Not Enough Land...

"So, Ma," I asked. "What do you think of Hawaii?" It was 2005 and we had arrived only the day before for an unplanned stop over on the way back from Japan. There was some time left in our vacation with my aunt and cousin so the three of us decided to visit Hawaii for one last hurrah before heading home. The aunt and cousin had never been to Hawaii before, indeed, they'd never been to any of the places we visited on this trip, and Mom had not returned to the 50th state in over 30 years so we figured why not? Today found us on the North Shore facing the massive expanse of the Central Pacific from a high overview.

"Not enough land for all that water" was her now famous reply. Charged with a heady mixture of absolute fear of open water along with memories of the tsunami reports coming from Bali in 2004 Mom saw very little in the way of scenic beauty. While not visibly shaking in her shoes she gamely went along with us for the ride around the island fighting to keep an eye on the road and the water at the same time.

We weren't there in time for the famous "Big Wave" season when surfers the world over arrive to tackle seasonal waves coming from as far as Japan and culminating in monster waves up to 20 or more feet high. That was a good thing if for no other reason than traffic was non-existent, no more than the usual island trade plus a few other curious tourists who chose to venture beyond the pineapple plantations in the center of the island. For me it was a first because I had never completely circumnavigated an entire island before and it gave me a first real perspective on the size of Oahu, 2nd largest in the chain, compared to the largest body of water on the planet. Maybe Mom was stating the truth after all.

We chose a random beach to pull over and get out of the car for a little while where three of us lit out for the water as soon as we could get our shoes off. There was no tide, the surf almost non-existent - for that side of Hawaii, anyway - and the air and water cool, blue and inviting. My aunt could barely contain her glee as she hopped in and out of the water, recalling one good story after another of her days as a young girl in South America. My cousin was pleased to simply stroll in the waves as they lapped over the sands while I made as big a splash as someone my size would be expected to make. That's when the screaming started.

"Come out of that water!" Over and over again Mother implored us all to leave the waves which in her opinion were far too high and strong. "You gonna get pulled out to sea! Y'all get outta the water!" One wave had indeed snuck up behind auntie and flattened her on the beach. When she reappeared in the froth, hair all off on one side, salt and sand in everything else, she was howling with laughter, free of the cares of the world once more.

"I give up," Mom declared. "Y'all drown if you want to, I can't watch. I'm going to the car." One and all made it home just fine.

Gotta go.

Earl, Ralph, Bert and Gavin

A group of friends wanted to go to Hawaii for the weekend so we all bunched up and flew off in to the setting sun for some waves in Waikiki.
Landing in Honolulu late on a Friday night pretty much leaves one option open for things to do and that is head out on the town. I've never been much of one for drinking but nobody was going to be driving so I let my guard down for an evening of blue fruity thingies with umbrellas and heaps of vodka. For a man with the dimensions of an NFL offensive linebacker I am a classic lightweight but at least I fall in to the category of being a happy drunk. It was all good. Mostly good.

It turned sad for a moment when we finally got back to the hotel where we flipped on the television in time to watch live feed from the Princess Diana funeral in London at Westminster Abbey. (What a surreal, out of body thing to deal with: drunk in Hawaii and watching a funeral!) Glad to be back safely in our rooms we, as over-indulged boozehounds sometimes manage, had plans to go sailing at dawn in barely four hours time.

The sailing started with me confidently announcing that I don't get sea sick and I was right for the entire outward bound cruise with a following wind. The setting couldn't have been better: it was a perfectly clear day to be on the waters around Hawaii. Diamond Head from offshore beats any view from the landside and I was riding in rhythm with the seas, enjoying a light chop and mild wind moving us along at a good clip towards the east. The only thing missing was "Southern Cross" by Crosby, Stills and Nash!

I surely could have used some kind of cross on the way back for all the praying I did over the side of that boat! They didn't tell a brother about having to tack against the wind going back the way we came. And the four friends no man ever wants to have went with me the whole way. First, there was Earl. "D'ye rrrememberrr mee?" he trilled in his whiskeyed brogue as he reacquainted me with all of the unfinished booze from the night before. The splashes hitting the water served as a call to order for all the fish in the depths below: they came rushing up to the surface with cracked ice and olives, and we were just getting started.

My second new best buddy Ralph decided he wanted a piece of the action and helped me pour a second round of drinks to the seafood below me who were by now swimming in the wake on their backs in really mellow lazy 8s. Ralph is the one who likes to torment to the point of not being able to come up for air and he was in rare form today. I couldn't stand any more of this bunch and careened from side to side to the hatchway where I went below to try and get away from the merrily bouncing horizon.

"And where do you think you're going," called out Bert, my third BFF, who fixed me with an evil smirk and promptly rushed me back up on deck to satisfy the demanding marine life who were by now slamming empty schooners against the sideboards looking for more. True to his reputation, Bert helped to prime the pump because more froth and gas was spouting from the tap than anything else. The fish were not amused while my companions and I seemed barely a furlong closer to the end of this agony. Diamondhead, once proud and majestic, now turned its nose up in scorn and derision.

"Leave him alone, boys, you've had enough." I looked to the sky to thank my benefactor only to feel the now blistering heat of the sun in my eyes as Gavin, the most sinister of them all, made his presence known. "I didn't say that I'd had enough," he oozed as I went once more chin first over the side, white-knuckled on the railing. Gavin is also known as the Dry One. He prodded and poked mercilessly at my sides and slapped me on the back causing me to hunch and churn in violent convulsions, salty tears now the only offerings for the liquored up fish below who slowly descended in to the depths, bubbling disgusted curses over last call.

We eventually made it back to port where I staggered off the boat, a sickly greenish-brown around the gills. Looking back to the sea I tried to remember the fun I had at first but only glimpsed my four fair weather buddies skittering off over the waves to find a new friend to go sailing with, the backstabbers.

The red-eye back to the mainland couldn't get there fast enough.

Gotta go!

Pearl Harbor and the Bottom Line

The same can be said in reverse; what is travel without history. Growing up in Europe both were very much a part of my early life and continue to be defining personal characteristics today. My family traveled constantly around the United States and across the Atlantic thanks to my father's career in the military. We lived in Germany, a nation saturated in castles, cathedrals and human catastrophe. On the first plane ride I can remember my mother and sisters traveled to Hawaii to visit my father on shore leave from Vietnam. I was five years old the first time I ever saw the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor.

I've been back at least three times since then. Bottom line for me is, I can't pass up a chance to travel and I certainly can't pass up a chance to visit compelling history.

Today is December 7th, an ordinary Monday for much of the world yet only one calendar day removed from that infamous Sunday 68 years ago. Almost by tradition the event gets maybe 90 seconds of coverage on news networks at the end of a scheduled broadcast, maybe including an interview with a surviving veteran, a cook, a gunnie, signalman or some other average Joe just waking up to find the world as he knew it had changed forever.

In its day, December 7th was to the United States what September 11th is to contemporary culture, a brazen attack on American soil, early in the morning and when the country least expected it. No one believed it could happen, the country was safe across two oceans and secure behind a massive military arsenal that few antagonists in their right mind would provoke. War in 1941 may in fact have been imminent but it was never supposed to happen here.

Pearl Harbor is a working United States naval base but that is not what it's known for. It is the command center of the largest single military operation area of any navy in the entire world but that is not what it is known for. The name derives from its history as a center of pearl harvesting but that also is not what it is known for. The name is synonymous, nearly interchangeable with that of the U.S.S. Arizona still lying on the bottom of the harbor and straddled by the Arizona Memorial.

It is a stunningly beautiful place. Clear water laps gently at the shores and the sides of the ship while overhead maybe a few clouds provide contrast to the blue sky that never fails to draw the eye as visitors look to the heavens trying to imagine the air filled with shrieking bullets, whistling bombs and diving aircraft while concussion impacts and full on explosions wreak devastating havoc in every direction around the base. The complex today includes a documentary theater, a submarine museum and landscaped grounds with information pavilions as well as the ship itself. The lucky few will see an active ship returning to port, the entire ship's company standing in attention and saluting their 1100 fallen brethren still buried in the hulk of the Arizona 30 feet under water.

The truest, most haunting sight of all are without question the tear drops of oil still bubbling from the bunkers of the Arizona. The ship continues to "bleed" or "cry" today with several thousand tons of oil slowly seeping to the surface, stirring gut-wrenching emotions from visitors and hot debate from environmentalists worried about the damage to the harbor eco-system. Even on the sunniest, brightest day in memory, no one comes away untouched by their time at the Memorial.

Many do not see the point in taking vacation time in paradise to visit a national tragedy; why get all depressed when we're just here to have a good time, they ask? Some avoid Oahu all together, preferring the Eden-like environs of Kauai or Maui to the hustle of Honolulu. Certainly for those who have never been to Hawaii it is not the main selling point of the tourist boards. All of that is regrettably understandable.

I live in Dallas, a city still trying to come out from under the shadow of its most popular attraction, The School Book Depository from where Lee Harvey Oswald shot John F. Kennedy. All the same, I would no more visit Southfork Ranch and skip Dealey Plaza where the assassination took place than I would travel all the way to Hawaii just for the surf and sand. The last time I went a new addition was there to greet me: the U.S.S. Missouri moored just to the south of her older sister, protecting her. Where one ship started the war for the United States, the other ended the war for the world in Tokyo Bay.

Waikiki, nothing! It's a beach! The Arizona Memorial is history, and it's only at Pearl Harbor.

Gotta go!

From Toddler to World Traveler

In 1965 my military family “rotated” to Germany. My mother had an equal fear of water and flying at the time but boats were bigger and therefore safer so she chose to sail across with her 4-year old daughter and 18-month old me on her hip. Allegedly I preferred being carried than walking on my own. On the return two years later and now three small children Mom learned that it would only take eight hours instead of eight days with no chance of anyone falling overboard. Sold!

Our next adventure had us visiting Dad in Hawaii while he was on shore leave from Vietnam. TWA upgraded us so Mom could keep us together for the nonstop flight from Friendship International to Los Angeles. During our layover Mom put my older sister in charge while she went to the restroom. I knew we were flying Pan Am to Honolulu but had no clue which specific aircraft outside was ours. Just when I noticed Mom was gone I sighted a sleek blue and white 707 climbing in to the night sky. My 5-year old mind put two and two together and…

“Boo-WAAAAAAH!” My older sister couldn’t do anything with me but soon Mom reappeared to settle me down. “I, I, I saw dat Pan Am ai’pwane and thought you L-, L-, LEFT us!” Sob, whimper, bzzzrt. Anxious child.

The fun was just beginning. Once comfortably settled on our flight to Hawaii I slept until my ears popped on descent. Disoriented I looked out the window, saw the lights of Hawaii below me and gave a bone-chilling encore. Skittish child.

“We gon’ TWAAASH!” You know that voice: the high-pitched, ragged gurgle? Yea.

“Stop that noise!” admonished my mother from across the aisle.

“The wing’s falling off!” Lots of heads snapped to the windows. Silhouetted against the lights of Waikiki there was indeed a sharply angled crease in the trailing edge of the wing. Both sisters by now surely wished they were several rows away from me while some knowledgeable soul undoubtedly whispered what to say to Mom so she could reassure me once more.

“It’s not falling apart, those are the flaps unfolding to slow the airplane.”

Sniffle, snort. “Ok.” Mom knew all. I’m five: Like I know from flying? Sensitive child.

Hawaii was great. Dad rented a blue convertible, Motown ruled the radio, the Arizona Memorial and us three kids, none older than seven, enjoyed a rousing game of hopscotch at Punchbowl. My mom remains mortified to this day thinking of three Black kids in 1968 bunny-hopping across White folks’ gravestones, decorated servicemen all. Adventurous child!

Out of all this excitement a bug and a philosophy was born. I wanted to fly and I wanted to have unique and compelling adventures unlike anything I could find at home. Today’s issues around service, delays and security are not enough to keep me home when there’s so much to see, do and learn about ourselves and each other. Wedding? Reunion? The Taj Mahal? Let the journey begin!

Gotta go!