Aloha and Mahalo

A Worthy Journey

As we boarded the plane from Boston to Seattle to meet our son and fly the extra five hours to Hawaii, I hoped there would be more joy on Maui than there was in the journey. I kept my doubts to myself, but the complainer in me was hanging in the dugout, ready to take a swing.

Covid scuttled our first attempt to get to Hawaii for my brother-in-law’s destination wedding. A scant handful of years later, we’d be joining their most adorable, growing family, including not only a toddler and an infant, but his wife’s parents as well!

Also, I was looking forward to the opportunity to see my uncle and aunt for the first time in a while on their home turf. It was long overdue. Plus, I was interested to see for myself if Hawaii was more than a Caribbean of the Pacific with culture (pronounced culcha, in my native Brooklyn).

The fiftieth state did not disappoint. Not in landscape and not in the company kept.

My son came for the first few days. I only sometimes felt the urge to tell him what to do and how to interpret the world, but it was half hearted. I’d said it all before, and by now would take much of it back. Any time spent with him is too precious to be wasted with platitudes I likely wouldn’t follow myself. Also, he’s doing really well.

Did I mention the babies? My latest niece and nephew? Among things happily crossed off my bucket list is singing Let it Go at the top of my lungs with my gorgeous, nearly three-year-old niece outside, and whisper yelling it to each other inside. Let it Go. Everywhere she goes she carries a purse and her stuffed Tigger. I come from a long line of rebels who encourage a good show. I take it as an imperative to pass such irreverence onto the next generation, but I don’t think this one needs me.

I’d never seen my aunt and uncle’s storied house that is family legend, and I was nervous about going. He was very close to my father. They spoke everyday when he was alive. But my dad’s been gone over 20 years. I was reluctant to reach out, but shot off an email to see if they’d be in town.

My uncle’s response came quickly. “We’d come back if we had to. We’ve been waiting years.” I’m not sure why that welcome got me, but it did.

“Stay with us,” he implored. And it was a good offer, but we were on the beach with the babies. My brother and sister-in-law had arranged for everything so thoughtfully.

The timeshare apartments were close to the water with a sliver of beach that made me sand erosion worry for the building five years out. In the mornings, the water was so clear on the beach I watched turtles riding gentle waves from the terrace. The Pacific I’d never seen live up to its name, calmly undulated in the clear light. My meditation practice fell to studying breaks in that calm. It was spectacular.

We drove up the hill (I think. Maui seemed like it was all uphill) to my side of the family with our son for a lovely meal. We sat with wine. They told me they read my blog, this blog, the Kate Chronicles every week.

“What are you doing with it? A book. Take the next step!”

 It was validation I hadn’t known I’d been waiting for, and it is a special gift to hear it from people who knew my father’s writing as well, and judge me worthy. So yeah, that’s a big highlight.

Hawaii feels like a fairyland of hibiscus and butterflies, overgrown vines and prehistoric lava flows cooled like the dark side of the moon. The ever present tradewinds have sculpted trees, impossibly bending along shorelines.

In the magic morning light, a seal or a turtle basked on the beach in the sun and everyone cared enough to offer them a wide berth. The aquamarine colored water was offset by a different colored sea creature—animal or human. My brother-in-law’s father-in-law swore there were whales everywhere to be seen. He pointed to puffs from blow holes, roiling waters in a tiny corner of calm. He brought out binoculars and took pictures, but I didn’t see anything. Who needs a whale when you catch sight of turtles rollicking in a threesome? 

On the second day, a couple of doves hopped onto the terrace while I was meditating. I got them a small piece of bread. They came back every morning, flying in and out of short stay windows along the beach. My husband hopped on board and googled, finding out that bread is awful to feed birds. They feel full but it offers no nutritional value. He switched it out for seed and kept them well supplied all week.

Then there is this. The great hating of myself in a bathing suit is over! That’s ovah, in my native Brooklyn. I’m heavier than I’ve been in years and happily waddled my fat ass right into the water. As I scrambled over rocks everyone was having a hard time with, I was worried about my footing and didn’t think about the cellulite until just now.

Is it menopause? Senility? Insanity? I have cried myself onto every beach I’ve ever seen, detesting that bathing suit fun was for thinner people. And now? I’m happy to lie down and bask with the seals. What a gift to be relieved of the self centered responsibility of perfection.

I went snorkeling with my son who quickly swam off on his own, farther than I was comfortable with, even if I hadn’t been in water so buoyant since the Dead Sea. Instead of panicking over it, I let his adult, world traveled self, be. This felt like a huge parenting milestone. 

I pushed aside the automatic, imaginary doom scroll of man eating fish in my mind, and trusted the universe. I caught a glimpse of a school of silver gilled smoothness passing by me as if we were headed in the same direction on the very same road. Breathtaking, even with the snorkel.

The food rivals anything I’ve eaten. In fact, I’d say it hit the top three. Portugal, Mexico City and now Maui. A true and genuine poke bowl is a work of culinary perfection, the eggs are a shining yellow and the produce divine. And that’s just the gas stations rest stops!

We drove by the burnt out hull of Lahaina but were respectful enough not to try and get inside where they’ve walled it off. They are grateful for tourists but very much still reeling. One night we saw a sign on the door to a restaurant that requested not to be asked about the fire. I am very sorry for all that loss.

At my brother-in-law’s insistence, my husband and I drove the twisted road to Hana—a mountain bending, all day affair. My tech savvy, talented sister-in-law suggested a narrated, gps guided tour instructing us where to stop, and how long the detours would take. This way of touring was new to me and I’m looking forward to trying it again. Apparently they have one in Maine. It was also one of the few trips my husband and I took together, ourselves. My son had to get back to work. There were no uncles to see, or friends. Aimless wandering I think you’d call it. And it was very nice. 

We stopped at gorgeous, prehistoric volcanic beaches and meandered through overgrown storybook forests. Not as many as I’d like, but who’s complaining? Besides me, I mean. Not too much, though. He stopped when I made him.

We even managed to get to Pearl Harbor. It was a powerful reminder of what people are willing to sacrifice when attacked, and how grateful we remain as a nation because of it. That’s still a thing, right?

The adventure over, I braced myself for the long flight home and the soon to be swollen ankles, and the asshole in front with his seat in my husband’s lap. The ten hour flight and two hour drive home bled to three days of abject jet lag, but already I’m thinking I might agree to a return. The breeze was warm, the air salty and mai tais, perfect. Uh oh. I can see this trek comes with amnesia that calls back to me, the way childbirth did for the second round.

A thousand mahalos, Maui and my Ohana there—those I haven’t seen and those I’ve yet to know. We might just meet again.