Day 3
Bittersweet was the experience in being driven from bed the following morning.
Something was cooking, and I’d say that unless you are in a country where the
people have no plumbing, but a healthy fear of rhinoceros, around…85% of the
time, that is a good sign. The bitter was that I was…being driven from bed.
Luckily, for myself, and for everyone else, breakfast lived up to expectations.
Crisis averted! It took approximately 3 clothes changes for all of the
occupants of our increasingly sitcomesque condo to decide what we were
going to do. I was told I would not be allowed to wear a sundress in any event.
Nazis.
We were in Hawaii, so you wouldn’t think that any given change of
clothes would differ fundamentally from any other, but I proved that theory
dead wrong. In any case, swimming trunks (which I had not forgotten)
firmly ensconced upon my pasty white keester, I was ready for the beach proper.
Hanalei Bay was a figurative stone’s throw away. However, we discovered that
just getting there was only half the journey. The other half involved
partially serious threats of personal violence against the other people in the
parking lot. Had it been anywhere other than Kauai, there would have been a
blood bath. All things considered, everyone was all too willing to forgive the
imagined slights. We eventually found a parking spot, and when we finally
emerged from the confines of the vehicle, harrowed, and unaccustomed to the
steadiness of dry land, we were confronted with a rather drab and unappealing
sight.
From the parking lot, it
looked just like any other beach. Muddy dirt parking lot, ugly outbuildings,
and a partially enclosed pavilion, filled with ukulele-playing, dope-smoking
vagrants. Vagrant may not be the right word. They looked to goodness as though
they had taken up permanent residence. Perhaps they were even recognized as
homeowners at this stage. It was only once my eyes were torn away from that
spectacle, that I was able to see the true grandeur of the ocean. Perhaps it
can be chalked up to the fact that I hail from the desert, but that view was
particularly spectacular. Floods had recently ravaged the island, and as
a result the beach was strewn with drift wood; some of the beach’s denizens had
even built a surprisingly imposing hut out of the flotsam.
True to form, the beach was a
veritable rogue’s gallery. People of nearly every conceivable walk of life were
represented. Of course, there was a disproportionate sample of people who’s
vocabulary was limited to variations on the word “dude!”, but that was
certainly to be expected. Even if I still don’t fully understand them, I have a
new sense of appreciation for these grown-up children. Playing in the waves
appealed, in some rather distressing ways, to my base nature. I didn’t want to
leave, and I had to repress the constant urge to say things like dude, righteous,
and, it’s cool, bra. You know those stereotypes about people who
basically live at the beach? They’re all true.
One fellow specifically comes to mind.
Feet spread wide apart, knees bent, poised next to a
prostrate surfboard in the sand, his shock of curly, bleach-blond hair rippling
over his shoulders. Whoa...sorry. Creeped myself out there...At any
rate, think: literally everything I had ever heard about, or seen at a beach,
distilled into a single figure. I call him Brodie, zen-master of the beach
and its waves. He wanders the sands in search of those ripe for his
instruction in the ways of the surf. I listened from afar, but alas, my
mind was not receptive to his lessons. Either that, or I’m about as coordinated
as your average tourist. You know what? I’m going with the latter. I attempted
to body surf, both A Capella, and on a body board, but I ended up
looking and feeling like a beached whale who had just had far more than his
fill of tiny crustaceans. That description is sadly not far from the truth. It
was fun in spite of itself, though.
As you might expect from someone who looked like a snowman who’s
made out of skin, the sun promptly inflicted upon me a reminder that I was
where I did not belong. This impelled me to, as soon as we had left the beach,
advocate a stop at the “local” Wal-Mart, to shop for a surf shirt. It took some
doing, but the combined efforts of our entire troupe paid off. Shortly after
this success, we were unceremoniously ushered out of Wal-Mart by Lead Quail,
who, it would seem, did not wish to be seen in such a place. I can’t say I
blame her; the selection of laptop power supplies was dismal. We went shopping
somewhere far more touristy instead.
The strip-mall I found myself blinking at almost audibly screamed
“Hey! Tourists! We have stuff the people you left behind would love!” It
could also be accurately described as “catnip for wayfarers.” As such, my Dad
and I had a rather ungracious good time, watching people scramble after things
they thought they desperately needed. Many of these people looked, and smelled
as though they had been preparing for a month in the African bush. You could
almost taste the sunscreen. Adjacent to this trap, was one of the oddest
restaurants I had ever seen.
The entire building was an optical illusion. We had chosen this
particular eatery, based simply on the fact that it advertised something called
hula pie, which we had heard about on the radio. Delusions to the contrary
aside, our collective willpower was negligible. We entered through the front
door, expecting to be inside, but instead found ourselves back outside.
The initial shock was largely absorbed by the smell of savory fish-flesh,
searing on a hot slab of metal somewhere nearby. I think something to that
effect was what I wound up ordering. I wasn’t unhappy I did. The Hula Pie ended up
being little more than ice cream cake. Delicious, delicious ice cream cake. We
spent the remainder of the evening swapping vaguely remembered stories about
each other that we, for the most part, already knew. And no, no one had had anything to
drink yet, as far as I know. I have inconclusive memories of stumbling out to
the car after dinner, then stumbling out of the car, and into the house about
an hour later. I hope nothing important happened...
