Free The Tattoo by Chris Mckinney Page A

him. “The circle is now complete, I was once the student, but now I am the master.” The searching for prey under dark crevasses, the feel of the surgical rubber squeezing the knuckle of the index finger right before I released to take a shot. Nothing can compare to the feeling of going down about forty feet, holding my breath, seeing an uhu just before I have to resurface, deciding to stay down for just a half a minute longer, feeling my body shake from lack of oxygen, knowing that I have only one shot at him, knowing I’m risking a lot just to catch one stupid fish. Nothing around you matters, not even thinking about sharks, just struggling to get a clean shot at the fish before you pass out. It was like therapy.
    Hunting on land was always shitty to me in comparison. Even though Koa loved it, I complained that it was like a long, fucking walk up a mountain just to get a few rounds off. We used to hunt illegally up at Kualoa Ranch, the only place left on the Windward side with a significant wild boar population. We always had to watch our back for ranchers who would bust us for trespassing. Carrying that damn thirty-thirty up a mountain, feeling it get heavier, feeling the moistness of your palms accidentally touch the metal, knowing that when you get down you’ll have to give it a thorough cleaning because of the mixture of sweat and salt. And God forbid if you actually shoot a boar and have to carry it on your shoulders down the whole damn mountain. Pig blood matting the hair on the back of your head. The huffing and puffing, the strain and stain on your back. It was like work. One trip I’ll never forget, or remember fully for that matter.
    The sun was setting and I wanted to go home. Just as Koa and I started our descent, I saw one lying down under a tree. Like an idiot, without even thinking, I raised the barrel and fired. Like the unlucky asshole that I am, I hit it. I heard Koa cheer and I sighed. We walked down the ridge to the tree. I handed my rifle to Koa, put the boar on my shoulders, and we began to walk down.
    It was getting dark. Suddenly we heard voices. Someone yelled “Hey, stop!”When someone yells this in your direction, it’s usually a good idea to haul ass. For me, it was like hearing someone fire a starting gun. Koa and I blazed. He was ahead of me because of the boar on my back, the biggest pigskin I ever had to carry. I watched as he ran straight through branches and tall bushes, much like a wild mountain boar does when it’s running. He was blocking, I ran through his wake. The blood was pumping and I began feeling like the hunted animal, fleeing with all of my strength, the adrenaline bravely fighting off exhaustion. Suddenly I noticed we were running down like a sixty-degree incline.
    Every fifty yards or so, we’d fall flat on our faces and roll down about fifteen feet. For some reason, each time I got up, I’d re-secure the dead pig on my shoulders, refusing to leave it. Sweating with that weight on my shoulders, dropping it once in a while, scrambling for it like it was my arm I’d dropped or something, sniffing the wild smell of the dead animal, feeling my fingers dig into its coarse hair. We were determined to escape. It was a clumsy flee, but finally the voices faded with the sun. We kept on running just in case, not slowing down in the blinding dark. It was at least a mile. We were lucky we didn’t run straight off a cliff. Finally I saw the light of Kam Highway. Relieved, we slowed down.
    When I reached the side of the street, I let the boar drop from my shoulders and paced with my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. Koa threw the guns to the ground, sat down, and leaned back. Every few seconds, his panting would be interrupted as he turned his head and spit. Suddenly, out of the blue, we both started laughing.
    “Holy shit,” he said.“Fuckin’ ranchers was right on our ass.”
    I laughed. “You fuckin’ nuts or what? You could see where you was