Beyond Words: Chapter 2

Hawaii

Photo by Colter Olmstead on Unsplash

My husband and I have been sorely in need of some time to focus on each other and rebuild connections. Thirty-three years of marriage, three children, and two careers can take a toll. More about that later. Anyway, when all this first started, I decided we needed to try to hit some of my “bucket list” items while I still can appreciate the events. Pat agreed. If it would make me happy he’ll agree to just about anything right now.

First up is Hawaii. I love the ocean, and watching and listening to it restores my equilibrium. It puts me in touch with something that is very old and very deep, seemingly limitless, all of which takes me to the presence of God. I have wanted for a long time to be here.

We have rented a condo on the ninth floor of a building called the Hawaiian Princess. Our condo overlooks the beach and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, with turquoise waves constantly crashing on the golden shore, only to retreat and do it again. The deeper waters turn green, then cobalt blue where the sea floor drops away. The sound of the surf is so loud that sometimes it drowns out our conversation. It’s wild, almost primeval, reminding me the ocean has been here much longer than humans have. And the wind! 

The wind coming in from the northeast is strong. We are warned by the owners not to have the lanai sliding doors and the front door open at the same time. The wind has terrific force at this height. With both doors open, pictures are blown off the wall and lamps topple. Blinds are damaged. This seems extreme but I intend to do as they say. Then, when the front door doesn’t latch properly as Pat leaves to get something, as I am standing in the living room, wind begins to whistle past my head and the blinds rattle. Papers on the coffee table take to the air. I look back and see the front door is ajar. I race to shut it before the pictures on the wall fall down, and while I can still stand upright.

On our first night, as the sun sets, three men emerge onto the beach below to blow conches, one after the other in harmony, and then together in a final salute for the sun’s passing. The feeling I have is one of somber participation in something ancient, a deep tradition rooted in the rising and setting of the sun. “And there was evening, and there was morning—the fourth day” (Genesis 1: 19). We wrap our arms around each other, standing in quiet contemplation.

We go out to get something to eat. I realize this is a poor neighborhood, with homeless people camping on the beach and the sound of sirens in the night. Most people I see are at least part Polynesian and look like they were on the wrong end of a deal. I am acutely aware that Europeans took their land. And then the Japanese and Americans! No place like this Polynesian Garden of Eden could stay uncorrupted, I suppose.

There is a certain naïve quality to Hawaii that makes everything more poignant, more reminiscent of a lost paradise. The birds are beautiful, colorful, and unafraid. They fly away from us, but not very high or very far. They often nest on the ground, because before the arrival of European ships, there were no land-based predators. The mountains are sharp, as if newborn, and clothed in green. The trees and shrubs are unique, often dramatic. Some trees remind me of the African savannah, with long clean trunks and high spreading branches. Others are like the pines of Rome of Villa Borghese, tall, columnar, with dense green needles. 

But most distinctive to me are the trees with polished white trunks and branches but no leaves or needles anywhere. They look long dead and weathered for years, but at the end of some branches yellow flowers have opened, proclaiming the triumph of life over death. I am sure more will follow because other trees are just beginning to flower with delicate red or purple blossoms. This must be spring in Hawaii. A good metaphor for Eden, and perhaps for me? I’ll take it.

On Monday, we have a sunset cruise on the west side of Oahu. The cruise is lovely and intimate, with only six passengers and two crew on a sleek white catamaran. The food is Hawaiian hors d'oeuvres, with as much champagne as we want. Under sail, the boat rides the waves like a seagull rides the air. As the sun sets, we see a green flash on the horizon emanating from its last rays, something that is only seen under special atmospheric conditions. We saw this once before on the Oregon coast, just after our engagement. Definitely, this was a special event for us, like a seal of approval. Pat turns to me for a kiss.

On Valentine’s Day, we head out to wilder environs. We have a date. The northwest corner of the island is almost inaccessible. There are no roads or railroads, just the sea, and the impassable mountains. To get to the northwest corner we have to drive south to Honolulu, then east and north along a valley running the length of the island, flanked by more imposing mountains. They are chiseled, steep, almost like razor blades set on edge, and covered in green vegetation. I believe what I have heard: that it is easy to get lost or break a leg, and never be found.

When we reach the north shore we turn west. The road gets smaller, rougher, and then turns to dirt. We pull up in a parking area that faces the restless sea,  marked by boulders. We are joined by our guide named Anna. I see something brown skittering ahead of us across the path, long-bodied and short-legged with a furry tail. Anna says it is a mongoose. (I had guessed a ferret of some sort.) She tells us the mongoose was brought in to control the rat population that arrived with the European ships. Unfortunately, the solution is nearly as bad as the problem. Both rats and mongooses wreak devastation on the native birds and plants. Rats like to eat the hearts of palm trees, which kills the trees, so Hawaiians now wreathe each palm with a sheath of metal or sometimes a spiral of lights to keep the rats from climbing. Rats and mongooses also eat the bird eggs of native species, many of which nest on the ground.

Anna points out the spouts of humpback whales on the far horizon. Their population has rebounded in recent years, and they can be found off Hawaiian waters in the winter. I also see in the distance a monk seal alone on the beach, probably a pup that is now old enough to stay by itself while the mother feeds. These seals are endangered. Signs and placards warn not to approach them. Anna tells us that the monk seal population has declined to about a third of what it once was. They like secluded beaches where they won’t be bothered, which are rare on Oahu.

I remind myself that nothing ever stays the same, that ecosystems adjust, and people have been pushing other people and animals aside for as long as we have records. No more doom and gloom! Here we are in a glorious place and it is time to celebrate.

Anna is a photographer. She takes photos of Pat and me in that wild landscape, at what would be sunset if we could see the sun. I have told everyone this is our second honeymoon, and so it is. We kiss and hold each other like smitten high school lovers, and it is not just for the camera. I find peace in Pat’s arms.

Then it begins to rain. We scoff. As Northwestern natives, we say, “A little rain won’t hurt us.” Then the sprinkling turns into a genuine deluge. We laugh and I try to lead Pat in a dance, but we are getting soaked. We clamber through deep, loose sand up to the car, still laughing.

In the tropics, the sun sinks below the horizon rapidly, and dusk is short. Within minutes it is dark. We have about an hour-long drive to a remote surfing town known for its restaurants, but since it’s Valentine’s Day, the tables are taken. There is an hour-and-a-half wait at one Anna recommended. We sit in the dark in our car, still damp from the storm, reminiscing about the early days of our marriage. Blazing torches light the warm Hawaiian night, and the heated seats in our rental car dry our clothes somewhat. When they call us in, I ask for a hot toddy and they don’t know what that is. I ask for black tea with rum, and it arrives lukewarm. I guess the idea of hot drinks is foreign to Hawaii. We enjoy a wonderful meal of stuffed pork loin, potatoes, and braised vegetables, having had a sufficiency of raw fish the day before, and I, of course, have dessert.

Over the next several days the weather continues to be wet, with warnings of flash floods. We enjoy the peace of staying home and listening to the waves. We sit with arms wrapped around each other, remembering and basking in the glow of companionship and passion transmuted from flame into gold. I discover that simply saying this is a second honeymoon stirs Pat, revealing he is a romantic at heart. Or maybe I am too stingy with romantic words. Lesson learned: be the change you’d like to see. Huh.

We venture out into the weather because there is one event I don't want to miss. We will swim with dolphins, a gift from my brother for my birthday. The location where this takes place is a very upscale hotel. I am intimidated by it at first, because we are not dressed for a fancy place. We are dressed to meet dolphins, i.e. swimsuit and generous caftan for me, a swimsuit (shorts) and t-shirt for Pat.  But we need to eat, having left early to get to the location, so we find a restaurant that serves breakfast, where nobody is wearing tuxedos. It doesn’t look like it will cost us too many fins, either. We tell the waiter we need to be fast because we have a dolphin date.

I look around. The next table over has been set for a birthday party. They arrive-- a very wealthy Japanese American family. The birthday boy, about 10 years old, receives a boogie board. He squeals with delight and tells the boy sitting across from him, "Now I have one too!" A woman, perhaps the mother, shepherds them off to another location where they won't disturb the adults. The father holds court on the subject of his business dealings, and a young man there is taking it all in, but in the end, he says he is not interested. I don’t see the father’s reaction because it is time to leave.

We head off to the lagoon where the dolphins are. We put on life jackets that ride up in the water. If I don't keep my legs down, I bob like a cork and can't return to upright! Someone comes over to right me and I pull down the life vest as far as it can go.

It’s exhilarating to be in the water with these powerful and elegant creatures. I look into their eyes and wonder what they see, what this is like for them. They’re all human-raised, several generations, and have been interacting with humans from birth. The trainer talks about how they teach them to do tricks, and I ask if the dolphins train them. She laughs and says yes, but I think to myself that she doesn’t understand what I am asking. They are not like pet sea dogs, who must be trained by repeated gradual instruction. I suspect the training is really about them deciding to do what we ask, and they see it as a game. After all, they don’t have anything else to do now.

She says that these dolphins will not leave the cove because the open ocean is dangerous, and they would have to catch their own fish. Here they are fed and trained and cared for. They live a long life, longer than their wild cousins. In fact, at some dolphin facilities, the dolphins are let out into the open ocean, and they always return.

I enjoy the experience of swimming with dolphins, but it also makes me sad. Would I trade my freedom for security?

But more specifically, by coming as a tourist to Hawaii do I contribute to the problems I see? Maybe if I came for a month to write, and avoided tourist attractions, just stayed in a cabin in the rainforest and wrote, that would be better. Woo, that sounds like fun! Never mind my alternating moroseness and exhilaration. Hawaii is a rich place, a paradise of sun and surf, brilliant foliage, and neon nightlife, as long as you don’t mind the occasional downpours.

Photo by Silas Baisch on Unsplash

Why I Need the Sea

Breaking waves suck the shore.
Eons ride the surf,
life floats and tumbles,
a brief luminescence of earth.
I stand where land and sea meet,
my cares wash away in the roar.       
 
The ocean is vast, a mystery—
unfathomable, lightless, deep,
The sea surges, the sea ebbs,
source of food, work, and sleep,
sailors’ joy, widows’ sorrow, web
stitching time into history.
 
The ocean is wide, so wide,
the waves’ slap smooths my soul,
The gulls’ cries rinse my mind,
salt air makes me whole.
Hover over your creatures, God, 
let all your waves roll.



And another poem prompted by Hawaii: