the width of his shoulders looked like he surfed, rang me up. I pulled out my wallet containing the photo of Corky. Handing a couple bills to the clerk, I flashed the picture.
    “Evah see dis guy?”
    “Dat’s da guy wen’ wipe out at Waimea . . .”
    “Corky, yeah. Evah see his girlfriend? Redhead.”
    “Maya? Ho, nice!” He smiled suggestively, almost a leer.
    “Yeah, Maya. Know where I can find her?”
    “
She live on da beach at Sunset . . .”
    “Yeah, but her roommate say she gone.”
    “Gone?”
    “Any idea where?”
    “Maybe upcountry Maui?” the clerk said. “I t’ink she from Makawao.”
    “You sure?”
    “Dunno fo’ sure, brah.” He shrugged.
    “T’anks, eh?”
    He was still leering at the thought of Maya as he handed me my bag.

Ten

    The bell tower at the Mission of Saints Peter and Paul loomed ominously over Waimea Bay as I glided by, heading for Hale‘iwa town.
    About halfway there, a black Mercedes with