End of the Ocean Read online

  “A ring don’t plug a hole.”

  That’s what his dad had said. The one time Sage broke down and asked his advice—and from a man divorced three times he barely knew—but that’s what he got, and in a way it did not make sense. But in a way it did.

  Sage turned to move and realized he was on a beach beside the ocean in a foreign country with his feet in the sand. It was unfathomable to consider, and still so hard to believe he was there.

  Standing now, carefully avoiding the umbrella, feeling stiff after what must have been a six-hour nap in that chair, he remembered the dream he had. He was back on the plane, with Wayne Tender. Now Wayne was bragging about the size of his penis.

  “It runs the length of me elbow to me hand.”

  Sage had a good laugh. Out loud. Alone. Standing in the sand beside the ocean. Even though it was so late he could not begin to wager a guess at the time, he laughed heartily and joyfully. Here he was, so very far from home, and he’d spent his first night passed out on the beach, dreaming of a stranger’s cock.

  If she could see him now, laughing, in the dark, by himself, at the thought of another man’s penis. He wondered if she missed him but he knew she didn’t. Then he wondered how that was even possible, to become that way. To say you want someone, when you don’t. To say I love you when you love someone else.

  Walking to his chair, he ducked, laughing punch-drunk and avoiding the metal support bar at all costs, and sat down. Because he knew what was coming. Something he could not hold back. There was no way to fight this. And even if there was, he couldn’t. He had to let it go. Let it all go. He had to let her go. Before she killed him. Before he walked into the ocean and drowned himself in her memories—though his lifelong fear of sharks would prevent that from happening.

  “WHY?” he yelled to the darkness. And he sat there, cold and alone. Drenched in a sheen of sea-salt mist. He asked the stars how she could do it. He asked the ocean and the sand. He asked God: How could she do this to me? He had loved her so much. She was the best part of his life. His best friend. And he was hers—that Sage was sure of. The only real friend she’d had. Together he felt complete. Apart he felt destroyed.

  Like something inside him was broken in half that could never be repaired.

  Tears ran down his face. He licked salt from his lips. Took a deep breath. Thought about beer, then decided against it because of the taste, but now, after second—even third—thoughts, he reached for a one anyway, still slightly chilled, hard as that was to believe. He pulled off the cap with the bottle opener they gave him and, hoisting it to his lips, he downed a quarter of the bottle in a gulp of frustration.

  It was as bad as it ever was, but he choked it down anyway and took another drink. Thought about his failures and his successes and his accomplishments. Thought about where he was today, and where he saw himself tomorrow. Deep, penetrating thoughts. Positive thoughts. The kind of things he’d read about in books.

  Positive thinking: That’s what’s required if you want to be a success.

  And that’s what he wanted. To be successful. He’d studied success story after success story and he’d listened to Abraham Hicks. He would turn this thing around. He would find himself, and perhaps his mojo, somehow, somewhere, in this new country. He would dance like no one’s watching—as ridiculous as that sounded—and he would teach himself to dance if he had to, but he would try new things. Learn their language and their money; perhaps, one day, he may even develop an appreciation for their beer, though that seemed unlikely.

  Sage, lying low enough to be comfortable but high enough to drink from the bottle without drowning, watching stars above him, decided he would reinvent himself: He could be whoever he wanted, and Sage wanted to be the man he had always been afraid to be. The man he never knew he could be.

  But first he had to find him.

  ***

  Looking out beyond the break, in the early morning light, the ocean was straight cerulean glass that stretched as far as he could see: blue and green with small white caps of foam that rose to the surface and came toward him, spreading out like long pallid fingers that became waves and crashed the shoreline with a thunderous echo.

  Sitting on his covered back porch, Djoko Koplak rolled a small thin joint as the sun came up. It was his favorite time of day; a time of reflection. He would smoke and think and drink coffee. Then, stretching his lean body in all manners of angle, he would meditate and prepare for the day to come.

  It was a special time, an important time, though lately he’d gotten so carried away with his cocaine-fueled lifestyle he seldom got to bed before the sun came up, and once that happened his day was shot; he could not sleep, not with light coming in. He never had been able to, regardless of how tired and worn down he was. Even if he darkened his windows, it did not help, not in the slightest, because in his head he knew it was daylight. Knew what time it was. Rise and shine. Wake and bake. Grab his surfboard and walk his path, the same path he walked most days, to his favorite spot on the beach to toss his board on the water and lie down and paddle out into the sea.

  Djoko Koplak loved to surf. He lived for it. Had saltwater in his veins. It was the thing that brought him to Bali in the first place. With waves that were astonishing, Bali was the Mecca and it pulled surfers toward it as if by some intimate, unspoken gravity, and every day he could ride those waves was a blessing. He did his best to remember that, that his whole life was a blessing, and all because of cocaine, and the fact he was connected. The Australians loved blow and would pay good money for it. It was the availability of the coke, not the quality, that set the market, but his coke happened to be the best quality anywhere and it was always in abundance, though lately he’d branched into other things.

  Djoko kept it simple. He kept others’ involvement to a minimum. The more hands that were involved, the greater the risk of getting caught, and the greater the likelihood the product would get stepped on. Because everyone had heavy feet, and everyone involved took a slice of the pie. It was a natural process. It was the cost of doing business.

  Djoko was thirty-two years old and he had lived in Bali five years. He was a very handsome surfer who sold a lot of cocaine. The path to his destiny had come to be completely by accident, because he was a nice guy, and because he was in the right place at the right time, because he helped an old man change a tire once; a tire change that launched a friendship that became a partnership. One that made him rich.

  But for him to support his lifestyle he had to take risks. Sometimes he had to risk his life, but he usually paid someone else to risk theirs. Either way, he was just the middle man. Tranquil and assured, he spoke four languages and would look custom agents in the eye and smile. He dared them to search him. That was the kind of poise he had.

  Fluid. Like water. In and out with impenetrable confidence, even when they searched his bags. When they handled his backpack or his surfboard, he grinned. He enjoyed the excitement and the rush, he believed in his own destiny. That he was young and rich and would live forever, to be the greatest surfer or the biggest coke vendor in Bali, perhaps both, but he would not be a fisherman or a cab driver or a factory worker, he would be rich and well-known. Respected. He would live lavishly with his jewelry and his women, cocaine parties and sex orgies every night.

  It was his fate to become that man, a man other men would envy. And they did. Every man he met seethed with envy and that was a feeling Djoko liked. It drove him. Even though that was a dangerous feeling to have. Every day could be his last. And if he were caught, which was always a possibility, the idea of spending life in Kerobokan was worse than the thought of death, assuming he did not get a death sentence to begin with, which he could. It had been known to happen, which was always where his confidence came in. His bravado. The thing that made him good at what he did.

  He never believed he’d get caught in the first place.

  Confidence is everything.

  That’s
what the old man told him once he’d decided to bring him in. The reason he approached Djoko to mule in the first place. Except they didn’t call him a mule.

  “We call it horse.”

  “What’s the difference between mule and horse?” Djoko said.

  “A mule is just a stupid animal. A mule is broke, desperate. A mule is just a number to cartels. But a horse, a horse is big, a powerful animal with a big heart and big balls. And you, my friend, you are a stud horse. Just look at the balls on you.”

  No one said mule anymore, the man told him. “Everyone knows what that word means.”

  The man who introduced him to the smuggling lifestyle was seventy-six years old, his age being the very reason Djoko stopped in the first place. To ignore an old man on the side of the road would have distressed his conscience.

  “I’m Sukram,” he said. They shook hands.

  A week later Djoko was in Aukland, New Zealand, with two pounds of blow packed inside the metal framework of his hang glider.

  “I don’t how to use this thing,” Djoko’d protested. He had never seen a hang glider in his life; nor could he imagine flying one, and he certainly could not imagine it would hold two pounds of very pure cocaine. But it did.

  The old man laughed. “It does not matter,” he said. “They don’t know that you can or cannot.”

  Djoko trembled as he passed through Immigration at Auckland Airport, but no one knew. He hid it well. He was young and in shape and believed, in his heart, this was the profession he was meant for, that it was kismet. His destiny. To become rich and powerful. To own mansions and cars and motorcycles.

  He made ten thousand dollars in one day and did not look back. Djoko Koplak had found his calling. The first thing he did after completing his run was spend eight of his ten thousand on a Rolex and another fifteen hundred on gold chains.

  “Is this real?” he’d asked his employer. “This money? Or is all of this a dream?”

  The old man, smiling, said this was just the beginning, that women would follow, and more money and big parties—if only he was careful: he reinforced being careful.

  “This is a dangerous business,” he said. “One thing go wrong, you go to prison, you die.”

  Djoko believed that. But not as much as he believed it could not happen to him.

  ***

  Ngyn Suterma woke up sweating. It was hot on his side of the bed. Bright morning sun came through the open window and warmed his face. He rolled to the side his wife slept on, which was cool and vacant. She’d left at six a.m. to clean the home of a wealthy Australian couple from Celuk.

  Ngyn had a big day today. It would also be a long day, and he’d barely slept the night before. He had meetings to attend and people to see. He was always nervous when it came to his second life; the job where he made his real money.

  Looking around their home, he smiled. It was very nice. They had paintings and wooden carvings and sculptures, with a full kitchen and concrete steps and a tile floor. It was a fine home, but not too fine. Because too fine a home would provoke questions and that was something he didn’t need. Ngyn was a hard worker; his friends would be the first to tell you. His criminal proclivities were a well-kept secret, even from his wife, and if she did suspect anything she would not say.

  “He work at factory,” was the answer she always gave. The same answer he gave. Ngyn knew the less she knew the better. She was a good wife and he loved her. He did not want her to work as hard as she did. But she had to. For now. But maybe one day that would change, and maybe this new job would be the catalyst for that opportunity.

  “Papa,” Ngyn’s son said, walking into the bedroom. He asked for his mother.

  “Ibu,” he said. There were tears in his tiny brown eyes.

  “Hush, hush.”

  “Ibu,” the child said.

  “Ah,” Ngyn said. “Ibu at work, my son. She come home soon.”

  They spoke English to all of their children, so they would know the language of the world. The child, the youngest of four, dropped his blanket and began to cry.

  “Come, come,” Ngy said, sitting up, yawning, stretching. He turned and, placing his feet on the cool floor, reaching down, arms outstretched, motioned for his son, who ignored him.

  “Ibu.”

  “Come,” Ngyn said. He smiled at the boy, who picked up his blanket and walked toward him.

  “Come,” Ngyn said, wiggling his fingers at the boy, who finally smiled and reached up for him.

  It was his wife and his children who inspired him to live and to work hard, even if he had to break the law. He did not want his children to work at a factory. Get an education, he would say. Go to Europe or America, he would say. Those were the words he said to inspire them. He loved his country and his people, but opportunities were limited.

  He knew that, and he wanted his kids to have more.

  That’s what he told himself. The reason why he did what he did. But somewhere inside himself he knew better, because there was another reason, hard as it was to admit. He liked what he did. It was a great rush to be part of something illegal, and the rewards these opportunities had given him. He thought of the stacks of rupiah hidden beneath the floor and the stacks buried under a small building behind his own Ibu’s house. Money for his family

  “Papa.”

  Looking down into the small face of his son, tickling his cheek, Ngyn winked. Then he blew gently on the boy’s eyelids. He blinked and smiled.

  “Hush, hush,” Ngyn said, holding the boy tight against his chest.

  The boy, still crying, looked up at his father and told him he was hungry.

  Ngyn smiled. “You hungry? OK, we eat.”

  He stood and, holding the boy on his side, walked to their kitchen and called for his other children. Setting him down on a chair, Ngyn walked to the refrigerator and opened the door and removed some eggs.

  “Want egg?” he asked.

  The boy nodded as the other children entered the room.

  “Hi papa,” his oldest daughter said.

  “Pagi,” his younger daughter said.

  “Where Asus?” Ngyn asked.

  “Working,” they said.

  Ngyn concealed his smile. It pleased him to see his son work hard. At thirteen years old he had a job and he gave the money he made to his father, who saved it for the day his son was old enough for a motorbike. Though Asus did not know that. He was content with his bicycle, but he had, on more than one occasion, made statements to his mother, who relayed them to his father, about his longing for a real machine.

  “When I get motorbike, Ibu?” But his mother would shrug and say, “When you old enough to have beard,” and she would rub his bare chin with her hand.

  Nygn’s children sat around the table and talked and watched their father cook. Ngyn poured coconut oil in a cast iron skillet and rubbed it in good with his finger to coat the bottom. He turned the gas burner on, and the hot flame brought the smell of coconut to life and it filled the room.

  “Can we have gravy, papa?” his youngest daughter asked.

  Ngyn threw his hands up dramatically.

  “You want egg? You want gravy? What else you want? Crazy children of mine.”

  They laughed at their father as he danced around the kitchen.

  “Why not toast as well,” he suggested.

  “Yes, toast!” they all said together. “Toast and gravy, papa.”

  “Toast and gravy,” Ngyn said, exasperated. “My goodness, these hungry children will eat all the food in our house.”

  ***

  When Sage opened his eyes it was morning. He heard birds squawking. It was bright. Blinking, struggling to acquire his bearing, looking up into the sun, he saw a small child above him, standing with his head cocked to one side.

  “Oh, hello,” Sage said. Waking up. Sitting up. Attempting to make adjustments.

  “Pagi.”


  “Huh?”

  The boy—Sage decided the child was a boy—nodded.

  “Hello,” Sage said again.

  “Pagi.”

  Sage nodded, and the boy, friendly and curious, began a fast conversation Sage could not understand. Then the boy touched his arm with his small brown fingers and opened his hand.

  “Oh,” Sage said, standing with caution, ducking, remembering the umbrella, reaching in his pocket. Sage removed his wallet, and, after opening it, studied the wad of bills.

  They were pink and blue and green.

  The boy, still smiling, stood on one foot and used his other foot to scratch his leg.

  Sage, removing a few bills, handed them to the child and saw his eyes grow wide.

  Very excited, putting both feet in the sand, bowing his head, sprinting from the beach, the boy jumped over a stack of logs and trash that had accumulated and disappeared into lush greenery that bordered sand.

  How did he end up sleeping on the beach when his hotel was five hundred feet away?

  He bent at the waist and stretched. Went to pick up his bucket of empties but they were gone. Which may have explained the boy. Perhaps he had returned them. Which explained his smile and outstretched hand.

  Sage, feeling good considering he’d gotten drunk and slept on a wooden chair, reached to his head for his sunglasses but they were also gone.

  Shit. He walked across the sand, to a dirt parking lot, crossed it and walked to his hotel, except they called it a villa. He was staying at a villa. It was nice, but expensive. He would find something cheaper. He was, after all, on a budget. He would only be there for a few weeks, he had to make his money last. He knew what little money he had left after the divorce would only stretch so far and he could not work in Indonesia to earn money—it was forbidden. Or illegal. Something. He wasn’t sure which. But that didn’t matter, because he didn’t plan on working. He planned on drinking. He wanted to forget who he was, but he could not forget the suggestions he’d received before he left. Like the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody. That was the second piece of unsolicited advice his father had given him, immediately following the first piece—both seeming worthless in the state he had found himself in but now, months later, somehow, it had all began to sink in.