“Hey Droughton, we saw you on your motorcycle Saturday heading out of Waikiki.”
I was passing through the Mess Deck on my way to the Engine Room when some coners sitting at a table there stopped me.
“Yeah, I was in Waikiki Saturday afternoon on the bike… so it could have been me.”
“With that fucking flaming red hair of yours? Of course it was you! But we don’t give a shit about you. No, fuck you. We want to know who the fuck that chick on the back of your bike was. She looked fucking hot.”
“Who, Hiroko? She’s this Japanese girl I met.”
“You fuck her?”
“Well… yeah. We’ve been going out for a little while now.”
“Son of a bitch! I’ve been on this fucking rock nearly two fucking years, and I haven’t fucking even gotten laid for free yet. I gotta go to a fucking rub-and-tug place just so I don’t fucking explode, but this mother fucker’s over here, what for like three or four months, and he already has a fucking girlfriend.”
“Well, she’s not really my—”
“She Japanese-American or Japanese-Japanese?”
“Japanese-Japanese. From Osaka.”
“What the fuck!?! Chicks from Japan don’t talk to Americans! Where in the fuck did you meet her? Is she teaching a language course you’re in or something? How the fuck did you get so close to her? What, did you set a fucking trap?”
“No, I’m not taking any lessons, and I didn’t set any traps. I just met her in a bar.”
“In a fucking bar? Are you fucking shitting me? You know bars out here are big fucking sausage fests! It’s like ten fucking guys for every god damn chick.”
“I know.”
“All these fucking squids, jarheads, Army assholes, and Air Force fags on this god damn rock? Fuck, it’s like there’s a stampede every time a fucking decent looking tourist with titties walks into a bar. I know you fucking know that.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ… in a fucking bar? God damn Japanese chick in a fucking bar? How the fuck did you pull that off?”
“I dunno. I was just at this little tiny Tiki joint on Kuhio all by myself, I’m like the only customer, then I got up to take a leak, and when I returned there was a cute little Japanese lady sitting on the stool next to mine.”
“And what, you said, ‘Wanna fuck?’ and she was like, ‘Oooh-keee leets fook.’?”
“Nnn… Not exactly. I was pretty drunk, and I don’t really remember how I did it, but I know we talked for a while, and it was kinda hard because her English is pretty broken. But then I think I just sort of told her we were going out on this day at this time to this place. And she went along with it. Guess I just kinda steamrollered her into a date. Then it turned out she actually liked being with me.”
And that was pretty much exactly what happened to the best of my recollection. I really didn’t remember too much of our conversation other than she was from Osaka, was afraid of motorcycles, and we had a date to climb a volcano. I had just repaired the Marauder with a replacement front brake lever, right side handlebar cap/vibration damper, and associated hardware from Montgomery Motors. We were ready to rock! Well, until this cute little Japanese lady rendered it inoperable once again. This sudden lack of viable transportation was a situation that needed a resolution. Since I didn’t have a car on the island, I would have to borrow one from a shipmate.
Most sailors I knew were horrible with money. We were paid on the 1st and 15th of each month. I shit you not, some of the guys would have absolutely no money on the 2nd and 16th. It was fucking amazing. Because of their financial follies, they were then basically stuck eating slimy skin mushy baked base chicken or cow skin rawhide ribeyes in the mess hall and confined to watching television or playing video games in their barracks. And I thought I was bad drinking all my money away. I could at least stretch it to a few days before payday.
A big part of these guys not having any balance in their bank accounts was because a lot of them bought brand new sports cars or 4×4 pickup trucks right out of bootcamp that were way out of their budget, and now they had steep loan payments. We were warned about “predatory lenders” with all the car dealerships that clustered around the training command in Orlando.
Loan sharks are eager to lend to sailors because their wages can be garnished if a few payments are missed once the lenders contact the command. Sucker seamen who sign contracts are a guaranteed cash cow for the car companies. I fortunately resisted such temptations and managed to escape the Sunshine State without buying a brand new overpriced automobile that would sit rusting on shore while I was out in the salty sea.
With no automobile of my own in the Aloha State, I was worried about borrowing someone’s brand new SS Camaro or K1500 Silverado pickup truck. What if I wrecked it? I didn’t want to be stuck paying that off. So, I asked Jay-Jay if I could borrow his shitty little jalopy.
Jay-Jay was in the small minority of the sailors on my boat that were fiscally responsible. He bought what we referred to as an “island beater” for a few hundred bucks off of someone leaving Hawaii, and his plan would be to sell it for a few hundred bucks when he left. If I wrecked it, I could afford to pay him back. Well, as long as it was on the 1st or the 15th. But as an island beater, if I put a dent in it, I doubt he would even care. Might even raise the value.
Look, an authentic island beater! You don’t get dents like these from the factory. This is custom character right here. Do I hear six hundred bucks?
The bright and sunny morning of the date, I rode my motorcycle to Jay-Jay’s house, which was over in the Aiea neighborhood. He handed me the keys to his late 80’s faded silver Chevy Cavalier with a grey cloth interior. There was just one thing he neglected to mention when I asked him if I could borrow his beater until those keys were actually in my hand. This was the warning he gave me:
“Yeah, um… don’t stop at red lights for too long because it will overheat. You’ll be fine on the highway though.”
“Uh… did you just say don’t stop at red lights for ‘too long’?”
“Yeah. Not too long. Just stay in the right lane and make a turn or something.”
That was wild. No prolonged stopping at red lights? Okay, so clearly, he had an issue with the electric cooling fan or the temperature switch that controls it. But it’s not like I could control how long the light stays red, and who’s to say everyone in the right lane would be turning? I thought about it for a few seconds and figured it would be fine. The traffic should be okay by Honolulu when I was picking my date up since it was early morning on a weekend. Plus, we were going to Koko Head at the extreme southeast corner of the island; to get there, we would be driving on mostly interstate grade highway with no traffic lights, and that favorite Kalanianaole Highway of mine. Yeah, we’d be fine.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks.”
I cruised into Waikiki without issue, and Hiroko was waiting outside on Kuhio close to the Really Crap Hole Tiki Bar where I had met her. Once she got in and we greeted each other, she had an odd question for me.
“Are you batman?”
“Batman?”
“Yes, batman.”
“Well, no I’m definitely not Batman. I mean, I’d hope you’d think I was more like Superman, but you know, I suppose that’s debatable.”
“No. Are you batman?”
“Batman?”
“Batman. Are you batman?”
“Batman… Hmm. Okay, I think I’m missing something here. I don’t really understand what you’re asking me.”
“Mmm. Wait please. Okay?”
She pulled out her pocket translator, and I felt like an idiot.
“Oh! Bad man. You’re asking me if I’m a bad man. Well no, I don’t think I’m a bad man. But I mean, if I was, maybe I wouldn’t admit to it though. Like, I don’t think bad men tell people they are bad right up front. I dunno. Maybe they don’t even know they’re bad. But, uh… No, wait! I mean… I probably shouldn’t have said that. Okay, do over. Uh… so no, I don’t think I am a bad man. Yeah, I’m not a bad man.”
“You are not bat man?”
“No. As far as I know, I am not a bad man.”
“Okay, okay. We go.”
Sorting out whether or not I was a bad man while stopped on the side of the road resulted in the temperature gauge climbing a bit, but it didn’t reach any alarming level. I continued down Kuhio, caught a green light to turn left onto Kapahulu, and made it onto the Lunalilo Freeway (H-1) without incident. The needle settled back down once at speed with plenty of air being forced through the radiator.
“So… We’re going to Koko Head, okay? I climbed it once before. Very beautiful. Very beautiful at the top. Do you understand?”
“Koko Head for hike? Beautiful at top?”
“Yeah. Yeah, exactly. It’s really beautiful at the top. The deep blue ocean… and the fluffy white clouds… and the pretty green mountains. Very beautiful.”
“Okay! Very beautiful!”
“But the first time, I climbed right up the side with no trail. Understand? First time, too steep, no trail.”
“First time no trail?”
“Yeah, no trail. But we’re going to find a trail. Okay? We’ll find one. When I was on top, I saw a trail. So, we’re going to go up the trail. Okay?”
“Okay, we go up trail.”
“Yes. We’re going up on the trail. I looked at my map, and I think it shows the trail I saw. I think I can find where it starts. We’ll find the trail. Okay?”
“Okay! We find trail!”
And we did. I followed the Kalanianaole Highway around Koko Head, took the first left near Sandy Beach and kept driving towards the volcano as the roads permitted. I actually wanted to stop at Halona Blowhole briefly but was worried about overheating after shutting down the shitty little Cavalier. Without the electric fan kicking on, the coolant would continue to absorb heat from the engine and might boil over when starting the car back up and driving away too soon. I didn’t think the amount of time to watch the water spouting up before becoming bored would be enough time to prevent a boil over, whereas after an entire hike up a dormant volcano and back down did seem like plenty of time for the engine to cool off. I drove past Halona Blowhole without mentioning it to her.
I parked the beater in a little gravel parking lot inside the C-shaped crater, grabbed my backpack which contained yellow Gatorade and beef jerky, and then found the trailhead. It was on the east side of the inner wall of the crater, and the path would have us going up to the ridge in a clockwise direction. The trail wasn’t too steep, unlike my charge up the south outer side by the blowhole, but it was still surprisingly challenging due to numerous small boulders which we had to climb over, sometimes requiring using hands and feet.
Fortunately, Hiroko was quite the little trooper and made it to the top of Koko Head Crater with little difficulty. We walked along the ridge to the southern end for the same vantage I had on my second day on Oahu and lingered there for a bit. The view of the crystal blue ocean and light blue sky did not disappoint her.
“Very beautiful!”
Another thing that was beautiful was that once again, there was absolutely no one else on top of this volcano. It was just the two of us. I found this rather extraordinary. How was this not mobbed with locals and tourists alike? Did everyone simply go to up Diamond Head instead and then scratch dormant volcano off their bucket list? Koko Head need not apply? Off to the big island to see one actually spewing lava? Yeah, I guess so. Which made our trek all the more enjoyable.
With Hiroko and I having no plans after this hike, I had more time up top this time as I wasn’t worried about losing daylight during a motorcycle ride. We could continue further up the ridge. After hydrating with Gatorade, snacking on the jerky, cooling off in the Kona winds, and snapping a photo with a disposable camera, we decided to continue along the ridge in the clockwise direction to make it to the highest point over on the west side.
I’m glad she agreed to continue. At the 1208-foot summit, we found an abandoned funicular railroad with a single set of extremely deteriorated narrow-gauge tracks and a tiny dilapidated machinery room. The railroad ties looked like a thousand-foot-tall staircase; I would have to return to climb it one day either with Hiroko again or maybe with Carlos as he was new to Oahu. That funicular equipment just had to be explored! And it just blew my mind that there weren’t mobs of people clamoring all over it. Not even a single person on a Saturday morning. Unbelievable. Koko Head should have been a huge tourist attraction. It’s a volcano, has amazing views, and it’s right by the packed to the gills Hanauma Bay, Halona Blowhole, and Sandy Beach!
I didn’t know it at the time of climbing it with Hiroko, but the magnificent Koko Head was not the result of lava flow after a great big eruption as one might imagine when picturing the formation of a volcano. At least that’s how I had imagined its creation. But no, Koko Head is the type of volcano classified as a “tuff cone.” This variety of volcano is formed when liquid hot magma comes into contact with ground water, creating a steam explosion. The steam atomizes the lava, which falls back down to Earth as ash, creating a cone. The ash lithifies into solid rock over time as the sediment compacts and expels trapped liquids due to pressure. This relatively soft igneous rock is known as “tuff” if it contains 75% or more ash in its composition. So, that’s how you get a tuff cone like Koko Head—if you believe the science.
If you are more into religious explanations, I have a good one for you. I sure do. And I honestly wish I could believe how tuff cones were made according to religion, because it’s so much better. You see, Hawaiian mythology says Koko Head was created during a tussle between Kamapua‘a, the shape-shifting pig god; Pele, the goddess of fire; and Kapo, the goddess of seduction (who was also Pele’s sister). Lore states that Kamapua’a (the pig) tried to rape Pele, so her sister Kapo threw her detachable vagina down to Oahu to distract the pig-god-man long enough for Pele to escape. Koko Head is the result of Kapo’s coochie crashing down into the Earth’s crust. It’s basically just a giant punani print. And that kids, is how muff cones are—err, I mean tuff cones are made—at least according to religion.
Here are some passages from a somewhat academic, textbook-like publication if you want to fact check me. It’s just two little excerpted paragraphs from two different chapters. Take a look:
HAWAIIAN MYTHOLOGY (1940 – Martha Warren Beckwith)
XII – THE PELE SISTERS
Kapo’s power to separate her female sexual organ from her body gives her the name of Kapo-kohe-lele (Kapo with the traveling vagina) called also Kapo-mai-ele. When Kamapua‘a attacked Pele near Kalapana, Kapo sent this kohe as a lure and he left Pele and followed the kohe lele as far as Koko Head on Oahu, where it rested upon the hill, leaving an impression to this day on the Makapu‘u side. Then she withdrew it and hid it in Kalihi. When the Hawaiians dream of a woman without a vagina it is Kapo.
XIV – KAMAPUA‘A
At a place near the coast in Puna called Lua-o-Pele, where the earth is torn up as if there had been a struggle, he is said to have overtaken the reluctant Pele and forced the fire goddess to submit to his embraces. Pele’s sister Kapo, aware of Pele’s peril, sends her own wandering vagina (kohe-lele) to light upon a tree and attract Kamapua‘a from her sister. He follows it to Oahu, where its impression may be seen today on the Makapu‘u side of Koko Head where it rested before Kapo withdrew it and hid it in Kalihi valley.
So, there you have it. (See? I didn’t make that shit up.) But you know what I’m still a little bit confused about? I don’t understand why it’s called Koko Head when clearly it should be called Kapo Tail, but whatever. Let’s get back to the Kapo Tail trail—err, Koko Head trail rather. It was time to head back. There’s only so much yellow Gatorade and beef jerky you can consume before desiring real sustenance.
While Hiroko was quite the capable little volcano climber, she had trouble navigating some of the more challenging terrain on the way back down. When she was stuck, I’d extend my hand to give her stability as she jumped down. What made this amusing was the exceptionally polite nature of Japanese culture combined with their inability to pronounce the “th” diphthong. If she was holding my hand, each time she landed from a leap, often multiple times in a row, she would express her gratitude.
<thump>
“Oh, sank you.”
<thump>
“Oh, sank you.”
<thump>
“Sank you.”
<thump>
“Sank you.”
<thump>
“Oh, sank you.”
<thump>
“Sank you.”
After each and every jump, I received a “sank you.” So polite! This continued all the way down to the bottom of the crater and did not cease to be amusing. I did not laugh at her however. I didn’t want to make her feel self-conscious about her English—which was clearly far and away superior to my nascent Russian or non-existent Japanese. So, while I didn’t laugh, all of her “sanks” coming down the volcano did make me erupt into giant uncontrollable smiles. She might have seen that, but come on, it was solid entertainment. Good clean fun.
Back at the bottom of Koko Head’s crater inside the Cavalier, I figured I’d simply be driving Hiroko back to Waikiki, and then I’d go on my merry way. Too my surprise, she wanted our date to continue. It took me a little while for me to understand what she wanted to do though. It was the combination of me assuming she’d want to go home and her broken English which confused me. But eventually I pieced together that she wanted to grab a few beers at an outdoor bar in the Restaurant Row complex.
Restaurant [Death] Row was on Ala Moana Boulevard a few blocks away from Aloha Tower, and within it was a cluster of bars, restaurants, and dance clubs which had a tendency to go belly up. It was also the exact location where my Marauder and I went belly up as well just a few days prior on Presidents’ Day. Funny she should tell me she’s afraid of motorcycles, and then pick a place to drink right where I wrecked my motorbike. Figures. I kept that tiny tidbit my little secret however.
The best beer the outdoor bar had was Heineken. And you know what? It was absolutely perfect sitting in the sun after a long hike. I don’t think my heavy motor oil of a beer would be as refreshing as a crisp Heinie at that moment. It was perfect. Hiroko also ordered a Heineken and asked for a glass. Two glasses came with the beers, and she introduced me to the Japanese custom of pouring each other’s beers into the glasses. Hiroko was very attentive and kept refilling mine when approaching empty. I let hers run dry a number of times, however, to much fanfare when I realized my failure.
“Oh, shit! Sorry! Shit, shit, shit! Here, I got this! Shit!”
She laughed at my negligence each time I discovered it, which happened far too many times than I’d care to admit. I felt like an idiot for being so oblivious. I was apparently not good at learning new customs. Another thing I was not good at was pacing. The Heinekens were going down rapidly on that nice sunny day. After my fourth one in less than an hour, I was beginning to worry about what I should do to put some time in before driving again. Unprompted, Hiroko accidentally offered a perfect solution. Right across from the bar inside the Restaurant Row complex was a movie theater.
“My uh… my Engrish teacher… he say to see movies. Uh… may I go?”
“You want to see a movie? Right now?”
“I look at them? You stay here?”
“Oh! You want to go to the movies by yourself?”
“Okay. I go look.”
I was a little bit confused. I thought she was ditching me to go watch a movie, but it was so abrupt. She didn’t even say goodbye. Then I noticed that she didn’t take her jacket. I had no idea what was going on, figured I’d just get another beer, and then go see a movie on my own too to pass the time. But she returned to the table before the waiter did.
“Uh, so… nothing you want to see playing at the moment?”
“Do you want to see?”
“See what’s playing?”
“You want to see a movie?”
“Oh! So, see a movie? And you mean right now?”
“You go see?”
“Wait. See a movie or do you just want me to go see what’s playing?”
“We go to the movie?”
“Alright, I get it. You mean actually see a movie, right?”
“Yes. We see a movie?”
“Okay. Sure. Yeah, that sounds good. We’ll go see a movie.”
We settled up with the waiter, and then we looked at our options at the theater. The movie with the least amount of time to wait for was Firestorm. It was basically Backdraft in the woods with a bit of Cliffhanger thrown into the mix. It received terrible reviews, but I liked it. More importantly, as a brain-dead action flick, the English was likely simple enough for Hiroko to understand it, yet also proper enough for her to learn from it.
When the Firestorm was over, we had a couple more Heinekens at the same outdoor spot from earlier. As the sun began setting, Hiroko asked if I wanted dinner. Considering the fact that all we had to eat the entire day was beef jerky and popcorn, we were both starving. Our date started with a hike, then it turned into a bit of day drinking, and then it turned into watching a movie. Might as well turn it into a dinner date too!
She suggested sushi, which I never had before. I didn’t even like cooked fish back then, but there was no way I was going to turn down the opportunity to try raw fish for the first time with a cute chick who was actually from Japan. Up until this day, I had only one other person ever invite me out for sushi. While I did tag along to the Japanese restaurant with this sushi slurping Submarine NR-1 shipmate, I simply dined on things like beef negimaki. I told her I was in. Down for some sushi.
Hiroko used a pay phone to call a friend to figure out where the best sushi restaurant to go to was, I used another to call Jay-Jay to make sure he was okay with me using his jalopy a bit longer (he was), and then we were on our way. Unfortunately, the place her friend suggested was only accessible by a grid of streets with a shit ton of traffic lights. And wouldn’t you know it? I kept catching all the red ones.
She saw me nervously watching both the traffic light and the instrument cluster, alternating between them perhaps too rapidly. I could see that she looked a bit concerned, so I explained the predicament the best I could with hand gestures. Using my right index finger to represent the needle and my left hand in a circular “c’mon, c’mon” motion, and then both hands to make a big poof simulation, she seemed to understand.
At each light, the temperature gauge just kept climbing while waiting. Then when it turned green, I’d punch it to get some airflow through the radiator, bringing the needle back down to the normal region. This sequence repeated light after light, but with each time, climbing just a little bit further and further into the red zone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, c’mon c’mon, c’mon!”
Then it happened. At one particularly long light where I probably should have made a right turn but didn’t, there was this loud bursting noise and a huge cloud of steam came pouring out of the hood, grill, and underside of the car. I ran the red light, turned off the ignition, and coasted to the side of the road.
“Well, shit.”
Just a minor setback though. At least that what I was hoping. I mean, think about it. I was a mechanic, and was driving a mechanic’s car. Surely, he’d have a bunch of tools and a flashlight in the car. Surely, he would. I popped the trunk and to my amazement, the only thing in it was a broken hacksaw blade. Just then I realized there was a difference between a US Navy machinist’s mate and an actual mechanic. This would explain why the cooling fan was inoperative. The mostly bare trunk sunk my spirits only momentarily as the broken hacksaw blade turned out to be all I needed after investigating the situation.
It was pretty dark out, but we were close enough to a streetlamp that I could just barely see under the hood. The good news was that the lower radiator hose had simply popped off and wasn’t ruptured. The clamp was still dangling on the hose, so all I had to do was slide the hose back onto the radiator outlet and use the broken hacksaw blade as a flat head screwdriver to retighten the hose clamp. Other than everything being hot as fuck, it was an easy fix. Yet I still needed some water to refill the coolant system.
There was nothing immediately nearby us in this residential neighborhood, so we began walking around to see if we could find anything. In a few blocks, we discovered a dingy old garbage can behind a gas station and a working spigot. I filled the garbage can up with a few gallons and started walking back to the car. The garbage can was filthy, and I didn’t want to hold it against my clothes, so I held it away from me with my arms stretched out a bit. This provided poor leverage and was very tiring. Hiroko could see that I was struggling and offered some encouragement.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
She kept repeating that as she sort of skip-jumped along side of me while raising a fist outward with each skip-jump. It was really fucking adorable and even better than all those “sank you’s” coming down the volcano. We made it back at the Cavalier, I topped it off, we brought the garbage can back to the gas station, and then we made it to the Japanese restaurant without overheating again.
The restaurant was authentic in the sense that Hiroko ordered everything in Japanese. The first thing to come out was her Sapporo beer and my Asahi Black beer, which I liked immediately. (I successfully refilled her glass each time this time.) The next thing to come out where these tiny little crispy crabs that looked like squished bugs. Surprisingly, I liked them. Then the actual sushi came out. I tried each and every one that was in front of me, but unfortunately, I did not like it at all.
Well with the exception of the freshwater eel called unagi. I would later discover that unagi sushi is not actually raw. It’s cooked and glazed with teriyaki sauce, making it a particularly palatable first-time fish for nigiri noobs. Hiroko was understandably disappointed that I wasn’t enjoying the grub, so I exaggerated how much I liked the tiny crabs and the eel. This made her happier, so I kept pressing how delicious the slimy little unagis were.
“It’s so good! It’s the best! I really like the unagi! I’m so glad I tried it! I’m definitely going to try it again soon!”
Hiroko was happy enough to pay for the entire dinner, which surprised me. I drove her back to her place where I simply hugged her goodbye after making plans for the following day. For our second date, I told her that I would not be borrowing any more cars. I was done with that! She understood completely. We decided on simply meeting in Waikiki as there were plenty of things to do there, with so many bars and restaurants, a movie theater, the beach, and even a zoo.
I stopped at a gas station to top of the Cavalier with gasoline and ethylene glycol, returned the jalopy to Jay-Jay, and rode home on my Marauder, thus concluding one of the most memorable first dates of my life.
The plan for Sunday was to meet in the afternoon outside her apartment in Waikiki after parking my motorcycle, and then we would simply wing it—kind of how we did it after climbing Kapo Tail. With all the things we could do in Waikiki, there was no need to go beyond walking distance; surely we’d find something to pique our interest. Yet as I rolled up on my Marauder, our plans changed immediately.
She was standing by a pile of volcanic rocks on Paoakalani Avenue, a one-way street between Kalakaua and Kuhio towards the eastern end of Waikiki. I told her I would just park the bike and come back, yet apparently just the sight of my bright red and chromed out Suzuki VZ800 was enough for her to reconsider her prohibition on motorcycles. One thing’s for sure, the bright beaming bike stood in stark contrast to Jay-Jay’s dingy jalopy. Hiroko immediately requested a ride on the Marauder!
Thankfully there was no requirement for helmets in Hawaii for licensed riders—which I was not—but the cops wouldn’t know that unless they pulled me over for something else. I had stopped wearing my helmet since that prick at the DMV stopped me from taking the road test. With no need for helmets, Hiroko was able to hop right on. Otherwise, she would have to wait by the rocks for nearly an hour for me to ride back to my place to grab her a helmet. Holy hell do I hate those nosy nanny laws butting into my business!
After a brief direct contact lesson on how hot exhaust pipes are (despite my warning which maybe she didn’t understand), off we went. At first, we rode around the block at a relatively low speed and stopped back where we started. This resulted in a request to go a little farther.
“More!”
“More? Okay, you got it!”
So then we rode all the way to the other side of Waikiki towards the Honolulu end. I figured I’d double back on Kalakaua, yet this still wasn’t a long enough cruise for her.
“Is this good? Head back or do you want more?”
“More!”
“Okay, we’re going for more! Hold on!”
I hopped onto Ala Moana Blvd, which begins to get progressively curvier near Restaurant [Death] Row and Aloha Tower, and then has a really fun banked sweeping ninety-degree left turn just past China Town. If she could handle that, I figured she was cleared for motorcycle duty. Turns out Hiroko absolutely loved the tight high-speed turn, held onto me, and didn’t fight the heavy leaning required to negotiate the turn. She ate it up in fact. Yeah, she just loved the exhilaration. Hiroko was most definitely cleared for motorcycle duty now, so it was time to kick it up another notch and go for the interstate grade Queen Liliuokalani Freeway (the newer, western portion of H-1).
We put on some good speed, and while she held on to me tightly, Hiroko was undaunted. But as we approached Aloha Stadium, I realized I had no destination in mind. If we kept going, we were going to end up in the mass suburbia of Aiea. We couldn’t have that! The alternative was to commit to going all the way to the north shore, which I thought might be too far for a first-timer. I’d rather leave some for want than to overdo it. Then I immediately remembered a nearby attraction I had been meaning to check out for the last couple of months.
“Wanna go to a museum?” I shouted, “It’s very close.”
“Okay! We go!”
The museum was actually at the same exit as Aloha Stadium and only a few miles away. Very convenient. We parked and went inside. Just barely past the entrance, looking at the black and white fifty-five-year-old photographs on the wall, I realized exactly what sort of rocket scientist I was. For the record, I had taken a Japanese citizen to the Pearl Harbor Museum and Arizona Memorial for a date.
I’m one brilliant mother fucker!
I was mortified looking at those pictures of destruction and death wrought upon Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. I was speechless from my absolute stupidity, but Hiroko had something to say.
“Oh, Japanese peo-pull… vedy, vedy bat!”
Oh my god, what had I done? That’s what I was thinking. I didn’t exactly know what to say in response and made a nervous attempt to soothe.
“No, no, no. That was a long time ago. Japanese people are very good now. We’re friends now. Japan and America are strong allies. Everybody’s friends now.”
It seemed to work. We continued along the museum perusing the artifacts, and fortunately Hiroko not only was not offended by my choice of activities (where I was basically calling out her country as being led by sneaky, blood-thirsty war mongers), but she also seemed genuinely interested in the history. She mentioned that they didn’t teach her much about the Pearl Harbor attack in her school back in Osaka. Let me tell you, it was one hell of a relief to see her curious and engaged in all the exhibits! I can’t image what was going on inside her head, but with her acceptance of and interest in this piece of world history, I really dodged a bullet there!
We finished looking at all the indoor exhibits and proceeded outside to view all sorts of torpedoes, a couple of Polaris submarine launched ballistic missiles (A-1 and A-3 variants), a Regulus I submarine launched cruise missile, and a Type 4 Kaiten suicide submarine. I had mistaken this late war last-ditch effort Kaiten as one of the Type A midget submarines sunk or captured at the start of the war.
It turns out those earlier Type A Ko-hyoteki midget submarines are quite a bit larger at approximately 80 feet long and 50 tons, had a two-man non-suicidal crew, came equipped with two torpedoes with 770 lbs of explosives each, had a top speed of 19 knots, a range of 84 nautical miles, and a maximum depth of 330 feet.
In contrast the Type 1 Kaiten was roughly 50 feet long and 10 tons, had a one-way one-man crew, did not have any torpedoes but had 3420 lbs of explosives in the front of the submarine, had a top speed of 30 knots, a range of 42 nautical miles, and a maximum depth of 260 feet. (Note that the Type 4 on display was never put into production and had slightly different specification.)
But by far the greatest piece in the museum’s collection outside the sunken USS Arizona (BB-39) was the Balao (285) class WWII submarine USS Bowfin (SS-287). (Note that the USS Missouri (BB-63) had not yet been moored in Pearl Harbor at this time.) The Bowfin was not just on static display to be viewed from the outside. No, this old storied diesel boat had been modified to accommodate the general public touring through it.
The Bowfin is a highly decorated submarine which went on nine war patrols and is credited with sinking sixteen large enemy vessels totaling 98,658 tons (including nine cargo ships, four troop transports, two tankers, and one frigate), plus an additional twenty-two small craft (such as patrol boats, trawlers, and schooners), one pier, one crane, and even a bus. Yes, that’s right. The USS Bowfin sunk a bus.
Because of our late start, we would have to choose between taking the ferry to the USS Arizona memorial or going inside the USS Bowfin. I thought I had punished Hiroko enough for the day and felt we should skip the somber sunken ship and go inside a surviving submarine. I told Hiroko we should go on the Bowfin so she could see something somewhat similar to what I did for the Navy.
I said somewhat similar as there couldn’t possibly be anything on an old diesel boat that was at all remotely in common with a modern nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. But I was wrong. I was surprised to see equipment that I was familiar with, such as a Sharples lube oil purifier. It looked virtually identical to the ones I had mastered in the art of petroleum puke prevention. In fact, I was so surprised that I forgot my decorum and began to disassemble it for cleaning and inspection right there in front of Hiroko. It was satisfying to be able to show a nice lady a little bit of what my day-to-day life was like.
I reassembled the purifier, we completed our tour of the Bowfin, and the two of us returned to my Marauder. We had a really great time inside the submarine and at the Pearl Harbor Museum as a whole, which made me wonder if I ever ended up dating a German girl, should I perhaps accidentally take her to a Holocaust Museum? Debatable and for another time.
We cruised back to Waikiki, and I introduced her to New York style pizza at the International Market Place. We both indulged in the pineapple pizza, so maybe a little bit New York, a little bit Hawaiian pizza to be more accurate. After a couple of beers at the Tiki bar, I walked her back to her block. Again, just another hug goodbye, and we made plans to go out and wing it the following Wednesday in Waikiki.
This chapter is incomplete. To be continued shortly…