JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby by JoAnn Bassett Read Free Book Online

side.
    Once we passed over the cliffs, we swooped over miles of a flat plain divided into tidy square patches of green, brown, and yellow. I wanted to ask Hatch what he thought was growing down there, but the drone of the engine was too loud to talk over.
    We made a sharp turn to the left and dropped down quickly to approach the runway. Although the landing strip was tiny, with only one main runway with a second smaller runway dissecting it at an odd angle, the airport was hard to miss. Its red-roofed building was the sole visible outpost in a seemingly never-ending landscape of open fields punctuated by groves of trees.
    We bumped to a landing and the co-pilot came on the intercom and gave instructions on how we would de-plane. It was impossible for most of the eight passengers onboard to stand upright in the tight quarters. From our front row seat, Hatch and I watched as the others made their way to the back of the plane, hunched over like a small band of Neanderthals filing out of their cave.
    Once outside, we grabbed our luggage from the cart and walked across the tarmac to the terminal. It was a low, tan building with a couple of check-in counters and a small waiting area sporting a single low wooden bench. No frills, no amenities. I was reminded of the expression, “Just the facts, ma’am.”
    Landing in Moloka’i is a completely different experience than landing on Maui. First off, the Maui Airport at Kahului makes no apology about being a visitor destination. The shops, the décor, the airport workers, the signage—everything is targeted to the tourist industry. The whole vibe is vacation friendly, and visitor-oriented. That’s not to say there’s not a down-home locals’ scene on Maui, because there is. It’s just that a huge chunk of the economic pie comes from tourist-related activities, so it’s essential to dazzle and cater to travelers from the get-go.
    We wandered out to the small airport parking lot to locate the car Sifu Doug had arranged for us to use. He’d called in a favor and asked the guy who owns the local kung fu academy to rustle up some wheels for us. I’d fallen all over myself in gratitude, since rental cars on Maui County’s smaller neighbor islands are scarce and expensive.
    We spotted the car parked just where the guy said it would be: at the back, three spaces down from the end. I glanced over at Hatch to see if he was thinking what I was thinking, but it looked like I was alone in my nostalgia. The car waiting for us must’ve come off the same assembly line as my former ride, and longtime shame, a mid-nineties Geo Metro.
    “Look,” I said. “It’s the Phlegm-mobile. Only this one’s blue.”
    By now we were twenty feet from the car.
    Hatch still didn’t seem to be making the connection.
    “You know, my old car. This car looks just like the Mean Green Machine.”
    “Your car never looked this bad,” he said. “Looks like this thing’s been in a demolition derby.”
    He pointed out a two-foot dent in the right front fender. At the center of the folded metal, the paint had chipped away and rust had settled in for the long haul.
    “Looks like they hit something pretty big,” I said.
    “Not necessarily. I bet I could bend this cheap metal with my bare hands.” He put a hand on the fender as if he was about to prove it.
    “C’mon,” I said. “It’s fine. At least it’s free.”
    I was used to making excuses for my wheels. I’d done it for years.
    We looked around at the other vehicles parked in the lot. Most were foreign pick-ups, like Toyota Tacomas and Nissan Frontiers. And, most sported a light to heavy dusting of red dirt; with assorted dents and dings being the rule, rather than the exception.
    “See?” I said. “We’ll fit right in.”
    Hatch cocked his head. “Hear that?” he said.
    “What? I don’t hear anything.”
    “Yeah, that’s the thing. When was the last time you were at an airport this quiet?”
    I pricked my ears and listened as wind