I had been surfing for nearly three years when my father got the job that took us to Hawaii. I threw on a pair of trunks, grabbed my surfboard, and left without a word. Everyone at the house was busy unpacking and fighting over beds. Then I spotted, well off to the west, and rather far out at sea, a familiar minuet of stick figures, rising and falling, backlit by the afternoon sun. Waves broke here and there along the outer edge of a mossy, exposed reef. I ran to the beach for a first, frantic survey of the local waters. But the cottage was near the beach-just up a driveway lined with other cottages, on a street called Kulamanu-and the weather, which was warm even in January, when we arrived, felt like wanton luxury. My brother Kevin and I took turns sleeping on the couch. The budget for moving our family to Honolulu was tight, judging from the tiny cottage we rented and the rusted-out Ford Fairlane we bought to get around. And nobody, blessedly, seemed to notice me.
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