Waikīkī, Hawai’i

“In silence, we watched the water shimmer like a peacock's feather in that shining foil of soft tide in retreat.”
― Pat Conroy, Beach Music

Dear Hawai’i,

I did not think I would like you very much.

…

I will admit, when Cody first floated the idea of going to Hawai’i - I wasn’t overly enthusiastic, perhaps I even thought - could there be anywhere else? I thought - what could even be there, other than sand and palm trees? Jurassic Park, said Cody. Turtles and warmth - also. An Ocean away from winter, somewhere new, somewhere different - he said.

Ahh. Jurassic Park. Somewhere new. Well, then. This changes the things - you know my heart.

Dinosaurs, a New View.

And so, our anywhere else, found us in Waikīkī.

We are learning that when we find ourselves a world away, we do not do this thing called relaxing. Relaxing? What is this nonsense - dozing in repose. This can be done at home, curled and burrowed in the comfort of the familiar, my own couch - my favorite coffee cup flooding warmth between my fingers. To relax surrounded by my trees, my quiet wheat fields - twittering chickadees and my reclusive moose, my impish pheasants.

Tsk. Tsk. Relaxing - pish posh - I can do that at home.

Maybe, we should learn this thing called relaxing, my feet would appreciate it…

As if.

Our first night found us at the top, a city spread below - accessed by a separate elevator. A privilege to be sure - yet one that required more steps - but the view? Worth it.

Day One - a multitude - an incomprehensible amount of steps. Painted in sunscreen - out we walked. I found myself mesmerized by the tallness of palm trees. Such a funny shape, really - when you think about it. Tall, skinny and furrowed - topped with a towering tuft of green plumes - waving erratically against the blue sky. How can such a bendy looking thing - hold the totality of an island sky?

Please - a moment for sand.

What a thing, sand is. Finely ground - finding its way into all the things, even crevasses that were before - uncharted and unknown. A handful of sand is a compendium of things that once held a living presence, a beating heart - now rendered incomprehensibly small. Large things, unable to hold fast against the pounding of Ocean’s might. Tiny and unseen - yet so immense that we flock to sunbath on top, to pad barefoot over, to build sand castles of imaginary lands with it. Sand - how esoteric and yet so common - all at once - what a thing, sand is.

We missed the sun sliding below the horizon that night - and yet we continued to walk.

To be fair - I think it is the sea air that got in the way of communication that night. Plus, I should also never lead the walking - I don’t know where I am often going on a good day - on familiar ground. I often stray or get distracted - Google Maps is constantly annoyed. So, on this night - I thought I was walking home - which, as it turned out - wasn’t.

Of course, I was just taking the long way home…

Day Two was for the Dinosaurs and the Horses. Topaz and Gilligan carried us through the jungle, alongside the ocean and under trees whose canopy held meters of sky. To see the world from horseback is a thing that is special.

A moment for the sunset.

We came early. We found our spot. No one in our line of sight - just an ocean and a tired sun - falling for the night. Oh - and ice cream. How can one watch Night tucking Day away, silently whispering - sleep well, old friend - without ice cream?

Sat there we did - waiting to be stunned - to be entranced. To be seized by the untellable beauty of a colour shifting sky - losing the battle to impenetrable night.

A beach sunset ain’t got nothing on a prairie sky - on fire - daring Night for a fight.

Day Three & Four was for a watery grave, tales of the air and roasted pig. A moment of remembrance, and yet. It is hard to imagine chaos raining down when you gaze from a place of paradise. What a thing it would be - to go back in time and see. See memorialized and gilded moments - before the softening of time, before the end was decided - before the story was told. Before all that happened, did.

Also - the bridge is not a bridge for the average person, and in this - we found we were not up to snuff and strongly encouraged to complete a u-turn, before our ID’s were handed back… military check points - who knew?

Not us.

I am not one to think that flying is fun. I am one however for stories and museums. Walking in a space were the artifacts outweigh my car and soar through clouds is always fun thing. Especially when your narrator is brimming with a passion for all things aviation - we were carried away to times now lost by the power of stories in flight.

Origin stories of Hell’s Angles, The Zero, crash landings beside cobbled together tractors, famed bullet holes, FED-EX, Bush Sr. and tales of a Swamp Ghost.

But this day also held upright hands, rows of scooters - to an alleyway of motorized muscle - Hawai’ian street scenes.

The sunset, again - but this time a crab, tattoos and dancing.

Whoever you are - thank you for snatching a crab for your friend to photograph. I am forever in your debt, as this is possibly amoung my favorite photos of the trip.

A night of revelry - crowned and showered in flowers and filled with roasted pig - serenaded by parrots - a feast for the eyes - at twenty five dollars, no less, but I digress.

Day Five - a day for chasing turtles - but also - finding art in lesser walked spaces.

As you can see - relaxation is for the weak.

Hours of searching, beach after beach - one turtle was found - and she was beautiful. Lounging in the sand, waves tickling her fins and shining her shell, serenaded by chickens - she was perfect.

Turtle seen - checkmark. It was safe to go home now.

One more thing - I almost forgot. The wild and feral painting of the street - graffiti.

Wherever we go - it never fails that we find spaces that are a bit off the beaten track - not always surrounded by glowing reviews, not always in the guidebooks. On occasion this has caused some mild stress - once finding ourselves smack in the middle of an angry protest or in a space were we hoped we out-paced some seriously serious looking souls…

This time, no rushing away quickly, no surrounded by politically fueled anger - no. Just alleys hiding surprising murals - just walls adorned with a myriad of characters and riots of colour. Artist’s thoughts made visible - scribbled, scratched, drawn - inescapably full of voice.

Graffiti, or rather - Art, with a capital A - winking slyly though the illicitness of sprayed paint.

Dear Hawai’i,

…

You’re pretty neat.

…

Love,

-S.

Day One.