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do with any ice. I gladly accepted a few bags, and they were soon stashed in the little ice
chest below the saloon table. Susanne packed the champagne and other perishable items
in amongst the cubes. I was glad she was not a vegetarian as that always tended to com-
plicate matters. She was raised to be sensible and had no illusions of grandeur; she was a
red-blooded, corn-fed American girl and was as healthy and glossy as they came.
We eventually motored out of Manele Bay Harbor, and as we cleared the last red marker
buoy, I handed the tiller to her and jumped up to the mast, raising the main and working
Genoa. Clearing the northeast point of Lanai, we were heeled over by a fresh northeasterly
wind and Déjà vu leaped ahead, shrugging off her sluggish wallow. I killed the noisy engine
and peace prevailed, save the whistling whooshing sound of the breeze through the rigging.
It was an enchanting sail to Molokai. The white horses on the wave crests were snow white
as they rode the glassy blue backs of the waves in the bay. Maui added an impressive back-
ground as Lanai slipped astern in our gurgling wake.
I paid out the fishing line, feeling sure to catch a mahimahi or something as we certainly
were going fast enough. Checking our progress every now and again, I believed we could
make the harbor of Kaunakakai before dark. I ran a running fix along our course and was
able to recognize many of the land marks on the chart on both Maui and Molokai. Mauna
Loa on Maui disappeared into a crown of white, fluffy clouds. The sugar mill chimneys
also puffed out billows of white smoke as the wind snatched at them and tore them away.
We had to reset the steering vane a couple of times as we rounded the northern edge of
Lanai. Our breeze started to weaken as we sailed into the shadow of Molokai, but soon,
with the aid of the engine, we puttered up through the entrance and, carefully avoiding the
shallow area on the west side of the harbor, dropped the large Danforth into the sand. I had
not been lucky with catching any fish. We had time to cook a lovely meal and share the
bottle of cold champagne before turning in for the night. We were both very tired and slept
soundly.
Susanne reminded me in the morning that I snored. We rowed over to the jetty where a
couple of fisherman were lounging about, tied up the dinghy, and climbed up the steps to
the road above. We were confronted by a strange looking, young local man. He pointed
to Susan and mumbled something, while staring at her breasts. “Pardon?” asked Susan,
startled at what she thought she had heard him say.
He muttered something again about wanting to see her naked. He had a vacant look about
his piggy, little eyes. His half smile on his oversized face never changed, and it suddenly
dawned on us he was just a little odd. The village idiot, I surmised aloud. Susanne summed
him up as we hurried off up the road, “Sure looks like he was hit with a crazy stick a couple
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