Restless Waters by Jessica Speart Page A

you’re speaking to,” I quickly backpedaled.
    “Don’t worry. I know who you are. That’s why I’m calling,” he grimly responded.
    I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or take it as a warning.
    “Then you have the advantage. So tell me, who are you?”
    “As I said before, my name is Sammy Kalahiki. But far more important is what I do.”
    “Which is?” I asked, taking the bait.
    “I’m an observer with the National Marine Fisheries Service,” he said, as if that should provide clue enough as to the reason for his call.
    I knew bits and pieces about the Observer Program, but not a hell of a lot.
    It first began in 1990, when word leaked out that endangered sea turtles were being killed big-time in longliner fishing nets. An environmental group sued, threatening to bring the Hawaiian fishing industry to a halt. The National Marine Fisheries Service quickly stepped in and responded, “Cool your jets. We’ve got everything under control.” And so the Observer Program was born.
    Now twenty-seven kids, fresh out of college, are hired and assigned to individually go out on twenty percent of the boats for two-to six-week fishing trips at a time. Their stated purpose is to report any turtle interactions, as wellas monitor the fishing industry’s impact on other endangered, threatened, and protected species. But in reality, what they do is a very different task. They’re instructed to measure every single fish that’s pulled on board, and collect its life history data for management purposes. The chore keeps them extremely busy and on the back of the deck, away from the nets. It benefits both the fishermen and the National Marine Fisheries Service. The observers rarely have time to stir up any trouble.
    “Okay. You’re an observer. I got it. So, what’s the problem?” I asked.
    “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” Kalahiki responded mysteriously.
    Great. Just what I needed: a prima donna. “Why not?”
    “Because for all I know, someone could be listening in. I take it that you’re probably on a cell phone right now. Am I correct?”
    “Yes,” I admitted, feeling slightly peeved.
    “Well, I don’t consider those to be very secure,” Kalahiki stated. “Besides, this is a sensitive matter that should be discussed in person.”
    I automatically ruled out meeting at the office. My boss would intervene if he caught wind that something was going on.
    “Okay, then. How about if we rendezvous at Zippy’s Coffee Shop down on Nimitz Boulevard?” I suggested, figuring that should be central enough for both of us.
    “Uh-uh. It could be big trouble for me if we’re seen together. It’s got to be somewhere out of the way. What say we hook up at Ka’ena Point around eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
    Kalahiki was obviously serious about keeping our meeting private. Ka’ena Point is the northwesternmost tip of Oahu; a narrow peninsula that protrudes from the Waianae Mountain Range, and is windswept and desolate ashell. It comprises an eight-mile gap in the main road, which encircles ninety percent of the island. In fact, the only way to reach Ka’ena Point is to hike in on foot.
    “I’ll be at the big coral rock that’s along the water’s edge. Don’t worry. You can’t miss it,” he instructed.
    Kalahiki certainly was into playing cloak-and-dagger games.
    “All right. I’ll see you there tomorrow,” I reluctantly agreed, wondering what could be so confidential as to require my slogging through sand dunes and scrub.
    On the other hand, my curiosity was definitely piqued. I just hoped that the hike out to nowhere proved to be worthwhile.
    I swung the Ford into the driveway, having arrived home in record time. I walked up the steps to where Spam and Tag-along jockeyed behind the screen door to greet me. Spam didn’t play coy, but jumped up and licked me full on the lips. What the heck. I figured it was better to have a pit bull like me than not. Meanwhile, Tag-along showed