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"Trying to breathe
Hawaii's past
into the present:"
plate lunch stand
with an old
tuna fish can
for an ash tray.
grade school
photo with floral patterns
on shirts and dresses,
our brown faces, white teeth
above bare feet.
beer in the
back yard,
and an open guitar case,
someone's
aunty doing
Hula
in a tank top,
sexy,
and thick with good living.
picking
puka shells
at sandy beach
before the sun rise,
with sea turtles
floating just beyond
the shore
break.
buying lunches
from a truck at the beach,
packed in a card board box,
wrapped with
white string,
chop stick, napkin,
2 scoop rice,
macaroni salad
and teri beef.
picking sea weed
out
of our pubic hair
in the outdoor
fresh cold water shower
at makapu'u beach park.
seeing
Gabby Pahinui wild eye'd
and lost in a bar's parking lot at night,
after drinking at a koko marina bar,
trying to numb the loss
of a vanishing era of an innocent island,
Atta, Blah, Joe Gang, Sonny and Gabby's
mythical
waimanalo backyard, slack key,
guitar soul soothed the whole 1970's island.
coming down
off the ridge
into valleys along muddy trails,
strewn with broken open fallen guava,
pink and teaming with
fruit flies,
the moist forest along streams
feeding ginger blossoms,
walking down into the dryness
of
the flat land
of the valley mouth.
stealing mangos off the trees.
Picking watercress
from
the crawfish filled fresh water
spring fed flats of Beano's
Pearl Harbor farm,
eating it right there,
standing in the water.
spear fishing with Kaipo and John John
at Ka'a'ava,
them teaching me
how to lure a squid from it's hole,
find the fish in a lava bed,
reminding me to let the little ones go,
and to only spear the big fish,
... and only what you can eat.
Hanging with the men
as they buried
the kalua pig
wrapped in banana leaf,
encased in hot rocks
in the ground over night,
talking story until
dawn,
when we dug up
the delicious steaming meat.
Val Ching weaving hats
at Waikiki beach
for
tourists,
a retired fire fighter
now "beach boy",
his once hard body
and brown leather skin
now slightly soft
with the gentleness of middle age,
he, sleeping with my mother at night,
teaching me to "throw
net"
for fish in the day.
practicing in the park,
using tree leaves for pretend fish.
the whole
crow's nest bar room
all laughing to Kent Bowman
(aka "kk cow manua"),
drinking primo beer.
long gone
kailua drive in
and portlock pier.
plump frogs hopping across
the wet grass on
a rainy night,
before pesticides all but killed
them off.
snails on the sidewalk
in the dewy morning
on the way to school.
cock-a-roaches running for cover
when we'd switch the kitchen light on
in
the middle of the night.
the clicking of gheckos on the window sill.
the purr of island doves outside my bedroom
in the early morning.
the clatter of myna birds in the banyan trees
in the red streak of sunset.
a brown paper bag
filled with plumeria,
the needle and thread sticking to
our fingers from the flower's
milky sap,
as we made leis out on the lanai.
old Chinese man behind the counter
of a cracked seed store
with a tide chart on the wall,
huge glass jars filled with pickled plum.
Japanese lady grinding ice
into
shave ice cones after school.
the smell of resin and catalyst
soaked fiberglass in the garage,
as we
patched a surfboard.
my cat's rough tongue
licking the salt of evaporated ocean
off my skin
when
I got home from the beach.
Jerry lopez:
The soul surfer with the Buddha's hands,
who's bones
must have been
wrapped in a mystic's skin
to be that Zen like calm
above a bone crushing reef.
His
relation to the water
had nothing to do with profession.
It was spiritual and sensual.
He was devoted to
E'hukai beach
and something simple and eternal...
His woman must have had to make peace with the ocean.
(Who could stand in the way of such love?)
- or - (to share him with her like that).
the friggit birds circling
high above
the drooping still wind palm fronds
in a Kona weather calm
before a storm that could last days
or weeks,
full of wind thrashing,
white water wave capping,
while we searched the shore line
for big
green glass fish net balls
that broke lose and drifted all the way
from Japan.
an old Hawaiian man
floating way outside the line up
on a homemade wooden paipo board,
nobody drops in on him.
in the shore break
we all are bobbing in the ocean,
waiting like seals with our hair
slicked back by the salt water.
an incoming
set is
greeted with hoot's and hollers
from body surfers jockeying for position
with swimfins and mostly
friendly
young man aggression.
buying
fresh ahi poke' at foodland,
sand still on our feet,
no shirt, no slippers,
wet trunks.
no shoes, no shirt, no problem.
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