The sound of laughter, the din of music, jets of smoke shooting from nostrils.

The ashtrays are filled with beer. Not just some of them, but every ashtray on our table, which is otherwise covered with a forest of empty beer bottles and red straws leaning forlornly against the side of their empty glasses, drained of their purpose.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke I ascertain it’s the table comedian, an animated guy named [Rex] who, in between jokes, carefully tips his bottle to slosh precise mouthfuls of beer into the ashtrays.

“Whatcha doing that for?” I ask, between drags. His smiling face goes dry for a minute.

“For my friends who aren’t here,” he says quietly, but after a second the smile comes back.

Beni has overheard the exchange, and I lean towards her for a more detailed explanation. “Some good friends...died,” she explains. She recounts the tale for me out of earshot of Rex, who is already busy cracking somebody else up.

The tale is sad and pretty personal, which is why I won’t print it. All I can tell you is that in some sense I’m not supposed to be here, sitting right here in this chair, but other people are and that’s a shame.

Wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, but after hearing the story I lean over and take a sip of Beni’s beer. Not because I want booze, but because I can.

Waves don’t take breaks; even though it’s well after dark and the beach is empty, they still diligently roll in every few seconds.

We’re standing on the end of a long dock, lit in precise intervals by tiki torches. Water ten, maybe fifteen feet below. The ocean is dark but the reflection of moonlight traces the crests of waves, providing visual cues of the tide.

The Hawai’ian version of a group of young punks struts towards us, laughing, talking some sort of smack to each other. Strong pidgin accents give them away as locals, in case their bodyboards and lack of shirts were to go unnoticed. They are the typical teen quartet, with one overweight kid and one skinny, wild-looking fellow who is probably the leader. For a fleeting second I wish I could join their gang.

They climb up on the edge of the dock, peer over the edge, and one by one, they jump. Four leaps, four splashes.

I watched as they paddle out, enthusiastically, calling out to each other. Needless to say there’s no lifeguard on duty at this hour, it’s just these four and the dark water. But as far as juvenile delinquency goes I’d say this beats the crap out of tagging up mailboxes or boosting highlighters at a convenience store.

We knock off a few cigarettes on the end of the dock. Beni talks about her plans for the future, and I talk about mine. The only difference is hers sounds fairly well-thought-out whereas even a high school guidance counselor could tell you I’m pulling stuff out of my ass.

I am in denial of the fact that I’m thirty-three. There are young people dying and not even getting to try their lives out, and I’m sort of pissing mine away by refusing to make certain decisions. For the umpteenth time I resolve to do something about this. Irresponsibility is like the girlfriend I keep coming back to.

Waves roll in, and some of the kids shoot across the water on their boards. It looks like fun.

The fat kid of the group has paddled much farther out, and can’t seem to catch a wave. He paddles frantically in anticipation of one, but is too early in the chain, and he bobs without going anywhere.

Beni and I continue talking.

The other three boys have mixed success, jetting across the water now and again, but the fourth, stubborn, stays further out. Waiting for his big chance.

Patient...or stupid?

Couldn’t tell you.

I wanted to stay and watch until the fat kid finally caught a wave, but eventually it was time to go, and we left them to it. He rose and sank with dark water, waiting.