Off of Kaneohe, beside the Marine base peninsula, and in the middle of the ocean, there is a submerged island of sand. Barely under the water, sometimes just an ankle deep, and surrounded by the dark blue that marks the open channels. Years and years ago this shield volcano grow, higher and higher, until one day when it’s entire side fell, crumbling and crunching, into the ocean, leaving us with this, this place to walk on, what used to be part of that mountain of fire.
Today we are here, mainlanders who are slowly being molded into Hawaiians. As the weeks have gone by, we start buying poke for dinner, we keep up with the latest surf forecasts and we come to the water on a Saturday morning even when it is 75 and cloudy, colder than we are now used to. We come because there is no where else to go, and nowhere else we want to go.
So we take the boats out, past Coconut Island, used as the setting for Gilligan’s Island, away from the low military base and its uniform concrete buildings, and across from my local Kaneohe, and we can see two wide ribbons of rain coming down from the mountains. On the water, farther out from the mountains, it is just cloudy, with a wide sweeping view of the remaining sides of the volcano.
Once on the sandbar, the kids ask constantly to go out in the water, and then cry when it is too cold for them. A boat with 15 Marines anchors next to us, and they jump out with footballs and drinks, pretending to ignore the cold splashes.
In our boat, no one but a stray toddler has been in the water, as the older adults choose wisdom and warmth. In fact soon everyone from all the boats is back aboard, wrapped in towels with a drink in their hand. The lucky ones wrap their hands around warm coffee.
Instead of swimming, we watch the ribbons of rain moving along the crowded coast, the surprisingly high waves in such a shallow area, and the distant coin shaped island with one palm tree that no one tries to walk to yet.
We hold crying babies who do not know why they are here instead of their cribs for naps, and coddle grumpy toddlers with snacks instead of swimming. And we talk about work, about our families, about our children, about Hawaii, about how a cold and slightly damp day here is better than most other days and most other places, because it has come to that, after spending our days and hours and minutes here.
After a couple hours, the sun finally peeks out, enlivening the waves’ million diamond reflections on the white sand bottom. Three Marines find a honu and snorkel off with it, pretending for a while that they can keep up. In its hundred or so year life, it has granted them a few slow moments of companionship.
We take off the paddle board, now that we can paddle with a little sunshine on our shoulders, and take turns going out, first to the dark, deep water, next over the shallow white water, towards the little unreached island.
This, surrounded by mountains and water and friends, is what our Hawaii has been. Not exclusively, for here also we have had depression and babies, family problems and broken cars.
But when we come back, I discover I have gotten a sunburn, that among the clouds and cold winds somehow a bit of warmth has seeped into my skin, for a few days marking this day of floating and sand, of mountains and conversation. Somehow living here, living anywhere, doing your daily things, you become the person that your place would have chosen. Until even on the cold days, Hawaii lingers.
Comments