Page 60 of Catch a Wave
Mavs. Gah. I love that he gave me a nickname. But there’s no time to think about nicknames or the way they make me feel because other monkeys are starting to approach us now that Bodhi has the fruit in his hand.
I glance over my shoulder at my clinging monkey and he looks up at me with a face that could be captioned,Get used to me. I’m not leaving anytime soon. He’s still got a death grip on my hair. And he’s laser focused on trying to unfasten my purse like one of the actors inNational Treasuresitting in front of a vault. Another monkey leaps off the stone wall across from us, aiming for Bodhi now that he’s holding that piece of fruit. The monkeys around us start to screech and shriek in some sort ofThere’s a banana among uschant.
Bodhi hurries over next to me and holds the banana thingy toward the monkey on my back. My monkey reaches for the fruit while the other monkey on the ground jumps up at it. Now we’re the setting for an official banana war. And my body seems to be the central arena.
People around us start taking their cameras out and filming.
“Walk toward the wall,” Bodhi says, his voice focused and serious.
The monkey on my back leans out while perilously balancing on my back and purse and using my hair to stabilize himself like he’s the second mate on a catamaran and we’re taking a sharp turn. He’s reaching for Bodhi’s hand, but refusing to dismount his perch—and by perch, I mean me.
The other monkey is jumping up repeatedly at Bodhi’s hand trying to get that squatty unripened banana from him. And the chorus of primates around us are still screeching thehappy to see a bananasong.
Bodhi looks me in the eyes and says, “Get ready to run for it!”
He quickly sets the fruit on the wall. Both monkeys jump for it, the one on my back, propelling off my purse and flying toward the fruit. We take off running until we’re a short distance away.
“Oh my gosh!” I say through my laughter. “I didn’t think he’d ever let go!”
“Are you alright?”
“I am. Really. I think. I’m sure my hair looks like I electrocuted myself.”
Bodhi steps behind me to check me out. He lifts my hair and runs a hand up my back. “Your skin is a little pink back here. But you look okay.”
Oh man. His touch makes me wish a whole troop of macaques would jump on me, just so he could run a soothing hand over the spot afterward.
Bodhi doesn’t lift his hand when we start walking again. He strolls next to me, looking over with a tenderness I know I’ll always remember, even years from this night.
“I’ll confess I was nervous about you having a good time tonight.” His voice is uncharacteristically reserved. “I didn’t ever factor in attacking monkeys. Either that was the most memorable date ever, or the most disastrous.”
“Can it be both?” I laugh again.
“The night is still young.” Bodhi laughs too. “But we might want to get some supplies at the canopy over there, just to have something to barter with the monkeys on the way out.”
He points to a pop-up where flip-flops, sarongs and water bottles are being sold. Smart vendors, they know what we’ll need most. I guess the monkeys don’t only take phones and water bottles when they’re pillaging.
Bodhi takes his hand off my back and clasps my hand in his. Our palms connect and there’s an unexpected comfort between us. Bodhi interlaces our fingers, and leads me toward the open-air amphitheater. We’re seated a few rows up from the cementfloor at the center of the theater. The ocean is just beyond the cliff’s edge. A short time after we’re seated, a large group of men dressed in black and white tartan plaid wraps come out chanting.
“My mom has napkins with that pattern,” Bodhi whispers into my ear.
I giggle softly. “Shhh.”
He grabs my hand and holds it in his. His thumb rubs over my knuckles in a soothing rhythm.
The men in the center of the amphitheater chant repetitively while swaying and pulsing in the dance movements of what’s called the Kecak dance. Other performers enter the arena at various times: women dressed in silks, a guy with his face and body painted white, another guy with what looks like a feathered kabuki mask and outfit on. At times these extra performers mingle into the crowd, rubbing the head of a bald man and making the crowd laugh, or putting an arm around the shoulder of another guest, making faces at us and then returning to the center of the theater with the group of chanting men.
Toward the end of the show, a few performers scatter dried brush on the ground in a circle and then light it on fire and a guy dances through it, kicking it in all directions. Growing up in Hawaii, I’m used to seeing tribal dances and ceremonies. The temple dance we’re watching is nothing like what I’ve ever seen before. All the while, Bodhi holds my hand and occasionally softly brushes his fingers over mine.
When the show is over, we walk out of the amphitheater with a crowd full of people. A group of guys passes us, mimicking the chants we just heard for an hour. The monkeys must have retreated into the trees along the path for the night. The same car is waiting for us when we come out of the temple grounds. Bodhi asks our driver to take us to Single Fin, a surf bar andrestaurant that’s perched on the pinnacle of a cliff. We order a salad and a pizza to split.
Bodhi and I stare out at the ocean and then back at one another throughout the meal. I could stare at him forever. He’s beautiful, and there’s this ease and kindness in his eyes that turns playful at times. The way he looks at me—focused on me as if I’m the only person in the room—it’s intoxicating.
Bodhi asks me about my childhood in Hawaii. I get him talking about his life growing up in a beach town in California. We share about contests we’ve ridden in and waves we caught so far since we’ve been here. We never run out of topics or hit a lull. And we laugh. Not one moment feels awkward between us. It’s the perfect date.
When dinner is over, our car takes us back to the cottages at our resort. Bodhi pays the driver and then it’s just the two of us on a path lined with tiki lights.
“Let’s go look at the stars from the cliff’s edge,” Bodhi suggests.
