She was named the “First Lady ofWaikiki,” this white-washed plantation resort. In a city towering with cementsky rises and multi-level stucco hotels, the Moana Surfrider is a testament tothe spirit of old Hawaii. Along the wrap-around porch, rocking chairs sway inthe ocean breeze moaning under the weight of the occasional occupant. LargeGrecian pillars support th e creaking Victorian structure adding grandeur to heralready beautiful face.
Whenyou walk through these pillared archways you are brought back to an age ofclass and sophistication. Atop the hardwood floors sprawl colorful rugs withtraditional Hawaiian flowers: hibiscus, birds of paradise and plumeria. Oldwicker couches rest beneath crystal chandeliers that tinkle like wind chimes.There is really no separation between this majestic building and the elementsbeyond. It seems as if they are one, the salt that clings to the couch cushionsas it does the sapphire waves, and even the occasional seabird attempts a hotelvisit. The fizzle of the sea hypnotizes you, drawing you ever closer to therushing depths. The sand, sparking under the glazed sun, burns your feet butyou bask in it. You enjoy that tingle as you sink lower, lower until youhit--sweet relief!--the cool sand that is below those scorching layers. Largeumbrellas and crinkled towels litter the beach. Some have occupants, while othershave piles of sand, the remnants left behind by the owner.
Neonyellow, pink and green bob along the crystalline surface of the ocean, thesefloating beds lulling their human cargo into a deep sleep. If you venture intothe warm water you can find all sorts of marine life hidden within the coral.There are orange tiger-striped fish or a cloudy specter of a fish attempting tocamouflage itself. Some are shy, flitting away into the farther reaches of theabyss, while others are curious, nibbling at your toes if you aren’t careful.
Inthe high afternoon, when the sun has reached its hiatus, heat suppresses youlike manacles, pushing you down, down into the compressed earth. Many rush tothe century-old Banyon tree, whose branches open wide, beckoning you to embracethe shadowed coolness it provides. There is a tiny bar that circles its thickroots, serving Lava Flows and Sex on the Beaches. Every once and while you heara surprised shriek and the resounding crunch of another cockroach lost inbattle. Even paradise cannot escape the beetley militia. And the music, whichseems to bubble from the heart of the island like molten lava, is carried asthick as the humidity—the binging of the metal drums beat out Hawaii’s story.Someone on the resort is getting married, their ivory dresses clinging to theirsweat-dappled backs. A new history is being made at this ancient island.Diamondhead, which reigns over this little world like the great gods ofHawaiian folklore, looms over the little beach, observing. It has witnessed theformation of the island and will no doubt see its sandy shores sink into thewarm ocean, becoming part of the core of the earth once more.
* * * *
Thisis where I have spent quite a few summers. My family of twelve pack up ourbelongings and leave our lives behind. Much of my childhood memories are atthis beach: the time when I was walking along the coast and I stepped on abee’s carcass, its stinger plunging deep into the softness of the soles of myfeet. It is the place where I spent hours in the sun as a little girl, mygray-haired grandfather treading water as I dive into the ocean and emerging asdark as the fur on a coconut. It is the last vacation I took with mygreat-grandparents before they passed away.
Thingshave changed now that we have gotten older. Significant others have joined thechaos, diluting this sacred family time. We no longer stay in a big group: someof us lounge on the beach while others walk the strip or seek bargains at themarket across from the hotel.
Thissummer will probably be the last time we all go to Hawaii or even go on afamily vacation together. We have all gotten older, disrupted by life’sdelicate balance. Time is our enemy now and even on the powdered shores ofHonolulu, we cannot escape it.
Allthe grandkids have moved on with their lives: Tiffany and I will be finishedwith college and dragged into the violent ebb and flow of the workforce. AndRebecca and Sarah are just beginning their college journeys far away from home.Soon we will be too busy to pick up and leave our lives behind to enter thetropical oasis of the Moana Surfrider. Too busy to spend a week to catch upwith family and learn the secret identities of grandparents whose stories onlybegin at our own memories. Ultimately, we will be too busy for the family thathas been the backbone of our young lives and the platform for our future.
Weare all getting older and the burdens are heavy. My grandparents, who I havealways seen as spry at their age, are slowing down. My grandfather, who spentall those hours with me in the ocean, looks perpetually exhausted. Age spotshave colonized the rough skin of his hands and surround the swell of his blueveins. He sometimes has trouble recalling my name as if it were swimming in hismemory but just out of reach. The doctors say he is so tired because of thechemotherapy, the treatment sucking the energy right out of him. But when Irecall our times in Hawaii, I remember his furry chest, his soft chuckle, andthe way his long-forgotten Boston accent tends to slip into conversation.
Mygrandmother too is slowing down. Her shoulders have slowly begun to sink andher back has started to hunch. At one time, she would run across the island,wreaking havoc on every jeweler on the island. Now, her pace has slowed to adignified hobble and she spends more time in the recliner gazing out at theocean through those intelligent hazel eyes, the eyes I see in my ownreflection. The eyes that will always remind me of her.
Mygrandparents say that we are all getting too old and have too many obligationsto go on family vacations anymore. They say we will soon be married with ourown families and it will be too hard to get everyone on the same page with avacation. But what they do not realize is that as I have gotten older, I havecome to cherish these times with my family. There are days when I cannot standto be around my mother, or when I want to murder my cousin. But on these familyvacations, where work and outside relationships no longer compete for my attention,I am able to enjoy the company of my family. My father is no longer stressedout about the stagnant economy and his failing company—our livelihood. My uncleis no longer worried about what my trouble-maker cousin is getting into. I cansit back and enjoy the stories my grandparents tell about my dad and uncle ormy great-grandparents—some are frequent repetitions, others are new. But theyall trace our ever-evolving family, stamping our souls with the identity giftedby history.
Itis the only time when I have been truly happy—and the only time I have seen myfamily content with life. The glue that has kept this family together is slowlymelting beneath the blistering sun. I try to embrace this last experience ofparadise before I am thrust into adulthood—a world of work and obligations. Butall I can see is the memories that will be lost when these vacations cease.
“TheFirst Lady of Waikiki” has remained on the same beach for over one hundredyears. She is stalwart and resolved. She cannot be washed away by the ragingocean or the changing tides. I wonder at the next time I will see her. Will Ibe with my own little family? Will my grandparents be alive to enjoy this nextexcursion? When I turn my back on this little plantation hotel that houses mymemories, I wonder if there will ever be more memories to make within its solidwalls.
Whenyou walk through these pillared archways you are brought back to an age ofclass and sophistication. Atop the hardwood floors sprawl colorful rugs withtraditional Hawaiian flowers: hibiscus, birds of paradise and plumeria. Oldwicker couches rest beneath crystal chandeliers that tinkle like wind chimes.There is really no separation between this majestic building and the elementsbeyond. It seems as if they are one, the salt that clings to the couch cushionsas it does the sapphire waves, and even the occasional seabird attempts a hotelvisit. The fizzle of the sea hypnotizes you, drawing you ever closer to therushing depths. The sand, sparking under the glazed sun, burns your feet butyou bask in it. You enjoy that tingle as you sink lower, lower until youhit--sweet relief!--the cool sand that is below those scorching layers. Largeumbrellas and crinkled towels litter the beach. Some have occupants, while othershave piles of sand, the remnants left behind by the owner.
Neonyellow, pink and green bob along the crystalline surface of the ocean, thesefloating beds lulling their human cargo into a deep sleep. If you venture intothe warm water you can find all sorts of marine life hidden within the coral.There are orange tiger-striped fish or a cloudy specter of a fish attempting tocamouflage itself. Some are shy, flitting away into the farther reaches of theabyss, while others are curious, nibbling at your toes if you aren’t careful.
Inthe high afternoon, when the sun has reached its hiatus, heat suppresses youlike manacles, pushing you down, down into the compressed earth. Many rush tothe century-old Banyon tree, whose branches open wide, beckoning you to embracethe shadowed coolness it provides. There is a tiny bar that circles its thickroots, serving Lava Flows and Sex on the Beaches. Every once and while you heara surprised shriek and the resounding crunch of another cockroach lost inbattle. Even paradise cannot escape the beetley militia. And the music, whichseems to bubble from the heart of the island like molten lava, is carried asthick as the humidity—the binging of the metal drums beat out Hawaii’s story.Someone on the resort is getting married, their ivory dresses clinging to theirsweat-dappled backs. A new history is being made at this ancient island.Diamondhead, which reigns over this little world like the great gods ofHawaiian folklore, looms over the little beach, observing. It has witnessed theformation of the island and will no doubt see its sandy shores sink into thewarm ocean, becoming part of the core of the earth once more.
* * * *
Thisis where I have spent quite a few summers. My family of twelve pack up ourbelongings and leave our lives behind. Much of my childhood memories are atthis beach: the time when I was walking along the coast and I stepped on abee’s carcass, its stinger plunging deep into the softness of the soles of myfeet. It is the place where I spent hours in the sun as a little girl, mygray-haired grandfather treading water as I dive into the ocean and emerging asdark as the fur on a coconut. It is the last vacation I took with mygreat-grandparents before they passed away.
Thingshave changed now that we have gotten older. Significant others have joined thechaos, diluting this sacred family time. We no longer stay in a big group: someof us lounge on the beach while others walk the strip or seek bargains at themarket across from the hotel.
Thissummer will probably be the last time we all go to Hawaii or even go on afamily vacation together. We have all gotten older, disrupted by life’sdelicate balance. Time is our enemy now and even on the powdered shores ofHonolulu, we cannot escape it.
Allthe grandkids have moved on with their lives: Tiffany and I will be finishedwith college and dragged into the violent ebb and flow of the workforce. AndRebecca and Sarah are just beginning their college journeys far away from home.Soon we will be too busy to pick up and leave our lives behind to enter thetropical oasis of the Moana Surfrider. Too busy to spend a week to catch upwith family and learn the secret identities of grandparents whose stories onlybegin at our own memories. Ultimately, we will be too busy for the family thathas been the backbone of our young lives and the platform for our future.
Weare all getting older and the burdens are heavy. My grandparents, who I havealways seen as spry at their age, are slowing down. My grandfather, who spentall those hours with me in the ocean, looks perpetually exhausted. Age spotshave colonized the rough skin of his hands and surround the swell of his blueveins. He sometimes has trouble recalling my name as if it were swimming in hismemory but just out of reach. The doctors say he is so tired because of thechemotherapy, the treatment sucking the energy right out of him. But when Irecall our times in Hawaii, I remember his furry chest, his soft chuckle, andthe way his long-forgotten Boston accent tends to slip into conversation.
Mygrandmother too is slowing down. Her shoulders have slowly begun to sink andher back has started to hunch. At one time, she would run across the island,wreaking havoc on every jeweler on the island. Now, her pace has slowed to adignified hobble and she spends more time in the recliner gazing out at theocean through those intelligent hazel eyes, the eyes I see in my ownreflection. The eyes that will always remind me of her.
Mygrandparents say that we are all getting too old and have too many obligationsto go on family vacations anymore. They say we will soon be married with ourown families and it will be too hard to get everyone on the same page with avacation. But what they do not realize is that as I have gotten older, I havecome to cherish these times with my family. There are days when I cannot standto be around my mother, or when I want to murder my cousin. But on these familyvacations, where work and outside relationships no longer compete for my attention,I am able to enjoy the company of my family. My father is no longer stressedout about the stagnant economy and his failing company—our livelihood. My uncleis no longer worried about what my trouble-maker cousin is getting into. I cansit back and enjoy the stories my grandparents tell about my dad and uncle ormy great-grandparents—some are frequent repetitions, others are new. But theyall trace our ever-evolving family, stamping our souls with the identity giftedby history.
Itis the only time when I have been truly happy—and the only time I have seen myfamily content with life. The glue that has kept this family together is slowlymelting beneath the blistering sun. I try to embrace this last experience ofparadise before I am thrust into adulthood—a world of work and obligations. Butall I can see is the memories that will be lost when these vacations cease.
“TheFirst Lady of Waikiki” has remained on the same beach for over one hundredyears. She is stalwart and resolved. She cannot be washed away by the ragingocean or the changing tides. I wonder at the next time I will see her. Will Ibe with my own little family? Will my grandparents be alive to enjoy this nextexcursion? When I turn my back on this little plantation hotel that houses mymemories, I wonder if there will ever be more memories to make within its solidwalls.
