So far, looking out the window above the ocean, nothing but deep blue sea. Miles and miles of deep blue sea. Fertile hunting grounds for the nuclear submarine to which I had recently been assigned. My new boat, the Los Angeles class fast attack USS San Francisco, lurked below the surface of the sea, out there somewhere.
“Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”
Those deep blue seas rapidly gave way to pristine azure water, and then we made landfall. My first impression of Hawaii was this is it? Flat, not very green. Bits of pale grass. Scattered palm trees. A lot of red dirt. This could be a tiny, remote Pacific atoll full of Marine aviators in World War Two. Or maybe Vietnam. That’s where the choppers would land.
As we continued our approach, we flew over an industrial area. I didn’t know at the time, but this was a place called Barber’s Point. There were oil tanks, power plants, a refinery and an old naval air station. Not the deep green jungle, waterfalls and mountains in the mist I was expecting. Maybe that was on the other side of the plane. I always got a rotten seat. The pilot brought the big old 747-100 down like a pro. Nice, gentle landing. Some people even clapped. I must have missed the tip jar when it came around.
“On behalf of the crew of United Airlines flight One Ninety-Nine, we would like to be the first to welcome you to beautiful sunny Honolulu. The local time is five thirty-eight pm, and the temperature here in paradise is a nice, warm eighty-one degrees.”
Despite the perplexing scenery of Barber’s Point, I couldn’t contain the gigantic shit-eating grin that came across my face upon hearing that pilot’s announcement. This was a life altering moment. People are going to be envious when they hear that I was stationed in Hawaii, like they had just found out I dated a supermodel for three years. Wait, really? This guy? Yes, this guy. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before grabbing my personal belongings.
I made it! I finally made it! I’m actually going to live in Hawaii now!
Not only that, but I was also going to be able to explore more of the world from here. That was my goal after all. I had only a few weeks earlier been to several cities throughout the Mediterranean in countries and territories such as Italy, Israel and Gibraltar. I got a taste. Oh how I needed more! Now based out of Pearl Harbor, I couldn’t wait to pull into the exotic ports of Hong Kong, Singapore, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, the Philippines and possibly even Australia. I’m finally going to be a real, fucking honest to goodness seaman! This was indeed one hell of an exciting moment just waiting to get off the plane.
I was expecting to be lei’d upon disembarking the jumbo jet, but this did not happen. Perhaps the first-timer memo was lost. Or maybe that’s only done in the movies. I continued on my way. To me, the airport felt oddly reminiscent of Orlando. I was stationed there immediately following boot camp to attend the first couple of schools in a nearly two-year long nuclear propulsion system training program we called the “pipeline.” I had finished the pipeline a few days shy of a year prior to this touchdown.
It was now November 4th, 1997. I had 1184 days left in the navy, down from my original enlistment contract obligation of 2192. Most of us had our daily countdown memorized. It was the first thing you thought about when you woke up. With a smidgen more than three miserable years to go, transferring to Naval Station Pearl Harbor was going to make each one of those days significantly less dreadful.
My last duty station—the one immediately following my completion of the nuclear pipeline—was rotten Groton, Connecticut. That’s a place so dreary, cold and depressing that drinking alone and staring off into the distance while quietly hoping to die was likely one of the top listed activities at their bureau of tourism, possibly only second to visiting the USS Nautilus submarine museum. I wouldn’t have that problem here in Hawaii. I could tell immediately while walking through the airport.
The terminal walkway I was on was mostly open to the elements and featured an abundance of jungle-like vegetation and poured concrete. I smelled fresh sea air. As far as the weather went, it was warm yet surprisingly not humid, unlike how oppressively muggy Orlando usually was for this temperature. This was nice. Very, very nice. Especially for a November. As I walked, I thought perhaps one more reason I recalled Orlando was the architectural period the terminal seemed to represent.
This airport appeared old. Not in a bad way. It wasn’t in disrepair or anything. But like Orlando and the theme parks located there, it just felt like a remnant of post-peak bygone era of tourism. It was jet-aged perhaps. As if the terminal was built to accommodate the then-new Boeing 707 and Douglas DC-8 jets that introduced throngs of middle-class Americans to their dream vacations of Disney World and genuine imitation Hawaiian Luaus back in the 1960s. At least that is what I thought while existing on the cusp of the space age and the information age. We had memory foam beds but no Google yet.
Just outside the baggage claim, I waited for the Navy duty driver to pick me up. Little by little, other sailors began assembling near me. You could tell by their seabags and haircuts. Due to peculiar uniform regulations of the Navy, we were on the lookout for someone in a van who resembled either Popeye or an ice cream truck driver. Those were the only two uniform choices at the time for enlisted sailors in the tropics while off base. Things have since changed.
When the pure white van arrived, I could picture it playing Mr. Softee’s Jingle and Chimes. Two sailors in their “working white” uniforms hopped out. This uniform consisted of a white short-sleeve button up shirt, a white undershirt with exposed collar, white pants, a white belt, a white hat, and whi—no actually black socks and shoes. So close to being the purest little angels. So close. We called these working whites the “Good Humor” uniform for obvious reasons to anyone who spied a low-ranking seaman in it with few to no ribbons. Once you climbed up in rank with some chevrons on your sleeve and began earning ribbons and medals for your chest, you were less likely to be approached for a rocket popsicle or a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles.
After taking some names, one of the silly looking seamen went inside the baggage claim area looking for stragglers. The other silly seaman had simply gotten out to smoke and shoot the shit with us. He lit up his cigarette, took a drag, and held out his pack.
“Anyone need a smoke? Can’t smoke in the van.”
Indeed, a generous offer after a long flight. Quite a few people reached in, but I didn’t. He looked at me suspiciously and commented.
“Don’t smoke?”
“Nope.”
“You will.”
“Doubt it.”
“Might not now, but you definitely will by the time you get out.”
“We’ll see.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you will.”
I faked a smile and then rolled my eyes when his attention turned from me. I didn’t like him.
Jesus, this is the first person I get to interact with in paradise? He may have just ruined the whole thing.
After the condescending little smoke break, we piled into the van. The drop off point was outside an office inside Naval Station Pearl Harbor. Near the office, there was a row of destroyers moored in a channel called the Southeast Loch. I was surprised how little security there was along the waterfront.
Back in Groton, they had a second checkpoint to get to the piers, complete with tall, barbed wire topped fences against a dismal grey sky, possibly just to give us that additional prison-like feel. Not in Pearl though. Once you’re on the base, it seemed you can go anywhere you want. Here there was the odd juxtaposition of large and serious looking grey warships behind a fast food joint, a nice green baseball field, and rows of palm trees with a bright blue sky full of fluffy cotton clouds as a backdrop. Message received. The world is dangerous place, but let’s enjoy it while we can. Hell, that’s why I transferred to Hawaii!
Inside the fairly dark office, I showed them my orders. Naval Enlisted Codes 3355 and 3351. Those codes are Nuclear Propulsion Plant Mechanical Operator, Submarines and Nuclear Propulsion Plant Emergency Welder respectively. I was assigned to Machinery Division, Engineering Department, USS San Francisco hull number SSN-711.
I imagined the SSN stood for Submersible Ship, Nuclear, but no one ever officially told me. Then again, back in WW2, hull numbers prefaced with BB were battleships, CC were cruisers and DD were destroyers. They weren’t Big Battleships, Cruisin’ Cruisers and Deadly Destroyers. So, the SS part might just be submarine. Well, the N part was definitely nuclear. That much I knew. But man, could you imagine how much ink and therefore money the Navy would have saved by stopping this stuttering typewriter hull classification letter nonsense over the years?
The desk jockey sailor flipped through the paperwork and began stamping and signing things. He said the San Fran was out to sea with no return date given to me. I was all on my own for likely a few weeks. I was surprised I wasn’t given temporary duty. This is paradise! I was assigned to a room in Paquet Hall, an old three-story horseshoe-shaped barracks built in 1927, seemingly around an in-ground pool. The pool probably came later. Not sure if they had in-ground pool technology back in the twenties.
Walking up to my room, I began to wonder if they accidently gave me a room in the base hotel. It certainly had that feel on the outside. Just look at all the palm trees around that pool! Not even Orlando had this resort-like feel on base. I opened the door to two-man open room with beds on opposite walls. I threw my seabag down next to the obviously unused bed on the left and noticed I already had a message on my combined phone and answering machine.
“An-DROOOOO? Is that YOOOOOOU? It doesn’t sound like YOOOOOU! Call your mama back when you get this.”
The desk jockey in the office said my roommate was also on the San Fran and out to sea. My new roommate’s name must be Andrew, and he’s clearly from the south. His mother had quite the twang! She dialed the wrong extension-extension (room number and then bed number). Apparently, whoever left the last recorded message for my bed number didn’t sound like Andrew.
After a little post flight breather in my room, I could see from the windows that the sun began to set. It was go-time. I didn’t come all this way to sit in a room built during the height of Prohibition. It was time to head into Waikiki to celebrate the 21st Amendment. My motorcycle was still a few weeks out, so I had to find my way using public transportation. The welcome packet I got at the office was helpful. The bus stop was just outside some gate called Makalapa on a highway called Kamehameha. There was a bus transfer at another place called Ala Moana at the intersection of Kona and Keeaumoku Streets. I would ride it into Waikiki to a stop on Kuhio Avenue at Kaiulani Street.
Jesus, it’s like another country. How am I supposed to remember these names?
Somehow, I made it all the way there without screwing up. The bus dropped me off directly in the center of Waikiki. I walked up and down this Kuhio Avenue on that early Tuesday night, and I have to say, it was pretty underwhelming. No action whatsoever. The only thing that looked somewhat lively were the neon lights of Déjà Vu Showgirls, obviously a gentleman’s club. It was on the second floor of this shopping complex called Waikiki Town Center. Occasionally the shiny door would open, and music poured out. Not a place I wanted to enter.
I walked up and down Kuhio a few more times, passing not a soul, and decided to try my luck one street over. It was even more desolate. This was Ala Wai Boulevard, and it ran along a canal. The street was quite dark, seemingly only lit with the moonlight reflecting off of the virtually still water. Not knowing the geography on my first day, I had chosen poorly by walking away from the ocean. Had I gone in the other direction from Kuhio, in just one block, I would have been along the beachfront on a street called Kalakaua Avenue. But I didn’t know that yet.
Man, this town is dead! Maybe they get too much sun here.
I walked back to Kuhio, and when I came upon Déjà Vu again, I paused. I thought about going in, but also thought about my experience at the first and only strip club I had been to. I visited this one in rotten Groton called Rose’s Cantina a few days after I turned twenty-one. It was more or less a dirty old man’s rather dirty, old saloon. The place had two topless girls alternating rounds on a stage off in one corner of the joint and a well-worn pool table in the other. The bar was in the middle. Lonely looking old timers sat at the bar silently staring into the distance, creating big clouds of lingering smoke from cigarettes, not paying any mind to the bored dancers who in turn wanted nothing to do with anyone, even if you had one whole buck in your hand ready to go. Definitely the #2 tourist destination in Groton after the historic USS Nautilus museum.
I went there a few times with my shipmates until I had my first motorcycle stolen right out from the back of the joint. This was merely six days after I bought the damn brand spanking new motorbike. That was enough for me. Topless joints were way too seedy, and my second motorcycle—the one I was now waiting for—never touched their parking lot pavement. We just rolled on by.
But here and now in Waikiki, I wanted a beer and was tired of walking around. Plus, I had no need to park a motorbike. So, who cares how seedy it is? Even an unglamorous place like that strip club in rotten Groton seemed better than wandering around this dead town on a Tuesday night. I figured I could go into Déjà Vu and rough it for a night over a few beers and shots, and then find a less pathetic place to drink when I’m not as desperate for one. I climbed up the dark green wooden switchback stairs, opened the big mirror-finished door, and went inside.
Holy hell!
It was sensory overload. There were gorgeous girls in tiny outfits everywhere, the music was blasting, strobe lights were flashing all around the otherwise extremely dark interior, and the shape could only be described as angular and asymmetrical with this really high vaulted ceiling. The poles had to be at least fifteen feet tall on a stage that was down two sets of short stairs from the main bar. The table seating section was one set down from the bar. The walls were smooth and dark purple, and the floor was carpeted. Everything seemed clean and well cared for, and the air conditioning and ventilation worked fantastically, keeping it cool and without any lingering smoke clouds.
This was no seedy establishment. I had been mistaken. I had been very mistaken. I didn’t know what this place was, but it was simply amazing! I had never seen so many naked girls in one location in my life, and they were all so painfully beautiful. And they weren’t just topless. While on stage, these girls were fully nude—yet there was also a full bar. I had heard such a combination was illegal, but apparently not in paradise. Seriously, what the hell was this Déjà Vu joint? A dream?
As a rather inexperienced twenty-one year old recovering Catholic schoolboy, I felt a bit out of place in such an advanced establishment. To be honest, I had never before seen fully naked women strutting around in front of strangers like me like this—like it was nothing. And then to see them swinging around on a pole, often upside-down and spread eagle? This was a lot for me to process, and I was a bit uncomfortable to be perfectly honest.
I needed a safe space, so I sat at the bar. The bar had become my comfort zone over the last year of growing up into an honest to goodness sea-going sailor. It also didn’t hurt that the bartender here was quite attractive. She was a bit older than me, maybe in her early thirties, had big blonde hair, large overly round breasts up on display, and wore an all-white lingerie uniform consisting of an absurdly tight corset top, G-string panties, a garter belt, and stockings. Their version of working whites I suppose.
This bartender was one of those who was always in motion and doing two things at once. She seemed very pleasant and called everyone “sugar” with a strong Texan accent. Pleasant for sure, but also gave off a vibe of someone who shouldn’t be tangled with.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
After taking care of a number of orders from the waitresses and a few people at the bar ahead of me, she approached. She introduced herself as Loraine after calling me sugar. I liked that. I ordered a Guinness without looking at the beer list, but unfortunately it wasn’t carried there. Since becoming acquainted with the stout during my Mediterranean deployment, it never occurred to me that bars wouldn’t have it. Déjà Vu’s top of the line beer was Heineken.
Damn. A lager.
Not the end of the world. I started drinking Heinies during our port calls in Italy before I was introduced to stouts. Used to American swill, I first thought that Dutch lager to be too strong a flavor for me. Yet now it seemed far too weak for me. Need more flavor! At least I had a pleasant, conditioned stimulus with the Heinekens. Nice memories of sitting with friends at an outdoor table while trying to speak Italian to perturbed waitresses.
American sailors need a lot of attention from the ladies once coming in from a few weeks at sea, but the Italians we encountered didn’t seem to want to give it to us while they were working. Nevertheless, we took that attention from them mercilessly. Poor waitresses! At least we confused them with tips to make us feel better. They probably thought we couldn’t count, subsequently pitied us, and were then usually much nicer upon our second visit to their establishments.
After pounding a few beers and shots at Déjà Vu, the rush died down. Loraine came over to chit-chat with me. That’s what I wanted this night! The attention of a pretty lady, and she was so pretty despite not being a perturbed Italian waitress! The attention which Loraine was giving me was certainly difficult to understand with the rather loud music, her fast talking, and her thick accent. Texan can be harder than Italian.
Fortunately, any awkwardness from let’s say, misunderstanding a question for a statement, and then that rather long pause she would make waiting for me to respond before I realized I should respond was interrupted by her need to serve other customers. A convenient natural conversation reset before she would return to give me that attention I craved.
I suppose she could tell by my eyes that were almost certainly glazing over as the night progressed that I wasn’t really picking up most of what she was putting down. At one point, she leaned over the bar and got close to my ear to tell me something so that I’d understand. Loraine shouted a name of a place, said she worked there, and that they had Guinness. She wrote down the location and her schedule there on a cocktail napkin. I folded it up, put it into my pocket and continued drinking at the bar into the hazy, numbing, and loud darkness.
I woke up in Paquet Hall in the morning with no recollection of how I got back to the base. This was my first time waking up in my new room, and it was a bit confusing. This wasn’t my first rodeo, however. I didn’t freak out. In fact, I was quite used to it. Most nights I went out, I never remembered returning. I had only been drinking for nine months, so this seemed pretty normal to me. This perfectly normal thing is apparently what happens when anyone goes out for a few drinks. Autopilot takes over. You would think more people would talk about this autopilot system. Seems like a good conversation starter.
This is where I was when my brain stopped recording, and this is where I was when I woke up. How about you?
Much better to open up with something like that than last night’s score or today’s weather. Yet I didn’t know about the autopilot system until I turned twenty-one earlier that year. Now I understood the phenomenon once experiencing it firsthand. Pretty neat system.
The morning immediately after my twenty-first birthday, I woke up in my bed soaking wet, wearing nothing but a white tee shirt. Except I was wearing the shirt like a skirt and my arms were pinned to my sides through the neck hole. Like, in my brand new-to-me phenomenon of scrambled brains drunkenness—from a hefty supply of first-timer favorite Long Island Ice Teas—I forgot how to remove shirts and pulled it down instead of up over my head. Then it appeared that I couldn’t get it down past my butt cheeks and gave up.
I have no recollection of this, so I can only speculate that I quit trying to remove the tee shirt and simply took a shower with it on. I was good at picking up things with my feet, so I could see me using them to manipulate the shower controls. Then I likely just hopped into bed without toweling off since my arms were constrained inside the shirt. When I woke up, that was truly confusing and weird.
But here in Hawaii, I woke up dry and in my boxers. Progress! The only weird thing was the new room. Took me a moment to regain my bearings.
I’m pretty sure I transferred to Pearl yesterday… so we’re down to 1183 now.
I was definitely in rough shape. I would have stayed in bed a lot longer if I didn’t feel like I was about to wet it. I got up from underneath the pile of imaginary bricks that were on top of me, urinated for a good, long while, and then checked the refrigerator before I died of thirst. No Gatorade. I checked my wallet. No money. Typical morning.
I wasn’t sure if I could drink the water from the sink and refrained. Back in New York, they brainwash you into thinking that you’ll die from dysentery if you drink tap water anywhere else. But damn I was thirsty.
Should I chance it? No not yet. We can persevere and explore other options.
I checked my pants pockets. No cash there either. Shit. Just a napkin with “The Hideaway” written on it along with an address on Kuhio Ave under it, and a few days written down as well. Wasn’t sure what that was.
I took a long, hot shower and bits and pieces of my night started coming back to me. I went in hard with the Heinekens and shots of Stolichnaya. I picked up the vodka habit after drinking with Russians in Haifa, Israel. More came back to me. The bartender. Loraine. I liked her. I pictured Loraine laughing at things I said. But no idea what I said. Maybe she was laughing at me. I also remembered a few other smiling faces sitting next to me at the bar here and there, dancers perhaps. Nothing concrete. Just splotches. And loud music. The end of the night was completely gone. But wait… the napkin! That was Loraine’s other bar! The one with the Guinness! That’s right! Have to keep that one.
After dressing, I scrounged around in my sea bag for change I took out of my pocket in order to pass the airport security. Plenty for the vending machine outside and down a few doors. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew it wasn’t soda. Something with electrolytes. But there were no sports drinks in the machine as everything was canned. Then I spotted an odd can with pictures of beans on it.
Royal Mills Iced Cappuccino. Coffee drink made in Hawaii.
Hmm. Seemed intriguing. Never had cold coffee before, much less a can of something with beans on it. Took a chance with the last of my quarters. It was a good decision. Cold, sweet, canned coffee would prove to be addictive, particularly when hungover. Interesting that I craved bitter drinks at night and sweet drinks in the morning. Brain chemicals. Strange things. I would need to keep plenty of change around from now on so I could crack open one of those Royal Mills bad boys each morning in order to satisfy the chemistry.
I decided to go back to Waikiki to explore in the daytime. I was surprised at how many tall buildings were in Waikiki. Geographically constrained by the ocean and a canal, apparently they had to build up here once a plot was purchased—similar to what was done in Manhattan. Many of these high-rise apartments and resorts in Waikiki reached over thirty stories tall. I hadn’t expected this, but I kind of liked that I found myself in a mini city on a beach. However, this tiny town was not like Manhattan at all despite the similarity of walking in the shadows of the high-rise buildings.
The familiar streets of Manhattan I walked were covered in deeply pockmarked blacktop, often had steam rising from manholes, smelled like garbage and nuts, and there was absolutely no aural respite from car horn blasts and sirens. The iconic skyscrapers of New York City I walked by countless times had this sense of being masterfully constructed piece by piece, whether their steel skeletons were covered in brick, marble, limestone or glass. There was often great consideration to their ornate detail.
In contrast, everything here in Waikiki was made out of concrete. Even the streets. All smooth, flawless concrete. And those streets were rather quiet, free from horn blasts and those sirens. Here, they were without steam billowing up from manholes, instead having sand gently blowing across them from the beach. I’d frequently catching a whiff of coconut-scented sunblock, but never garbage.
The fairly tall apartments and resorts were also seemingly all concrete, and like the airport, their architecture seemed fairly outdated. They were neither ornate nor sleek like the buildings in Manhattan; here they were boxy and marred with ugly protruding balconies all the way up their entire ocean and mountain facing surfaces. To me, they each seemed like they were not assembled so much as simply poured into place without consideration to character, with the possible exception of the paint palate selected to cover the concrete. The buildings in Waikiki were certainly more colorful than the buildings in Manhattan.
Despite all the cement, this place felt soft. Manhattan is a serious place. Waikiki is not. Walking on the precast sidewalks between the high rise buildings, the people here were more likely heading to the beach carrying a boogie board, not carrying a briefcase heading to a boardroom. Yet there was bustle here too. In the daytime, Waikiki was a lively location. This was a beach city after all, so it made sense that the bustle was while the sun was out. And there was so much sun!
While wandering around in this sun, two things in particular caught my eye. First, there seemed to be an “ABC Store” on nearly every corner; these were establishments which appeared to be half souvenir shop and half the Hawaiian version of a 7-11 convenience store. The second catch was the number of tiny little places tucked into oddly shaped lots that rented out motorcycles. All those Harleys parked outside were simply gorgeous. Most were brightly colored two tones, some teal, some red, some yellow. Lots of chrome and with big fenders and fat tires. What I’d image bikes in the 1950s looked like. So gorgeous.
I couldn’t dream up of a better beachfront cruiser this side of an old woody station wagon with surfboards hanging out of it. Yes, these Harleys were so gorgeous! So perfect! Yet so expensive! $125 for twelve hours? Too costly for my measly sailor salary. One full day of a cruising along on a Hog would wipe out half of what was in my bank account, which was for some reason a lot less full than I had remembered. Well… that figured. I hadn’t been out to sea in over a month, so I had no means of saving money. Therefore, the Harley rental was not an option. I would have to settle for listening to other people ride by on those 1340 cubic centimeters of thunder with jealousy and utter contempt for them.
But all was not lost. Based on the figures on the signs, I could probably swing a Honda Shadow 750. I inquired within. Seventy-five bucks for a full 24-hours. Steep, but doable for one day if I committed to eating at the galley for the last few days before our biweekly payday. Yet rental place after rental place turned me away due to not having a motorcycle endorsement on my license. Fortunately, one last rental place in a pink building just off of Kuhio accepted my NY State motorcycle learner’s permit. It was on this street called, uh… Uluniu Avenue. Damn, that’s a lot of U’s! How the hell are you supposed to say that!?!
Oo… Loo… Nee… Oo.
Oo-loo-nee-oo.
Oo’loo-nee’oo?
I hoped that’s how Hawaiian worked. I’d be fucked if the letters made nonsense noises like they do in French. Regardless of my pronunciation, they agreed to rent me a Kawasaki EX250 Ninja. That was a pretty common little 250 cc bike at the time for anyone about to take their road test. It had no balls, but it was a full day of freedom for fifty bucks. Ball-less freedom, like a vagina in the breeze. I could explore the island unencumbered by bus routes. Due to advice from the rental place dude, my first ride was to take the Kalanianaole Highway.
“The what highway?”
“Kah’lah-nee’ah-nah’oh’lay Highway.”
He said it much, much faster than those hyphens and apostrophes imply. I looked at him with the appropriate amount of confusion and pulled out my recently acquired yet already folded to death paper map. He circled it with his pen. Yeah okay, the highway around the southeast tip of Oahu.
That was perhaps the best advice I was ever given in my twenty-one plus years of existence. The first ten miles from Waikiki was a bland mix of commercial and residential structures, gradually becoming less dense. But then hold on! Nature comes out of nowhere! It’s quite the curvy ride between this big volcano and the ocean! I had never experienced a ride like what this crazy Kala-nia-whatever Highway took me through!
This was my life now? Second day in Hawaii, and I was riding the twisties with warm sea air in my face while eating up the most spectacular scenery I had seen since the Mediterranean. This was a winding two-lane coastal road with cuts through dark, rugged volcanic rock. The ocean just pounded below. This ride was so amazing that I couldn’t even make it around the tip before I had to stop and process everything. I had only ridden in urban areas. New York City, Long Island, and rotten Groton. But this… I’m telling you, this was amazing!!!
I parked the Ninja at a lookout point near this attraction called Halona Blowhole. I watched the ocean crash over and over into the rocks, and then spout up through Halona’s b-hole. While watching that, I thought that maybe this Navy shit wasn’t so bad after all. People vacation here, but I live here now! All thanks to the US Navy. It was surreal.
What a beautiful little piece of Earth I had moved to! Breathtaking!
Yet something didn’t make sense to me. There was a reason I was here.
How the hell is the Navy having trouble finding sailors to volunteer for duty here!?!
That just blew my mind. At the time, there were four bases for fast attack submarines. Obviously the one here in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii and another in rotten Groton, Connecticut. The other two were Norfolk, Virginia and San Diego, California. (Note that the giant ballistic missile submarines were out of either Bangor, Washington or Kings Bay, Georgia.)
Unbelievably, Pearl Harbor was so undesirable that if you put it on your “dream sheet” duty station request at the end of the pipeline, then you were pretty much guaranteed to get it. That’s how I got this detail, just with a little temporary assignment to a mini-boat in rotten Groton called Submarine NR-1.
But I did finally make it to Hawaii because so few wanted this duty. How was that possible? Who the hell wouldn’t want to be stationed in paradise? Must be all the paint fumes. Yeah, our sensory perception had been absolutely obliterated by all the painting sessions we endured by the time we fill out our dream sheets. Only brain damage could explain this.
After watching the waves crash and spout up through the blowhole for a bit, I turned away from the ocean at looked up at the twelve-hundred-foot-tall dormant volcano behind me. It was called Koko Crater according to my map. You know, sometimes I just got this sudden urge to climb things, even sober. This was one such time.
I didn’t even look for a trail. No, I just crossed the highway and climbed right the fuck up the side of the mountain. It was a challenging impromptu hike, but to say it was well worth it is an understatement. The view was unlike anything I had ever taken in. I was in awe of the blueness of the shimmering ocean and the spectacular beauty of the multicolored sky as the sun approached the horizon. Another sensory overload moment.
It’s really hard to express the emotions felt on my second day here, particularly after the brief yet amazing motorcycle ride and now witnessing breathtaking views at the top of this Koko Crater, some five thousand miles away from New York, where in 1976 I experienced my life’s original eviction. Maybe something like if excitement and confusion were in a fist fight. What did I do to deserve this new life?
This is amazing, but I must be dreaming.
What’s the punchline here? I had to be cautious in accepting all of this. Will this end up like my first motorcycle? Gone after six days? Am I going to wake up in rotten Groton and have to pass though that chain-link fenced gate with the barbed wire and cold, grey skies again?
I was never really a negative person—more of an annoyingly naive and optimistic idiot rather. But after roughly three years in the Navy, life had a way of showing me that I was a fool for ever getting my hopes up over anything. I started learning and adapting. Wait until it’s in hand to celebrate. And then not too much just in case something happens to it. Well, I made it to Hawaii. I was truly happy with this development. Which made me worry a bit.
I was letting my mind wander off too far into a negative territory. I needed to get off of this volcano and back on that motorbike down by the blowhole. You can think plenty while riding, but it’s the right amount of thinking because a good percentage of your brain has to focus on not dying in a manner which requires a closed casket. The rest of your brains can focus on the sensations and scenery, and the resultant pleasant thoughts. In the old black and white motorcycle movie called The Wild One, the character of Kathie Bleeker sums it up best right when she gets off of Johnny Strabler’s motorbike for the first time:
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. It’s fast. It scared me, but I forgot everything. It felt good.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself, Kathie. And so, it was time to get off the volcano, get on the motorcycle, and forget everything again. Once I hiked back down and parked my ass on the Ninja, I had enough daylight left to take in the sights which awaited me beyond this southeast tip of the island. I was piecing together the layout of my new island home now that I had a map. Oahu kind of looks like an anvil that tipped over onto that southeast corner, the corner right where my rental motorcycle was idling while taking one last look at my map.
Glancing at it, you could see that the island can be broken into five sections: the vee-shaped North Shore, the zig-zag South Shore/Honolulu, the long mostly straight backslash-like eastern Windward Coast, the shorter straight backslash-like western Leeward Coast, and the valley between the two parallel and rather linear Ko’olau and Wai’anae mountain ranges of Central Oahu.
Once around this tip where I was parked was the area that the rental place guy said would be the rainy and lush portion of Oahu, as it was the windward side. The air currents would have to make a swift upturn to clear the mountains, too swift for the water suspended within it, which then crashes down to earth to the satisfaction of the lush vegetation, and to the bane of motorcycle riders like me.
I hated riding motorbikes in the rain due to the wet clingy pants legs. That’s the worst! But I really wanted to see this other side. I went for it. Fortunately for me, it was only misty at the time. I did not have soggy jeans clinging to my legs to soil the experience of taking in the sights. And they were quite the sights to take in.
Holy shit! Why didn’t the pilot fly that big ass jumbo jet over here before landing!?!
Over on this side, the mountains were exactly as I had pictured them before my flight. Rugged, nearly vertical, rising right into the clouds, densely vegetated and deep green. That was to my left. On the right, pristine light sand beaches with crystal blue water. Postcard perfect—other than no waterfalls to be found.
This windward side had the longest shoreline according to the map, and unfortunately, I had spent too much time on top of the volcano while my rental bike’s countdown clock ticked away. Now dusk, I figured It would be a waste to keep going in the dark and turned back. This coast truly deserved my full attention in daylight, so I would have to save this ride for the morning.
On my way back to Pearl Harbor, I got a bit turned around in an industrial section of Honolulu. This was after all only my second day on this rock, and there’s only so much of the map you can remember at a time while riding. I exited the highway and went down a street that initially looked promising. It wasn’t. Dead end by the piers. A girl approached me at a stop sign from out of the darkness. She must have seen me coming into the area before I turned back around.
“Hey baby, are you looking for a good time?”
“No ma’am, I’m just looking for a way back to Pearl Harbor.”
“Sailor, huh? All the way out here and you’re sure you’re not looking for a good time?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, I bet you have a big nasty cock!”
“Mmm… You probably shouldn’t take that bet.”
She reached down and gently pinched around my crotch as I was sitting up on the little idling sport bike.
“Ooh,” she assured me, “It’s nice.”
“Whoa! Thank you for that. Uh, hope I don’t owe you anything now, but uh… It’s late, and I really ought to be on my way.”
“Okay sailor, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I nodded and rode off.
Hmph, I thought, friendly locals.
I actually would have absolutely no idea where to find her again. It was very dark, and I was very lost. Maybe another lost sailor would wander into her dead end, and hopefully for the sake of the nice lady, her rear end as well. I did eventually find my way back to Pearl. I’m not sure why I got off the highway so prematurely as the base was well marked with signs. Felt pretty stupid when I noticed them.
Once back on base, I found the Navy Exchange mini-mart. I picked up a few bottles of yellow Gatorade, a submarine sandwich, and decided to rent a movie. There was a TV and VCR in my room, but I didn’t know if it was property of the Navy or my absent roommate. Something to sort out later. I grabbed a copy of Austin Powers from the new releases shelf. At the checkout, I made sure to get a few dollars’ worth of quarters for the vending machine. The movie made me laugh so hard I cried.
Who does number two work for!?!
When I woke up to 1182, I was unusually crisp. Odd to be so free of a hangover. I grabbed another can of Royal Mills and got ready to go riding on the Ninja. Saved that yellow Gatorade for a hangover. The plan was to head up the windward coast, but I began to worry that I’d wander off too far and not return in time. I didn’t want to be charged another fifty bucks. Instead, I decided to play it safe and cruise around Waikiki.
On the bike, I discovered Waikiki was a pretty small peninsula, maybe a mile and a half long, separated by the hockey stick shaped Ala Wai Canal. Towards the attached southeast end, the peninsula is about a quarter mile wide between the canal and the ocean. There, Waikiki only has three main roads lengthwise, those previously mentioned streets Kalakaua Avenue along the beach, Kuhio Avenue in the middle, and Ala Wai Boulevard along the canal.
As you go further northwest, Waikiki widens to about half a mile and while Kuhio Ave folds into Kalakaua Ave, a couple of main streets are added such as Ala Moana Boulevard and Kalia Road. At this unattached end, there were three small bridges over the “blade” of the hockey stick shaped Ala Wai Canal. Beyond was Honolulu proper. Between the two ends, there were roughly twenty-five or so one-way cross streets. Waikiki was just not that big of a place I determined. Tiny really. About one square mile in my estimation.
I explored slightly beyond Waikiki once I had that little peninsula sorted out. If you’re riding along the beachfront on the one-way Kalakaua Avenue, it aims you towards Diamond Head. As a stunning backdrop to Waikiki, Diamond Head is likely the most photographed volcano in the world. Once free of the concrete of Waikiki, I found myself cruising down a pleasant treelined park with tall, slender ironwoods, but this gave way to an area which was far too residential for my tastes.
Indeed, the ride around Diamond Head was nothing like the ride around Koko Crater. In fact, I had no desire to park and climb. There was a section along the ocean, up a cliff complete with a little lighthouse that was nice enough, but not breathtaking. I continued around the extinct volcanic cone. If you go with the flow, the loop eventually spits you out onto Ala Wai Boulevard right there along the canal.
I returned the rental rice rocket on time, early in the afternoon. According to the wadded-up napkin still in my pocket, Loraine was working at her other bar this day, that place called The Hideaway. It was towards the northwest end of Waikiki, which translated into a fifteen-minute walk from the rental place. I popped in to say hello to my beautiful new bartender friend.
The Hideaway was a big joint. I was not expecting this. Part indoor, part outdoor, part cantina, part tiki bar. There were several different bar stations located throughout the place, which felt almost like a little village. I glanced at each bar as I wandered through the nooks and crannies of The Hideaway and did not see Loraine.
I made it all the way to the tiki bar in the back of the property without seeing any trace of her. Upon the realization I was too early, I sat at the outdoor tiki section. It was manned by a gorgeous young woman who looked to me like a native Hawaiian. The outdoor area was heavily shaded with banyan trees. I was the only customer. At the pretty Polynesian bartender’s recommendation, I ordered a tropical drink—something called a Mai Tai. It was reddish and sweet and came with a little pineapple slice and a tiny umbrella. It seemed appropriate for the setting.
The friendly bartender immediately struck up a lively and memorable conversation. I found her to be so cute in this bright, colorful dress, flower in her hair and bubbly personality. Her name was Maya. I suppose the best way to describe her would be, if you could take all the beauty of the island I had witnessed the day before on my ride, and then convert it into a personality. Yeah, that’s Maya. I’d say she was the embodiment of that aloha spirit I kept hearing about. Maya made me feel included, like this was indeed my home now.
This was especially noticeable when she began poking fun of tourists. That meant I wasn’t one of them. No, no, no! I wasn’t a mere visitor to the island! I live here now! Obviously, she knew she could talk a little shit about all those damn tourists—to a fellow local. She said I was now kama’aina. Literally “child of the land” in Hawaiian. That’s quite a welcome to my new island home! Maya confessed to me that us locals generally categorized those damn tourists into three types:
-The annoying tourists who don’t make any attempt at respecting the culture and language.
-The respectable tourists who are doing the best they can with what they have.
-The super-tourists who just try way too hard.
Maya explained to me that these three types were easily distinguishable by the pronunciation of streets and neighborhoods found on my wadded-up map. She pointed to state highway route 63 that went from Honolulu to the windward side both over and through a mountain range called the Ko’olau. The highway is named after a Hawaiian princess. She explained that if someone asks how to get to the “like-like” highway—as in saying the English word “like” twice—they’re annoying and aren’t even trying.
If they instead ask you where the “lee’kay-lee’kay” highway is, then they’re respectable tourists that are trying to pronounce Hawaiian names properly. For the record state highway route 63 is most certainly pronounced “lee’kay-lee’kay,” as it is named after Princess Miriam Likelike.
Now if someone asks for directions to the “pee’pay-lee’nay,” well Maya said that’s a perfect example of a super-tourist that is trying way too hard. It’s a famous surf spot on the north shore, and it is pronounced just like the non-Hawaiian English word it is:
The Pipeline!
I started cracking up as soon as she told me that last one. The Pee’pay-lee’nay! I loved this so much because I had somewhat recently completed the Navy nuke pipeline. Well, excuse me, now forevermore known as the Nah’vay-noo’kay Pee’pay-lee’nay. Sounds exotic. Yeah, I’m a graduate. Top of the class in fact.
After a few tropical cocktails such as that Mai Tai, a Lava Flow and a Blue Hawaiian, I decided to wander around Waikiki a bit on foot so that I wasn’t too hammered by the time Loraine started her shift. I never did run into Maya again, but I will certainly never forget her. She made me feel so welcome to my new island home on one of my first days. Aloha spirit is the best! It’s like the exact opposite of wet clingy pants legs.
Walking with a nice buzz down Kalakaua Ave, the boulevard closest to the beach, I noticed both sides of the street seemed to be mostly geared towards high end shopping. There were a few exceptions. I found the movie theater. That’s for people like me. Rich people see musicals or go to the opera. There was also a shady outdoor bazaar full of cheap and useless trinkets called the International Marketplace. Despite being inexpensive, this place was definitely not for me. I had absolutely no use for that place… until I discovered gold.
Right inside this International Marketplace food court stood a New York style pizza place. It was so good that even I would have trouble distinguishing from actual New York pizza. If you ask me, no paradise is complete without proper pizza. I tried a couple of slices of the pineapple and ham. Instant fan and will defend these pizza toppings to the death.
Once fed, I continued down Kalakaua. Within a few blocks of the marketplace, the beach comes so close the street that there is no room to build hotels. Here you are greeted by bronze statue of some Hawaiian dude with outstretched arms and a nine foot tall surfboard behind him. His name, according to the plaque, was Duke Paoa Kahanamoku.
Had to use Maya’s advice so that I would not be mistaken for a super-tourist. I figured the first word was pronounced dook and not doo’kay. The Hawaiian flag has a little union jack in it after all. The rest of his name seemed very Hawaiian, however.
Pah-oh’ah Kah-hah’nah-moh’koo?
That last name sure is sweet!
Kah-hah’nah-moh’koo!
According to the inscription on the plaque, this Duke Kahanamoku was the “Father of International Surfing.” Basically, the first dude ever. The plaque mentioned other impressive facts about the Duke of Dudes. He was a multiple gold-medal-winning Olympic swimmer. He was elected Sheriff of Honolulu many times, serving for over twenty-five years. And, as one of the world’s greatest swimmers, he saved eight lives in California from a capsized boat. No wonder why this dude had a statue! And why it was placed in such a righteous location! It was certainly a nice spot to stop for a bit. Plenty of palm trees around to lean against in the shade and watch the bluest of blue waves come in.
I returned to The Hideaway as the sun set. Loraine was inside at the large main bar, the one that was more like a cantina. Unlike Déjà Vu, this place had a very relaxed vibe even at night. Loraine did not need to wear working white lingeries here. She was island casual, in shorts and a tank top, but her hair was still every bit big blonde Texan.
I grabbed a seat at the rectangular bar in the center of the larger indoor room. She didn’t see me walk in. Loraine was apparently quite the fastidious worker at this joint too. There were things to clean and items to stock. The wait was merely the few seconds it took her to side scan the bar and catch me.
“Hey sugar! You made it! Good to see ya!”
She said this with a thick, low and sultry Texan accent. She was clearly a heavy smoker, but I’m not sure if that made her voice more sexy or less sexy than it would have been otherwise. Regardless, I responded in a much less smooth way. When sober and in the presence of attractive women, it was inevitable for me to act like a dork.
“Well, hello there! Or, uh… Aloha I suppose I should say. I think. Like when in Rome. But we’re in Hawaii, so… like, when in Honolulu…”
Loraine appeared to not have time for my bumbling greeting and cut to the chase.
“You said your name is Brendan, right?”
“Wow yes, that’s me! And if I’m not mistaken, you’re, uh… Loraine?”
“That’s right sugar! You are not mistaken.”
“Whew! To be honest, I’m surprised I remembered your name.”
“Well, to be honest, I am too. You really tied one on the other night!”
Whatever warmth I felt from her recalling my name was immediately replaced with alarm over how her sentence ended because I didn’t know how the night ended! For a few seconds, I hoped to hell I didn’t say or do anything too stupid. Such dread! Short term dread, however. I quickly determined that I couldn’t have said anything stupid enough to piss her off that much as she did seem genuinely happy to see me. I relaxed a bit.
Loraine threw down a coaster in front of me, turned around, and started pouring something before I had the chance to order. That was odd because there weren’t any other customers at the bar. Who was she pouring for? Loraine turned her head and said something about not having Guinness and something about a guy named Murphy. Maybe he was in the bathroom, and this was his drink. I’d be next.
I had a hard time understanding her, but I definitely heard that she didn’t have Guinness right then and there. It was pretty clear, and it was a perplexing disappointment. I could have sworn she told me this place had Guinness back at Déjà Vu the other night. I just couldn’t understand what she said when she spoke so fast with that accent and all that loud music. Maybe she said that she worked at this Hideaway place too but was warning me that she also did not have Guinness here. Like, don’t get your hopes up, kid. Yeah, that makes sense. I totally misunderstood.
I began to speculate as to how she could have a Texan accent but with words coming out at the same velocity of a New Yorker. I had been to Dallas-Fort Worth several times, and they didn’t speak as quickly as Loraine. Could she be from Austin? Never been there. Maybe it was Houston. Loraine continued talking rapid fire as she poured that Murphy guy his beer.
It sounded like she said something about me liking vodka and lap dances. I could make sense out of the vodka part. But lap dances? I don’t remember doing any lap dances. I just remember staying at the bar the whole time. What was she saying about lap dances? It felt stupid to ask her to repeat that part.
Loraine moved the tap handle up and briskly walked off to grab something. Her brief absence revealed a stout settling under the tap at around the three-quarter mark or so. I thought she said they didn’t have Guinness. I was so confused. She came back, put something away, finished the pour, and set it in front of me.
“I think you’re gonna like this one better, sweetie.”
Then she walked off to take care of something else. Loraine definitely wasn’t one to loiter. As I watched my pint settle, I wondered what I was supposed to be comparing it to. The Heineken at Déjà Vu? Must be. Yeah, of course I’m going to like a stout better than a lager. Silly thing to say. She came over when I took my first sip.
“Better, right?”
Her facial expression suggested she eagerly awaited my verdict, as did her lack of motion.
“Uh… yeah. Totally. One hundred percent.”
Loraine rapidly fired off what sounded like reasons why others said they liked this one better, maybe it was this Murphy guy who said it, but I couldn’t really make out those reasons. Something about bitterness maybe? Yeah, I do like the bitterness. I didn’t at first, however. An Irish stout is an acquired taste, but oh how I loved it now! As she was talking and I was focusing on her slippery words, she grabbed some shot glasses and a bottle of Stoli. She then asked a question that I most definitely could understand.
“You want a shot with that, right sugar?”
She already had the bottle and glasses out.
“Yes ma’am!”
She poured two shots quickly, stashed the bottle, raised her glass, toasted in Texan and slammed the shot before I even grabbed mine. I did my shot as she walked off. She always had something to do. I began thinking about what she said when she was pouring my drink.
I liked my vodka and lap dances.
Remembering that I didn’t remember the end of the night, I suppose anything was possible. Lap dances would explain the unaccounted-for deficit of funds I had observed on the ATM screen’s disconcerting account balance display. While struggling to remember any extra pieces of that night I had not yet put together, I glanced at the beer list and noticed the absence of Guinness. Then I realized the reason.
Oh shit! Murphy’s Irish Stout!
I felt like an idiot. I had never heard of that one before! So that’s what Loraine was saying! Yeah, there are two different kinds of Irish stout. Maybe there were more! And she was simply notifying me that she didn’t have the Guinness one; she had Murphy’s Irish Stout variety. And then some people liked it better because it was either more bitter or less bitter than Guinness. I didn’t follow what she said exactly, like which one was which, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t tell the difference. My palate wasn’t that hyperactive. I was supposed to remember what the Guinness in New York tasted like a few days ago so that I could compare it to Murphy’s in Hawaii? Nah. Not my style. All I knew is that the Murphy’s was perfect at that exact moment.
After several pints of Murphy’s and a few shots of Stoli, the place started to fill in. I noticed even with extra customers, I never waited for a drink from Loraine. Not a once. She was an attentive bartender who was able to perfectly time the two-stage pour of an Irish stout so that she could place in front of me as I finished the last swig of the previous pint. Loraine did this unsolicited. She observed me and kept the pints coming.
Loraine was finishing the pour of one of those pints as an extremely attractive young woman walked up beside me to order. This was one of the first girls to come into The Hideaway that night, outnumbered roughly ten to one now. Loraine put the full pint down in front of me and took the girl’s order. Two Mai Tai’s. I finished the last swig of my other pint. The girl noticed the cascade inside the new full glass of Murphy’s while she awaited the preparation of her drinks.
“Oh wow! What is that?”
“Murphy’s Irish Stout. It’s like Guinness.”
“It’s like a little waterfall!
“Yeah, it’s settling. Something to do with nitrogen bubbles I think.”
“That’s so neat! And like wow, it becomes so dark when it falls down! Like, completely black!”
“Yeah, totally. If you hold it up to the light, none comes through the glass.”
“That’s crazy!”
I was elated that such a beautiful girl would voluntarily interact with me. All these guys at the bar, and she stood next to me? Did she somehow not notice that I was a short, pale red head who probably didn’t belong in a sunny paradise like this? Apparently not. This boded well for me. Loraine brought over the two Mai Tai’s and told her the total. The girl paid Loraine, left a tip, and turned back towards me.
“What does it taste like?”
“Here. Fresh pint. I haven’t had a sip yet.”
I slid the newly poured Murphy’s towards the pretty girl. She beamed and eagerly took a sip of my stout. Her face immediately puckered up like a prune.
“Uhhh! Disgusting!”
The girl grabbed her Mai Tai’s and walked off without saying anything else. Loraine cracked up.
“Well sugar, you certainly have a way with the ladies.”
“Yeah. She looked like a baby biting into a lemon.”
“First good laugh of the night! Thank you for that! Lord knows I needed it!”
Loraine walked off while still laughing. It appeared that she thought I did this on purpose—perhaps even for her amusement—and she wholeheartedly approved. I looked behind me to see the girl sitting at a high-top table against the wall with her boyfriend or date or whatever. That made sense. Why else would I purposefully repel a pretty lady? Clearly this was retaliation for being unavailable. Justice served.
But this was not true. I had actually thought she ordered the other drink for a lady friend. I had found the Mai Tai that Maya made for me earlier too sweet for my tastes, like a morning drink perhaps. What kind of guy drinks those at night? So to be honest, I had no ill intentions and was truly attempting to be friendly. I therefore concluded that the thoughts and actions which came to me naturally turned out to be utterly repulsive to women. I did not share these findings with Loraine.
Instead, I quietly contemplated what to do prior to offering a sip to the next attractive tourist who orders a sweet island drink and then asks me what Murphy’s tastes like. It seemed appropriate that should warn that it’s on the bitter side. Hopefully they’d still want to try it, but not think I’m a dick should it become another lemon-baby incident. That should work. Unfortunately, no other attractive young ladies walked into The Hideaway that night, at least as far as I remember. Which wouldn’t be too much for too long. I continued with the stouts and shots until I woke up on the beach.
I began to slowly process my situation as my senses came about. It was now the dawn of 1181, and I had slept outside, practically underneath that statue of Duke Kahanamoku. Clearly, I had tied another one on during my second night of boozing with Loraine behind the bar. Hopefully I didn’t do or say anything too stupid. That was one thought, but I wasn’t too alarmed. I had another thought. It caused sudden alarm and then equal amounts of relief when I discovered my wallet still in my pocket. I pulled it out after sitting up. No cash. Typical. I was very thirsty. Again, typical.
I stood up, brushed the inordinate amount of sand from my clothes, face and hair, and then made my way across Kalakaua Avenue. I needed to find an ABC and an ATM because I needed to get something to satiate my intense hangover thirst. Water would do, but I really craved something like a sports drink with electrolytes or actually maybe something sweeter. A Royal Mills perhaps. Thankfully Waikiki is a city on a beach. Everything I needed was directly across the street. Right there on the corner of Uluniu and Kalakaua Avenues, just down the block from where I had returned my Ninja.
Now sitting on a bench over on Kuhio Avenue with refreshing morning beverage in hand and waiting patiently for the bus to return me to Pearl, I realized something. Two nights had passed since I was on the plane coming over here, lost in my naive thoughts during the flight over the Pacific. While blasting Slayer in my headphones to relax me and dreaming quite optimistically of the new life which awaited me, I had a very different idea of what it would be like living in Hawaii.
There would be volcanos with active lava flows, secluded waterfalls to soak in, roasted pigs being served at a luau, coconuts and pineapples to drink booze out of, girls in grass skirts hula dancing and giving out leis. That’s what I had thought Hawaii would be like.
This, however, was a fictional paradise built up from watching too much television and too many movies. Real life was different. Real life in Honolulu involved walking the busy streets of a concrete city with traffic, buses, strip clubs, prostitutes, mobs of tourists, and worries about having enough money to be able to do the things television and movies promised. Yet this epiphany didn’t depress me.
No, at the bus stop, I still had the same giant shit eating grin which first formed inside the plane upon landing. Only now I had some real perspective to smile about. I thought it was rather remarkable that I could pass out drunk on a beach in November and not freeze to death or get robbed. Clearly, I had made the right choice on my dream sheet requesting to be detailed in Hawaii. Those brain damaged sailors were missing out.
This place truly is paradise!
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