Queen's Hospital, near downtown Honolulu, gleamed under the brilliant Hawaiian sun on a mid-July afternoon. A slight, weather-beaten man -- the sort who would need to be soaking wet to register on a bathroom scale -- snuffed out a cigarette and walked up to the reception desk. He wore the subdued aloha shirt and dark trousers that had become the uniform of Island businessmen by the late twentieth century. "Hi, I'm Ron Dover from the Commercial-Star. I made an appointment to see the boy who was attacked by the shark."

"Oh, yes, Kimo Flynn. He told us you were coming. He's in room 417. You can go on up."

The reporter found the elevator and went up to the fourth floor, reluctantly. There was something about hospitals he didn't like. Too many sick people? Everyone bustling about? Funny odors? Reminders of his own mortality? But it was his job, so he went, not knowing what to expect: someone who would talk his ear off? someone who wouldn't want to talk? someone who would try to feed him a line? Oh, well.

"Hi, I'm Ron Dover? I called earlier? From the Commercial-Star?" the reporter said tentatively, holding out his hand and stepping toward the bed. He was slightly awed by the way the boy's virile, bronze body overwhelmed the hospital bed and indeed the tiny room as he lay against the raised mattress. He had to be well over six feet, Ron estimated, and his shirt lay open to display a well-developed chest. A leg with a huge foot attached extended from a pair of shorts, white dressings peeking out the other side. A roll-around table spanned the foot of the bed, holding magazines and books, a dixie cup, and a ukulele.

"Hi," he replied, shaking his fist with the thumb and pinkie finger extended in the "shaka" sign that had become a greeting in Island culture.

"You wouldn't believe how many people want to hear your story. You know, it isn't everyday that something dramatic like this happens. I mean, what was it -- about two years ago that other surfer was attacked?"

"I talked to your father just a few minutes ago, and he gave me a little background. He told me your mother died when you were a baby."

"My buh- buh- -- my birth mother. My tutu is my mom," he said, meaning his grandmother.

"So, can you tell me what happened? I've got lots of readers who really want to know."

"Wow! So you were just out there trying to catch a wave, and -- did you see it at all before it attacked you?"

Kimo blushed slightly and smiled broadly, showing the large, beautifully straight white teeth that contrasted with his complexion to make him dazzlingly handsome.

"She -- she took my belt and tied it around to stop the b- bleeding." He made a wrapping motion with his hands.

"You were probably sedated. So then you woke up -- when, the next morning? And they told you what?"

"I know this is difficult, but you said the shark bit off your foot. How come they took off more?"

"Yeah." He pulled the leg of his shorts up slightly to expose the remainder of his right leg.

"Man, that's tough," the reporter said thoughtfully. "You just graduated, right?"

"That puh- puh- part wasn't so bad. I puh- puh- -- I'm with a group," he said, playing air guitar.

"Puh- puh- puh-" -- he griped the sides of the bed with his oversize hands. His face tensed. His long leg spasmed. He took a breath. "It's Plenny Puh- -- Plenny Pupule."

"Plenty Crazy, huh? That's a good name. So you're a scholar, a musician, a surfer. Anything else?"

"Let me ask you one last question. What's your biggest problem right now, aside from a nosey reporter asking you all these questions?"

"Well, thank you, Kimo. You're a very brave young man, and I wish you a speedy recovery. And thanks for your time."

Ron left the room, wishing desperately for a drink. What a waste of time. He would have to sit down and make up the details as he went along. He could have done that without the visit. But he could talk to the kid's doctor. He returned to the reception desk.

A few minutes later, a slender man of medium height and Asian appearance showed up, the wire rims and white lab coat giving him a professional look. "I'm Dr. Chinn."

"Hi, doctor. I'm Ron Dover from the Commercial-Star. I just talked to Kimo Flynn. He's -- well, rather laconic. I wonder if you could fill in a few details."

"Well, maybe you could tell me what Kimo's prospects are. How's he progressing?"

"Oh, he's doing quite well. Very strong, athletic, in good general health. Makes my job easier. We'll start him on crutches probably tomorrow... a temporary pros after that... another week and he'll be going home. He was damn lucky he got back to shore and that someone was there. If that nurse hadn't helped him..."

"Without question. You know, many shark victims bleed to death. He's a very lucky young man."

"He told me he's anxious to get back in the water -- how likely is that? I mean, after all, he's lost a leg."

"Shouldn't be a problem once the wound heals. It's not like the old days. Prosthetics have improved markedly... innovations in the last ten, fifteen years have been dramatic. He'll be able to get a leg -- or maybe two or three legs -- that will let him do whatever he wants to do."

"That might be a problem. He has -- or his family has insurance that will cover most of the initial cost. Beyond that, it will be a major expense over his lifetime."

At that point, Dr. Chinn's beeper went off. "Sure. An aloha fund would be nice.... Gotta run. Nice talking to you."

"One last question: Is he going to recover enough to go to the Mainland to college in September?"

"The Mainland? I hadn't heard about that... He might want to reconsider. He's got a lot of PT to go through... He'll need to get used to his leg... always adjustments to be made the first few weeks... I wouldn't recommend that."

"Thanks, doc." The need for a drink reasserted itself. Ron debated, sorely tempted to seek a bar, but he willed himself to hold out a little longer. If he hurried, he could just meet his deadline. One more thing: a quick call to an acquaintance at the bank, who agreed to set up a fund for Kimo, with Ron as the administrator.

Local Notes

by Ron Dover

One day, class valedictorian at Kaimuki High. Next day, lying in a hospital bed, bandages swathed around the stub of his right leg, facing a lifetime of dependence on costly substitutes for his missing limb.

That's eighteen-year-old Kimo Flynn. I talked to him this afternoon at Queen's Hospital. He's a courageous, handsome young man of "haole-Chinese-Hawaiian" heritage, eager only to return to the watery playground he loves.

Flynn had been out on his surfboard off Kaneohe for half an hour early Tuesday morning, catching waves, when he was sneak-attacked by a shark that bit off his foot. "I didn't even see it coming," he said. Thinking quickly, he fought it off, finally succeeding when he tried to gouge out its eye. He paddled atop his surfboard until he reached the shore and could pull himself out of the water.

To his great good fortune, a nurse from Wisconsin vacationing in the Islands, Marjory Livingston, was sunbathing nearby with friends. "I just happened to be looking out, and I could see a shark thrashing about. Then the water started turning blood-red. I had my cell phone, so I called 9-1-1 right away."

She watched Flynn paddle to shore, and her medical training told her to make a makeshift tourniquet to stop the loss of blood. "I owe my life to her," Flynn said.

When he reached the hospital, doctors had to remove the leg above the knee because of damage to his thigh. His physician, Dr. Frederick Chinn, says that modern prosthetic limbs will cost $500,000 over his lifetime.

The young scholar plans to leave the Islands to attend college on the Mainland. He expects to be a freshman at the University of California at Irvine in September. But he has mixed feelings about his departure, for he'll have to leave behind the contemporary Hawaiian band Plenny Pupule in which he plays ukulele. And with his good looks, he'll probably break the hearts of a few local girls, too.

Chinn says Flynn is progressing well and should released from Queen's in about two weeks.

Meanwhile, Flynn's friends have set up a fund to help him. Contributions may be sent to:

Kimo Flynn Fund
c/o Hawaii National Bank
1234 Fort Street
Honolulu, HI 96080

His work pau, Ron made for his "termite-eaten" compact Japanese sedan. It had been shiny new at one time, but the sun, the humidity, daily showers crossing the Pali, and salt spray had teamed up to break through the finish, leading to pin pricks that became growing gashes of orange rust. The engine was still okay; it would take him back to his small condo in Kaneohe, across the mountains behind Honolulu.

As he drove, he began to daydream. Six months to go. How'm I going to live then? Social Security won't be enough. Pension's a joke. Should have saved more. Too expensive here -- what did that news report say? 25% more than the Mainland. Some freelance writing maybe? A part-time job?

His thoughts turned to the boy. So young. Poor kid. Shy? Or a stutterer? Hadn't he had any speech therapy? Maybe he had had therapy and this was the result. Beautiful body, though. He didn't know what he faced. How was he going to go to a Mainland college and get his leg fixed up at the same time? Wait another year? And how was he going to afford those fancy artificial legs you always saw on TV? His father couldn't be that well off. Just a working stiff, like everyone else. Maybe the fund would raise a few bucks. That kind of thing appealed to Island people. Aloha spirit. Hawaiian hospitality. What we have, we share. What must those New England missionaries have thought, with their strong belief in private property. Captain Cook had found out the hard way when the Hawaiians tried to pilfer everything -- even the stuff that was nailed down. They especially prized the nails, not having any metals of their own. Even a boat. He lost his life trying to defend what was his... I wonder how much the fund will raise. George said I would be administrator. How'm I going to get access to it? I need to talk to him again.

Arriving at his condo after the 45-minute drive from Honolulu, Ron unlocked the door and went inside. No one home. Not even a cat. He headed for the bar. He could reward himself. He'd been good all afternoon. Hadn't had a drink since lunchtime. He could relax now. And so he did, settling himself into his lounge chair, remote at his side, staring witlessly at the bright faces talking away, sipping his drinks, one after the other, thinking about that fund -- until everything went dark.

Next morning, Kimo recognized the sweet falsetto voice of Nelson Pavao singing a familiar tune as he came down the corridor. "Nel!" he called out happily. "Man, where've you been?"

Nelson peeked around the partly-open door, displaying an impish smile, his tanned face topped by a helmet of jet-black curls glistening with gel. He was a bit darker in complexion than Kimo, of average height and wiry. He walked in, started giggling, put his hand over his mouth, and burst out laughing.

"Sorry, love. It's just that --" he burst out laughing again. "From a certain angle I can see your big luau foot, and on the other side, something sticking out of your shorts, and it looks -- ha! ha! -- it looks like a humongous dong! Man, you're more beautiful than ever!"

"Right!" Kimo said, irritated. "After all this time you think you can ho'omalimali me?"

"No, man. I saw it on cable. They have these Terminator legs now. All shiny black. Real high-tech. These dudes get them, and they start running marathons."

"Hey, I read that column in the paper this morning, about how all the girls are going to miss you. You got something to tell me?" he said with a grin.

"Come'ere, Nel. Man, I miss you. Let me hold you. This hospital sucks b- b- big time."

They hugged each other tightly. Nelson continued to sit on the side of the bed after Kimo released him. "You got that gift-wrapped for me?" he asked, nodding his head toward Kimo's dressings.

"Just wait 'til it heals! It's going to be so sexy. I can't wait to get my hands on it," Nelson said eagerly. "Anyhow, you going to be ready for the gig?"

"Huh? Almost forgot. I been puh- puh- -- practicing a little. I feel tired all the time, though."

"They've probably still got you on drugs. You're going to look cute in a wheelchair," said Nelson, grinning again.

"So what are you going to do? You won't be walking on two legs for another couple months, at least. What's wrong with playing sitting down? Iz used to," he said, referring to a beloved Island performer, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, who died prematurely at 38 from problems associated with his weight, which is said to have peaked at over 750 pounds.

"Sure, Iz had puh- puh- -- problems getting around when he was so heavy. He was crippled. I'm not like that."

Nelson thought, then said, "How about a stool? You could kinda lean against it so you're almost standing."

"That'll work. I can rest my leg on the top. Where are we going to get a stool?"

Later that afternoon, Nelson found his way to Ron's cubicle in the offices of the Commercial-Star. "Mr. Dover?"

"Well, since fifth grade. But we really became close in eighth grade. He always had girls throwing themselves at him, always lots of people around him. I was just a skinny kid. I didn't think he even noticed me. But then some other boys tried to beat me up. K saved my ass."

"Ah -- you know we're in Plenny Pupule, right? And we have this gig two weeks from Saturday. And, uh, I think K's going to be okay to play, but he doesn't want to play from a wheelchair, and using crutches won't work, so we think he needs a stool... Problem is, we need to buy one. I was wondering..."

"That's what it comes down to," he said, nodding his head. "We thought, you know, this might come under occupational therapy..."

"Sounds to me like you two are professional scam artists," Ron said with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm probably contributing to the delinquency of two minors, but okay. You get the stool and send the bill to me. I'll take it out of the fund... What's the gig?"

"We're backing Auntie Harriet's Hula Halao. They're performing down by Kuhio Beach -- you know, for the tourists, free show."

" but no kala. That's about it. Everybody wants everything free for nothing... Mahalo for the stool," he said, rising to leave.

"Not so fast. Tell me more about your group. Kimo wasn't very forthcoming when I talked to him."

"Yeah. That's Kimo. He doesn't like to talk if he can help it. Never knows when he's going to get stuck."

"He's always had a problem. Used to be worse; he couldn't hardly talk at all. He's a lot better now. It comes and goes... Funny thing is, you get him up on a stage and he has no problem. It's like a switch turns on and he's okay. Weird."

"Oh, yeah, Plenny Pupule. K plays ukulele and sings, I play ukulele and sing, my cousin, Hector, he plays guitar and sings a little, and we have this haole guy from the Mainland, Al -- he plays bass."

"Auntie Harriet. Last year at the Lei Day celebration at school me and K sang 'Ke Kali Nei Au' -- you know, 'Hawaiian Wedding Song.' We did it just for fun --

You know, supposed to be a boy and a girl, but we did it anyhow. Auntie Harriet was in the audience. She liked us. So Plenny Pupule auditioned for her."

What the hell, Ron thought. A stool can't be very expensive. A hundred, maybe, the way prices are these days. Donations are coming in. Should have twenty- maybe twenty-five thou before it's over. How'm I going to get my cut? A few administrative costs? Work something with the prosthetist? Share with him? Might as well put Saturday night on my calendar.

On the appointed evening, Ron sauntered down Kapahulu Avenue at the far end of Waikiki heading toward the beach, having parked his car in the zoo parking lot. In midsummer the sun did not set until after seven and the sidewalks thronged with people. He approached the huge old banyan tree that served as a backdrop for the stage. It stood in a paved area between Waikiki's main thoroughfare and the narrow sandy beach. A sound system and lighting had been set up, and tourists in leisure attire were finding spots either in the grassy area toward the sea or on the lava-stone retaining wall surrounding it. Others would pause from their strolls along the beach or the sidewalk and peer over the shoulders of others.

After a ceremonial blowing of conch shells and lighting of torches by husky Hawaiian men in loincloths, Auntie Harriet introduced herself and began the show. She brought onstage lovely girls in stylish hula costumes -- not the grass skirts of old-time Hollywood movies, but bright red bloomers topped by short skirts, and tube-style tops, miniature flower leis adorning the ankles of their bare feet. They danced gracefully to the music of Plenny Pupule. Nelson had been right: on stage Kimo lost any reticence, smiled broadly, and exhibited the mysterious stage presence of a true showman. He and his mates wore black trousers and shoes, and aloha shirts with three-quarter-length sleeves, tails out, of a bright yellow fabric accented by bright red flowers.

As the show continued, teens, sweet prepubescent girls, little keiki of kindergarten age, and twentyish men took their turns, topped by a beautiful young lady dancing solo in a gleaming white formfitting holoku'u gown with a short train. Her attractive figure swayed and her hands flowed like streamers in the wind to the rhythm of the music. The audience clapped and cheered after each number, encouraging the dancers to do their best.

Kimo stood up and thrust his stool forward, then used it as a crutch to hop a step, his empty trouser leg flopping loosely. The crowd collectively gasped and murmured when it saw clearly for the first time that he was maimed, then held its breath as he moved laboriously to his place front and center. Nelson came to stand beside him, Auntie Harriet introduced them, and they began to sing. The incongruity of a sentimental love duet being sung by two men, the robust bass voice of one contrasting with the sweet falsetto of the other, created a rising excitement: the conflict between something too naughty to witness, yet too thrilling to deny. The release of tension when the boys finished propelled the audience to wild applause. They repeated the last verse and again the crowd cheered, settling down only to hear Auntie Harriet tell Kimo's story.

By the time the show was over, night had fallen. Ron had to wait as others came up to congratulate the boys.

Nelson made the introductions while people continued to crowd around before dispersing back to their hotels.

"Look, Nel! That tourist gave me this." Kimo opened his hand to show Nelson a twenty.

By late fall, the young man had recovered. On his father's advice, Ron decided to try to meet Kimo on the beach where he surfed. As he reached the berm, he could see a man in the distance swing along on forearm crutches, followed by a shorter man carrying a surfboard. He watched as they stopped and the crutch-walker sat down on the sand.

"Hi, guys. No need to be formal. Ron is fine. I just wanted to come by to see how Kimo's doing. You're actually walking on that thing! That's great. You're on your way now, huh?"

"He can't wear slippers, Mr. Dover -- Ron," said Nelson, using an Island term for open sandals, go-aheads, slides -- any footwear short of actual shoes.

Ron looked down and saw that the prosthetic foot was clad in a sneaker, unlike the real foot. "Oh. That's important to you kids, isn't it."

"He can't dance anymore, either," Nelson said, breaking into a hula step that involved squatting down and duck-walking.

"You know, you've given me an idea... I remember something about a foot they use in... someplace in the Far East. It was for people in developing countries who go barefoot a lot."

"You're lucky.à Let me see what I can find out and I'll get back to you." He left, thinking to himself that maybe the new leg wasn't the only reason Kimo didn't want to go to the Mainland -- and it wasn't girls whose hearts he would break, either.

From his office PC that afternoon, Ron searched the web for the prosthetic foot until he found it: the Jaipur foot, named after the city in India where it was invented, made of wood and a generous infusion of rubber. Its advantage was that it had a flexible ankle, and it was designed to be worn barefoot or with thong sandals.

Ron's mind booted up. How could he get such a foot for Kimo? He was starting to feel some affection for the boy, some previously hidden paternal feelings surfacing -- maybe avuncular. Anyway, new challenge: a Jaipur foot for Kimo... They must have newspapers. Newspaper reporter to newspaper reporter? Worth a try. He could tell them he was an editor. Might carry more weight. Social engineering. What can you get with a phone call if you pretend to be someone important? How does one make a phone call to India. Where the hell is Jaipur, anyhow? Get a map. Get the boss to okay the call. Action!

It took some convincing: after all, Ron had pointed out, there would be a story in the end. So, after much delay, and several computations and recomputations of the time difference, he had gotten a call through to a newspaper editor who spoke English, thank goodness, in Jaipur, India, who promised as one newspaperman to another, to look into the matter of obtaining one each foot, right, size 14 American, size 47 European. He should hear back in a day or so.

As he hung up the phone, Ron saw a man waiting beside his desk. "Mr. Dover? I'm Gordon Uyeda. I hear you've been helping Kimo Flynn and Plenny Pupule."

"I see. I have a proposal that I'm sure you'll agree will solve his money problems concerning his leg."

"You see, Plenny Pupule is ready to cut a CD. With so much competition sometimes a group has to pay for the first CD to prime the pump, so to speak."

"Not much -- five k should do it. Cut the CD, make some copies, distribute them around. Once people start hearing some of the cuts, they'll want to buy the CD."

"Mr. Uyeda, the money in Kimo's fund is to help pay for replacement legs that he will need over the course of his lifetime, not to invest in some get-rich scheme."

"Oh, this is not a scheme, I've written a solid business plan. I'd be happy to leave a copy for you."

"Sorry, Mr. Uyeda, the money is for the leg," Ron said firmly, thinking to himself, That's all I need is to start giving the fund away to some leeches who want to profit from Kimo's misfortune.

"Ah, Mr. Dover, this is Arun Mehta. I hope you're in good health," the voice said with an Indian accent.

"I'm just fine, thank you for asking," the voice said with no apparent irony. "I am making contact with the people here who are making Jaipur foot, but I am afraid I have some bad news."

"It seems that they are not making Jaipur foot in such a very large size. The peasants here have very ordinary-size feet. Size 47 must be for a giant."

"Well, he's not exactly a giant, but he is pretty tall -- well over six feet -- nearly two meters. You know, I hate to disappoint him. Do you suppose they could be persuaded to make a special foot for him? What would it take? You know, could we send a cast of his existing foot and somehow they could reverse it? This boy needs one of those feet badly. And the money is there to buy one."

"As I explained the other day, this boy had his foot bitten off by a shark. Kids here -- you know, it is tropical in Hawaii -- and kids go barefoot a lot. This boy wants to be like all his friends. It's important to him."

"Ah, yes. I try once more. I ring you again when I am obtaining more informations."

"Thanks. I really appreciate the favor you're doing. I hope you'll be able to work something out. Thanks again."

"Ah, Mr. Dover, this is Arun Mehta again. I hope you're in good health," said the voice when Ron answered his phone the next day.

"Yes, thank you. And you?" Ron had taken the hint that not everyone in the world abbreviated social courtesies as American did.

"Very fine, thank you. It is all arranged. You must please send a cast of the boy's foot. We are having a very talented sculptor here in Jaipur. He will take the cast and make a right foot. It will take maybe two weeks' time."

"You will please send the cast and international bank draft for one thousand dollars American to me and I will forward them to the medical center."

"A thousand dollars! That's too much! The stuff I've seen says they cost less than fifty bucks."

"But you see, Mr. Dover, this is a very special case indeed. If you want anything up to size 43, it is no problem at all. They are already having the molds for such sizes. But for size 47, they are making a new mold that is never to be used again, custom made by a very artistic sculptor who is working to exactingly high standards."

"I understand, but I think that's still too much. See if you can talk them down to five hundred. This boy is not rich."

"One moment, please." When Mehta came back, he said, "Yes, I think that eight hundred dollars American is covering the necessary expenditures if you will please send some pictures that the sculptor can be using for references."

"That's still too much... tell you what: he's going to need a replacement eventually. I'll get the cast made and send it off to you with the money and you have them make two feet, one for now, and one for a spare."

"Two feet... yes, that should be satisfactory, Mr. Dover. I shall be awaiting your package."

Highways robbers, thought Ron. They think all Americans are rich. Now, how'm I going to get a cast? Probably the prosthetist. And pictures! Wonder what they'll be used for?

At long last the feet arrived from India and Ron delivered them to Mr. Birch, who had agreed to find a way to use them with Kimo's leg. A week later Ron had a visit from the boys.

"Mr. Dover -- Ron -- look at Kimo's new foot. Now he's haole, Hawaiian, Chinese, and Indian!" said Nelson excitedly, ticking off the ethnicities on his fingers. Ron looked as Kimo, wearing shorts and flip-flops, showed off his strange new foot, hunkering to demonstrate its flexible ankle. "He still can't dance like he used to, but at least he doesn't have to wear shoes all the time now."

"Wonderful. I'm glad I was able to help. I'll expect great things from you now... Hold it! We need to get a photographer. I promised the guy in India I would send a picture. We can use it in the paper, too." He made a call. "By the way, do you two know a man named Uyeda?"

"He always wants money. He always has some deal he's cooking up. Don't give him anything... You didn't, did you?"

When the photographer appeared, he took some full-length shots of Kimo, then more with his new foot resting on a chair, and finally Ron and the two boys.

"Thanks, Yosh," said Ron. "Pick the best one for tomorrow's edition and give me 8 by 10s of the others. I'll mail them off to Jaipur."

"Ron, we wanted to ask you," Nelson began, "-- you're retiring? We saw on the wall as we came up a sign saying they were having a retirement party for you."

"Yes, I won't actually retire until the end of December, but they're having the party early."

"Mahalo nui loa, Ron. I'll never forget what you've done for me," Kimo said as he startled Ron by engulfing him in his arms. Ron was overwhelmed. It had been a long while since he had experienced such a genuine display of affection. He was having second thoughts about helping himself to Kimo's fund.

A year later Ron met a fellow reporter in a bar he frequented. "Ron, how's retired life? What are you doing to keep busy?"

"Hey, Bill. You wouldn't believe it, but I'm as busy as ever. Remember those boys who played at the retirement party -- one had a fake leg -- he'd been attacked by a shark?" Bill nodded. "They sang that duet, 'Hawaiian Wedding Song,' that everyone raved about?" Bill nodded again. "Anyhow, Charlie McIntyre was blown away by it. He has a pal in San Francisco that he keeps in touch with.

Charlie got a tape and sent it to the pal, who has this bar -- it caters to gays. His customers heard it and they all wanted a copy. So the pal told Charlie -- you know his family is pretty well fixed -- and Charlie had the boys cut a CD: 'Plenny Pupule.' Anyhow, we sent some copies to the bar, and we also set up a web site. So now I'm taking orders on my computer in my condo and shipping them out. I get a few bucks out of it and it gives me something to do. The boys 'll never get rich, but the orders keep coming in, and they're starting to be in demand... The Willows restaurant just gave them a contract to play one night a week for six months."