Honolulu, 1988.

"…And now, the weather. Fine this morning, with, 28 degrees, a beautiful summer day; a chance of a shower late in the afternoon, and a thunderstorm brewing in the west. Warning has been placed around the coasts, cautioning residents and tourists. The rain will continue until Wednesday, followed by a dry weather. Temperature around cities…."

John Byrnes snorted derisively, peering at the mirror. "huh, storm," he muttered, running the razor down his shaving-cream covered cheek. "can't find a freakin' cloud anywhere."

He seemed to be right. Not a speck of white decorated the clear, bright blue sky. The sun, even though it was still early in the morning, was beating down mercilessly. The air was sticky and hot. John finished shaving and came out of the bathroom. He wiped his face. If I stay here any longer, he thought, I'm gonna toast. Or steam. Or cooked alive.

Whatever. He was hot.

He got ready, packed his gear, and came out of the beach house. A blast of hot wind slapped him in the face, sucking his breath out of his lungs. Hurrying down to the dock, where his boat was tied, he walked down the length of the wharf.

" 'Morning, Mr Byrnes," Jim the dockmaster called out from his hut.

"Mornin'," John grunted, and kept walking.

"Need any help with that?" Jim called.

"Nah. I'll manage," John called back, stepping into the boat.

"There's a storm comin'," Jim said. "I'd come back pretty soon, if I were you."

John ignored him and threw the heavy rope onto the dock. They landed with a wet thud. The boat shuddered into life and soon John was pulling out into the ocean.

An hour later, the boat was well far from land. John decided to stop. Looking around, he realised that he was a little too far from where he had intended to fish. He shrugged, and began to set his lunch and his fishing gear out. Ten minutes later, he was happily casting the line and taking a gulp from a can of beer.

Time passed, but he didn't notice. His luck was in that day. The bucket next to him was full of silver-bellied fish, and more continued to catch on his line. Should come here from now on, he thought, piercing another squiggly worm on the hook and casting the line again. He checked the time occasionally, promising himself that this would be the last cast. But then, he was too engrossed.

Things started to go seriously wrong then.

Suddenly, off at a distance, he heard the ominous rumble of thunder. Startled, he looked up; ugly, swollen black clouds were gathering in from everywhere. What once had been a clear, bright sky, now turned into a dangerous, murky grey.

"What the hell-" John frowned. Didn't the radio say rain late in the afternoon? He checked his watch; and swore. It was nearly six.

At the same time, the boat's radio snapped, crackled and popped; with a piercing screech, it died completely.

It was only a matter of time before John was in serious trouble. The waters churned and crashed in enormous tides- heavy sheets of rain pounded so thickly that he couldn't see what was around him. Winds shrieked, and the canvas roof of the boat flapped wildly. The small boat lurched around crazily, dipping and rocking from side to side. John struggled for balance, holding onto the railing. He managed his way to the control room and picked up the emergency signal. It was dead also.

"Shit," he muttered, then cried out as he was flung across the deck. Frantically he reached out and grabbed the wheel, trying to steer the boat around. It was no use. The waves were too strong. And he couldn't see.

Jagged forks of lightning cracked and exploded. The winds howled. Together, they created a haunting duet, a mourning chant. The boat was tossed around like a helpless toy. John kept on punching the signal button in desperation. Nothing happened.

Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed in front of him. He squinted, trying to see better. A crash of his wave knocked him to his feet. Stunned, he staggered up again, shaking his head. The shadow was even bigger now. He wiped endless streams of water out of his eyes.

He didn't realise what the shadow was until he was right on top of it. A rocky cliff with a jagged, pitch dark opening gaped at him. He knew this place. It was called 'Hell's Gate' by the locals; inside was a cave, and tourists came often to explore the inside. I might be able to shelter there until the storm blows over, he thought.

What happened next occurred for about only a split second, but to him it was more like ten minutes. He remembered every vivid detail- they burned themselves into his brain. There was a tremendous clap, a sound so loud that he threw himself on the floor, his hand over his ears. Bloody lightning, he fumed.

As he got up on his knees, electricity began crackling around the high-tension wires that were bedded around the edges of the opening. Sparks of energy flashed around the cave mouth, joining in the centre of the gaping hole, swirling in a restless, blue ball. He stared at the weird sight in hazy confusion. What was this?

without warning, there was a loud snap of power that made john's hair stand on end. He looked up and saw a massive bolt of electricity jump from the wires to the seething ball of energy in the centre. the bolt of energy slammed into the boat, surrounding it. There was a blinding flash of light. When it faded, there was only the wind howling and waves crashing.

The insistent knocking interrupted through Jim Thompson's lovely dream of a naked girl on the beach with him. Grumbling, he staggered out of bed, then yelled, "All right! All right! Jesus Christ, hold on a minute!"

Shoving his arms through a t-shirt, he opened the door. "Now what the hell's going on-" he stopped, staring at the impassive face of a Police Officer.

"Are you James Thompson?" he inquired blandly.

Jim shook sleep out of his eyes, trying to remember if he had committed any crimes lately.

"Yeah, that's me," he said warily.

"You're the Dockmaster, am I correct?"

"Yeah."

The officer held out a picture. "Could you identify this man?"

Jim took it and studies the face. "Yeah, I know this guy. Unfriendly fella. Has a holiday house around here somewhere."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Jim rubbed his prickly chin. "Last time, huh? Well, that'll have to be…hmm. Oh yeah, about a week ago. Yeah, that's right. A week ago."

The officer took some notes down. "I see. What was he doing?"

"Well, I was in the hut, you know, doin' my job and Mr Byrnes- that's his name- came down to the dock."

"What time?" the officer interrupted. " 'bout eleven in the morning, I reckon."

"And what was he doing in the dock?"

Jim rubbed his chin again. "Well now. He was going to his boat- a real beauty, I tell ya- and by the look of it, he was going fishin'. It was real hot that day. Perfect for a day out in the sea, you know."

"Of course." The officer agreed with a small, cool smile.

"And after then, well, he got on his boat and left."

"Did you talk to him?"

"yeah. I said good mornin'. He didn't reply. Never does."

"Did you say anything else?"

"well, yeah. I told him that there's a storm coming, so he should come back pretty quick."

"did he come back?"

Jim hesitated, trying to remember. "well, no, I can't be sure; my shift was over around lunch."

"Did he seem a little…strange to you?"

Jim frowned. "Strange?"

"Yes. Was he acting out of sorts, or nervous, or something you perceived strange."

Jim shook his head. "Nah. He was as he was before."

The officer snapped his notepad shut and retrieved the photo. "thank you for your time, Mr Thompson."

"No worries," Jim replied, then it hit him.

"Hey, uh…officer."

"Yes?"

"what's all this about? Why are you asking me all this?"

The officer didn't blink an eye and replied in a clipped tone, "John Byrnes disappeared. There are no traces of him anywhere."