Free The Tattoo by Chris Mckinney

wata.”
    We walked further up the beach, put down our boards, and sat down. We watched the tourists. They were standing knee-deep in the water, laughing and splashing. “Eh,” I said, “maybe dat’s why da fish stay dying in Kahaluu. When you sleeping, get haoles sneaking ova dea putting dea feet in your wata.”
    “Fuck, das not even funny. Hey, look at dat kid. What da fuck he doing?”
    One of the tourists, a blond boy who looked about our age, ran up the beach from the water and began undressing. He unbuttoned his bright blue aloha shirt. The shirt had the Hawaiian Islands drawn all over it, and under each island its name was written in cursive pink letters. He took off the shirt and began unbuttoning his pants.
    “Whoa,” Koa said, “what da fuck he doing? Eh, what da fuck is dat he wearing?”
    “Das fuckin’ speedos,” I said.
    “Fuck you, das bebeddies. Look at dat fucka, he no shame or what. Can see his balls sticking through dat.”
    “What da fuck you doing looking at his balls?”
    “Fuck you. Eh, what is dat he get now? No tell me das one fuckin mask.”
    The boy pulled a pair of swimming goggles out of his pants pocket. I smiled. “Das da style in da mainland.”
    Koa stood up and put his hands by his mouth. “Eh, haole boy, you crazy or what?You look like one faggot insect. Put your clothes back on befo’ we go blind.”
    The boy was too far away to hear what Koa was saying. I was laughing, then I felt Koa’s hand grab my arm. I stood up. “Hey Ken,” he said, “what da fuck haole boy doing now?”
    I watched the boy swimming in the water. “Dey call dat da buttafly or someting,” I said.
    “Da buttafly? I taut buttaflys was pretty. Fucka look like he having one seizure out dea. The fucka like drown or what?”
    I shook my head, smiled, and sat back down. Koa looked over his shoulder. “Hey, look up dea.” He pointed toward the front of the tour bus. “We go steal dea shoes.”
    “How can? Still get da tour guide in da bus. Besides, what about our boards?”
    “Fuck da boards. No one goin’ take ‘um. And no tell me you cannot outrun dat tour guide fucka. You da fastest guy I know.”
    “What about you, fat ass? You cannot run dat fast.”
    “Yeah, but you forget someting.”
    “What?”
    “I no give a fuck.”
    We stole the shoes and ran away laughing our asses off. The tour guide only chased us about ten feet before he stopped and the tourists just stood on the beach in a state of shock. We waited for the bus to leave, then went back and grabbed our shirts, slippers, and my book from the bushes. Luckily, no one stole our boards, too. I didn’t know it at the time, but Koa’s personal war against haoles was to escalate in high school. But until then, we did more surfing and harmless stealing. Sometimes we avoided the tourists, the landmark beaches, and went diving or hunting instead.

    I always felt safer in the water while diving. At least I had my three-pronged spear, and I could see under the water. I was still a little paranoid, though, because I knew the spear would be about as effective as a stick would be in warding off a hungry lion if a shark were to attack, and the tempered glass sucked onto my face by a rubber frame gave me limited sight into the ocean. I saw only about twenty feet in any direction. Sometimes I felt like I was walking into a huge, dark room armed with a flickering candle, moving in a tenuous bubble of light. I loved to dive, though. Taking the boat out to Chinaman’s Hat and diving the deep end behind the island. Spitting in the mask and wiping the glass to prevent fogging. Sitting on the edge of the boat, holding my mask down on my face, leaning back, and entering the ocean like I’d seen Jacques Cousteau do. The rush of cold water, the surfacing, spitting water out through my snorkel, acting like I’m a whale, the snorkel my blow hole. The sound of my breathing resonating in the plastic tube. Sounding like Darth Vader. Trying to talk like