The Curse of Lono - By Hunter S. Thompson Page 0,36

guns, to hunt them where they lived. Every once in a while either Ackerman or I would take a turn at the wheel, but never for very long. Captain Steve was convinced that we might hook a marlin or at least a big ahi at any moment, and he wanted to be at the controls when it happened. He spent most of the afternoon on the bridge, staring down at the barren, deep gray water through polarized fishing glasses.

Ackerman seemed to share my aggressive pessimism about the possibility of catching fish, but he kept a professional eye on the lines anyway. "I am the first mate," he explained, "and I have a certain professional pride." I had almost forgotten that he was a part of that tight little tribe of licensed charter captains that forms the only real elite on the KonaCoast. "We're all equal in the ocean," he explained. "That's surfer talk, but it makes a weird kind of sense."

I agreed. It was understood, in some way that has only to do with the sea, that either of us would be capable of getting the boat safely back into the harbor if Captain Steve, for some reason, could not.

Ackerman was obviously at home on the boat. He knew where everything went, and why, and not much was going to surprise him. I'd invited him to come along without giving it much thought, but only after hearing Steve say several times that they were "pretty close friends."

There were no fish. We trolled all the way down, but the only signs of life we saw between Kailua and South Point was a school of porpoises and some birds. It was a long hot ride, and by mid-afternoon all three of us were jabbering drunk on beer.

It was just before sundown when we finally rounded the corner at South Point. The sea had been rough on the run down the Kona side of the island -- but it was nothing compared to what we encountered when we came around the point.

The sea was so high and wild that we could only gape at it. No words were necessary. We had found our own hurricane, and there was no place to hide from it.

At sundown I switched to gin and Ackerman broke out a small vial of white powder that he sniffed up his nose off the tip of a number 10 fish hook, then offered the vial to me.

"Be careful," he said. "It's not what you think."

I stared at the vial, examining the contents closely and bracing my feet on the deck as the boat suddenly tilted and went up on the hump of a swell.

"It's China White," he said, gripping the back of the fighting chair as we came down hard in the slough.

Jesus, I thought. I'm out here with junkies. The boat rolled again, throwing me off balance on the wet deck with a cup of gin in one hand and a vial of heroin in the other.

I dropped them both as I slid past Ackerman and grabbed the ladder to keep from going over the side.

Ackerman lunged for the vial with the speed of a young cobra and caught it on one bounce, but it was already wet and he stared at it balefully, then tossed it away in the sea. "What the hell," he said. "I never liked the stuff anyway."

I pulled myself over to the chair and sat down. "Me either," I said. "It's hard on the stomach."

He eyed me darkly for a moment and I planted both feet, not knowing what to expect. It is bad business to drop other people's heroin -- especially far out at sea with a storm coming up -- and I didn't know Ackerman that well. He was a big rangy bastard, with the long loose muscles of a swimmer, and his move on the bouncing vial had been impressively fast. I knew he could get me with the gaffing hook before I reached the ladder.

I resisted the urge to call Captain Steve. Were they both junkies? I wondered, still poised on the edge of the white naugahyde chair. What kind of anglers carry China White to work?

"It's a good drug for the ocean," Ackerman said, as if I'd been thinking out loud. "A lot of times it's the only way to keep from killing the clients."

I nodded, pondering the long night ahead. If the first mate routinely snorted smack at the cocktail hour, what was the captain into?

It occurred to