Strong Like the Sea
© 2021 Wendy Swore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at permissions@shadowmountain.com. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.
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This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
CIP on file
ISBN: 978-1-62972-902-2 | eISBN 978-1-62973-994-6 (eBook)
Printed in the United States of America
Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc., Melrose Park, IL
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover illustration: Mercé Lòpez
Book design © Shadow Mountain
Art direction: Richard Erickson
Design: Emily Remington
This book is dedicated to
kids who choose to be courageous
even when they feel afraid.
Buried Treasure
Empty Squares
The Challenge
Grindz
When Geckos Come for Dinner
Symbols & Centipedes
Deep Water
Brain Freeze
Saisei
Invisible
Castle Tree
Tests of Tides
Friends and Fears
Water under the Foodland Bridge
Small Kine
Hidden Magic
A Promise Is for Keeps
Waterproof
Face to Face
No Mistake
Never Turn Your Back on the Ocean
Family Crest
The Cure
A Report and a Test
Rise
Into the Sea
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sometimes when I get home from school, I find a lucky gecko clinging to the screen door—which is pretty cool—but today I find something even better: a note from Mom.
It wasn’t there when I left for school this morning, and Mom’s still overseas, so someone else must’ve taped it to our door. Could be that Dad stuck it there before he left for work at Kahuku High and Intermediate School, or maybe Mom arranged for someone else here in Laie to leave the clue, but either way, there’s no mistaking Mom’s precise handwriting, each letter long and curved, stretching up and up like palm trees straining against stiff ocean winds. Bent but not broken, her words scrawl across bright white paper: Dear Alexis, Let the game begin! Your adventure awaits.
“Yes!” It’s got to be the start of one of Mom’s special challenges with treats or cool prizes at the end. That’s Mom’s way of staying close to me even when her work carries her far away. I’ve been waiting all week for our video chat tonight, but like always, Mom’s planning two steps ahead and already set her plans in motion.
I carefully peel the tape off the door and check the back of the paper for any more clues, but it’s blank.
As I read her words again, my brain speeds up, questioning everything in case there might be something important I didn’t see the first time—it’s sort of a detective mode that clicks on inside my head.
Mom’s clues might stump me at first, but I never give up until I figure them out and solve her challenges. I can’t leave a mystery unsolved; I guess we’re like mother, like daughter that way. She’s super smart and basically the Queen of All Things Sneaky. That’s why the navy contracted with her in the first place—her brains are her superpower.
When I solved her last challenge in less than a day, Mom promised to make my next clue-hunting mission extra tricky. And if Mom says it’s going to be tricky, it’ll take all my brains to figure it out. Once in a while I’ll let my friends come with me on a challenge. I guess that would be . . . extra brains? Backup brains? Whatever, but usually I just tell them what I found later.
The note doesn’t seem to be hiding any other clues other than to tell me the game’s afoot, so I open the screen door and climb the last couple steps into the house.
My backpack thunks against the tile floor, and I tilt my trilby hat to the side like a detective on TV while I scan for anything out of the ordinary.
Overhead, the ceiling fan spins in lazy circles, mixing the scent of plumeria flowers from outside the kitchen window with the aroma of fresh-steamed rice from the rice cooker. Nothing new on the walls that I can see. I eye the photos of my friends tucked around the frame of our favorite banyan, Castle Tree, but the newest picture is still the one of me, Malia, and Jack chowing down at a school party. Jack’s frozen mid-bite, a sweet roll in his hand—no surprise there.
The living room seems the same as usual, but in the center of the kitchen table, Mom’s old Triton’s trumpet shell sits where the bowl of guava fruit ought to be.
Gently, I lift the eight-inch shell from the table and turn it over before cupping the shell to my ear to listen to the sea. The shell presses against the earpiece of my glasses, and a hollow shh whispers from the depths of the spiral, as if a tiny portal hides inside and lets only the faintest breath from the ocean seep through—a long exhale of waves rushing to shore from far, far away.
I like the sound, even if I don’t like the water much anymore.
It definitely wasn’t on the table this morning, so there must be a reason someone put the shell here. Maybe something’s hidden inside?
I tip it back and forth, trying to see around the curve, and give it a soft shake to listen for anything rattling around, but from tip to mouth, it looks the same as always.
Cradling the heirloom shell, I pad down the hall to the glass cabinet in Mom and Dad’s room to put it back on the shelf—except a compass and scroll tied with a red bow rest in the place where the trumpet shell goes.
The shell clicks softly against the glass as I swap it for the compass and scroll, close the cabinet, and rush back to the kitchen to roll out my find.
Numbers march down the side of the scroll—coordinates, I think—mixed in with Hawaiian words every local and resident knows, like makai, which means toward the ocean, and mauka, which means toward the mountain. On an island, those directions make more