Breathe me Home | NaNoWriMo 2016

Chapter 15

When Jonas offers his hand to help me into the Coupe, I ignore it and climb in on my own. He shrugs and plops into the rumble seat. Kids stream along the sidewalks as we pull away from the school. Lana is one of them. She scowls at me as we cruise by.
What's her deal? Just because Jonas and I got railroaded into working on the same project doesn't mean anything. He's cute and all, but I'm leaving soon. Navy brats are always leaving soon. But for me, it's really soon. I'm a short-timer. Moving all the way to Montana, about as far from Hawaii as you can get.
Of course, she probably doesn't know that. Should I tell her? Would that fix the crack in her world? Besides, I'd never thought of myself as someone boys would pursue. Pasty-skinned redheads are doomed in that area. Especially here, where tanned bikini-clad blondes and brunettes seem to pop out from behind every palm tree.
Better to be safe, though. I'll keep Jonas at a distance. Make sure he understands there's no fruit in this stand. Back off, Jack will be the sign I hang over my head from now on.
Jonas taps out some imaginary song on the wall of the Coupe. He can't possible hear the car radio. We've got a back window in front of us and the warm air blowing past our ears. I'm going to miss riding in the Coupe when this is all over. Though my hair might not miss it so much. I learned from my first experience and have it tied back now, a red foxtail flying from the back seat.
When we pull up to the shed, Uncle grabs a canvas bag from the passenger seat and leads the way. He pats his pockets. "Hmph. Forgot the key." He walks to a large rock at the corner of the shed, lifts it, and retrieves a key from underneath. "Not much in there worth stealing. Don't know why I bother to lock it at all."
The shed's steel door rolls open and crashes to a stop. The door is our only source of light and ventilation, so it stays open.
"Ready to cut some wood?" Uncle says, then goes into a coughing fit for about a minute.
I raise a concerned eyebrow, but Jonas holds up a hand. "He's okay," he says.
The plank lays where we left it. While Uncle regains his composure, Jonas and I stand on either side like two kids waiting for dinner to be served. I scan the rest of the shed. Lots of old tools, many I couldn't even name, hang from the walls. A large canvas tarp lays over a table on one side.
But it's not a table. Too tall. The canvas hangs to the ground so I can't see what's under it. Curiosity is not one of my traits, so I let it go and turn back to the plank of wood that brought us here. The sooner we get that finished, the sooner I can get on with my life of peaceful solitude, now to include planning out horse names.
Jonas smiles at me. "Great fun, huh?"
I shrug and don't make eye contact.
Uncle shuffles to the head of the plank. "Okay." He coughs one more time, a loud ripping cough that surely hurt. Clearing his throat, he continues, "We're going to turn this tree into a surfboard." He lays his palms flat on the board and motions for us to do the same.
The wood is rough and dry beneath my palms.
"This has been here a long time," Jonas says.
I shrug one shoulder and keep my attention on Uncle. He looks a little worse than the last time we came here. His dark hair is tangled and clumped against his face, like he's been sweating hard.
"Close your eyes," Uncle says, "and listen."
Again? Can we get this show on the road?
But I do as I'm told and close my eyes. Wind through the trees. The soft rattling of the tin room. Uncle's labored breathing.
"Some believe," Uncle says, "that a surfboard should always be cut from a tree near the sea, and carved there as well. Listen to the sea. To the rhythm."
In Hawaii, you hear the ocean so often that it becomes part of the background. I've heard people who live in places like New York say that they don't even notice the sounds of car horns or engines anymore. It's like that here with the ocean. But now that Uncle has told us what to listen for, the soft whoosh of waves hitting the sand flows in among all the other sounds.
"You must find the rhythm of the ocean in your board. They are not tree and ocean. They are one. You become one with them as well as you carve, and then as you ride."
No way am I riding. But I don't need that to finish my project. Can't exactly demonstrate that for the class anyway. I'll just bring the finished board, a few of the tools we use, and show how we did it.
We listen for a while. I'm not sure how long. I think I dozed off. When I dare open an eye to make sure I'm not the victim of another practical joke, Uncle also has his eyes open. But not staring at our board. He's focused on the big tarp. He seems lost, distant, like his spirit has left his shell of a body.
"So," I say. "Do we start carving now."
No answer. His gaze is fixed on the tarp.
"Uncle." Jonas lays a hand on his uncle's.
"Huh..." Uncle snaps his head around. "Oh...sorry. So remember, when you carve and finish the board, you work with the rythm of the sea. Listen as you work."
Jonas frowns. "I don't remember any of the other board makers saying that."
Uncle knits is brow as he glares at Jonas. "Hawaii is made up of people from all over the Pacific. And their cultures. What is right? Who are the true Hawaiians? Who says my way of making a board is right or wrong?"
Hard to argue with that. But will my teacher buy it? I'd hate to do all this work and find out we didn't learn a traditional custom, just one old man's way of doing things. But I don't see much choice.
Uncle turns and grabs two tools off the wall. They look like large hammers with a sharp end. The steel blade is tied to a wood handle. "This is an adz." He hands one to me and demonstrates with the other. He chips away bits of wood from the plank, taking long slow swipes with the adz. After only a few,  he's out of breath and sweating.
"Sit down, Uncle." Jonas takes the adz from him and checks the blade with his thumb. "I'll sharpen these."
Uncle nods and pulls a folding chair from the wall.
While Jonas sharpens our tools on a stone, I turn to see Uncle staring at the tarp again. His eyes are moist and his lip trembles.
I study the shape under the tarp. Maybe I'm not the curious sort, but I decide to find out what's under there.