Ramblings

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In so many ways, this is my place, my home. I’ve been traveling to the north shore of Kauai for 40 years and spent my childhood summers there. It’s changed so much in the decades since, but the breathtaking landscape and wonderful locals remain. Thinking of those affected by Hurricane Lane this week. I remember when Hurricane Iniki hit Kauai in 1992. My family and I had been visiting shortly before the devastation of Iniki. Hoping Lane will take its lumbering self and veer far away from the Hawaiian Islands before more destruction occurs.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Hula

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She always wanted to learn hula, admired hips swinging, grass skirt swaying. Bare brown feet, toes kissing the earth, arms outstretched, calling out a narrative. As a spectator she pieced together a story told long ago, tethered to form and melody.

The girls wear magenta lipstick, long hair swept to the side with a plumeria, a hibiscus, an orchid for adornment. She longed to be made up too, tell a story with her movements, with her hands raised heavenward.

Ballet never appealed to her; such delicacies were not in her constitution. She did like tap dance, clipping the hard floor, reverberating sound. Tap, though, still possessed a harsh edge: a clank of form, of function. Not a gentle sway, like the hula, like this place: fluid, fragrant. Here she relaxes into her bones; the breeze, the rolling waves smooth and synchronous to her heartbeat, to her soul.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Fish

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My dad is a fisherman. For decades he wakes predawn, slurps his miso soup under the lone pendant light hanging above the kitchen table. My mom sews mesh pockets into his fishing vest, fashioned for easy portability of his catch as he climbs the steep hill back to our Hawaii home. He says he likes the quiet, the peace, the solitary sunrise. To the fish he is a hunter, to the ocean he is miniscule. He is a witness to simplicity, to grandeur, to the significance, the impermanence of it all.

He regales with stories of almost being swept away: a riptide, an irritated eel, an aggressive ulua he fights to reel in, almost to his own demise. He says if he has to go, this is the way he prefers: swallowed up by vastness, not dust to dust but water to water.

Mom waits for him on the beach, latest novel in hand in the grey dawning light. They leave just as the tourists saunter onto the sand with their bright towels, their sweating coolers, their rented snorkel masks and fins.

We run to him when he arrives home, rinses off his fishing gear and his salt water soaked tabi boots, a type of Japanese shoe with a split toe and rubber sole. He proudly displays his catch as he transitions to the galley kitchen, deftly cleans and fillets the fish, readying it for that day’s dinner.

He settles in the turquoise armchair to prepare his fishing pole and reel for the following day. His clothes dry in the afternoon sun as his lids lower for a siesta.

Most nights Dad pulls out the deep fryer, lowers the breaded morsels into the sizzling oil. We three kids wait impatiently at the kitchen table for him to place a large plate of freshly fried fish next to our bowls of calrose rice, of pickled daikon radish. We complain about having the same meal every night for six summer weeks on end.

Now I crave fish, expect it, miss it when we make a pilgrimage to the Aloha State. I never learned the skill, had the temperment, the patience, the passion for catching fish. Nearly 80, my dad still wakes before the sun, ventures out to commune with, to capture the sea life. My dad, he is a fisherman.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Pool

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2017

I hold her squirming, slippery toddler thighs, evasive like slick eels. She clomps her feet down, uneasy steps in the little pool, even with the extra buoyancy of the chlorinated water. She likes to open her mouth, like a great whale, letting the pool seep in, then out through her widely spaced teeth, two on top, two on bottom. She, surprisingly, exults in going under, seems to fall purposely: Oops! Silly me! Throwing her head back, eyes squeezed tight shut as she leads with her upturned chin, mouth open, nostrils flared, beckoning the water toward her until she is fully immersed, sinking, trusting that I’ll catch her, lift her upright to breathe clear air. As she emerges, a look of unadulterated glee followed by just the faintest hint of melancholy. A mermaid she wishes she could be.

1990

She is so thin and graceful, wearing an electric blue bikini, mousy hair. I’m surprised when she approaches me poolside. Overweight and awkward, I wear my pudginess like armor; it keeps me humble, it keeps me introverted. I long to be charming, liked. Don’t we all at this preteen age? (At every age.) I can’t believe it: friends with me? She’s inquisitive, chatty, polished. I feel more elegant just being near her. It is revealed eventually, this is the truth: I am just a means to her end, a conduit for connection to my tall, older brother. He has reached the golden age: past gangliness, past acne, post-braces. I’m in awe of him too. 

1983

I’m learning to swim in the side pool, previously a hot tub but converted to what we call “the baby pool.” A bridge of dark brown tiles, just an inch under the surface, divides the tiny pool from the larger. Like a stumpy appendage, a bleb of an outgrowth, the small pool protrudes. The older kids like to coast back and forth on their tummies, sliding like monk seals. I can barely touch the bottom, on my tippy toes I bounce along, suspended for just a moment, like a moonwalking astronaut. A perimeter ledge for seating, I leap from side to side arms outstretched with orange inflated “muscles,” skinny legs flailing behind me. Sometimes I sink under with the effort, sour liquid up my nostrils, eyes stinging from chlorine. I grab the a handhold of smooth tile, turn, and try again.

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Free Write Friday: Cliff

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Note: This week I’m trying something new with the free write – a prose poem incorporating synesthesia. I was inspired by a Till writing workshop I recently attended, presented by poet Jane Wong. As always, feel free to use the photo above as a prompt for your own free write. Consider joining me in experimenting with an unfamiliar format this week. 

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Crackling of palm tree, fronds brushing carmine in the breeze. Squawk and tweet of birdsong, just beyond ear’s reach, punctuating high above. The turquoise wash of crashing waves below, colliding onto ebony rocks stoic as the spray recoils, resorbed by the expanse. Memories of jumping off, sound muffled, then expanding beyond into the greater sea. I climb the cliff, handholds of familiar crevices. I swim into the current, decades of tracing the reef map a mind’s fingerprint of coral phalanges. Thick blades of grass underfoot infuse the yellow taste of papaya. Nenes swoop in, then saunter through air thick with humidity. Specks of snorkelers flap fins, return to lie beached, their skin leathered like dragon fruit. Cloud shadows caress the ridged mountains, marking them like a bruise, feeding them with rain. One drop, then two trickles. The sea turtles gulp the air then dive into dry sweetness. They disappear but I never saw them, only heard shells cracking from a memory decades old. Momentary waft of plumeria, ginger, coconut, lilikoi, banana leaves suspends in the air just long enough for it to roll on my tongue, breathe into my lungs, absorb through my skin leaving an imprint, marking me home. 

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Free Write Friday: Pier

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Tourists flock to the historic pier, smart phones in hand, they extend their arms to capture snapshots of pink faces with emerald mountains regal in the distance. They stroll down the concrete walkway, flip flops flapping, gazing side to side. 

Slender sailboats dot the bay, punctuating the azure waters. Vacationers cool down with a swim or awkwardly attempt use of a boogie board to ride a wave. Children kneel on the beach, legs caked with sunscreen, industriously patting at the wet sand to form castles with heaped towers and scooped moats. 

On the other side of the pier sunset catamarans embark where the river meets the bay. Crimson kayaks coast toward the ocean at the outlet, stand up paddleboarders glide along the shoreline. In the distance, pods of surfers catch wave breaks in the hazy early dawn light. 

A roof offers shade at the end of the pier. People linger at the edge, waiting to see if the local fisherman will make a catch. Teens taunt each other to jump off the blocky corner. Signs warn: “Shallow. No Diving.” But they’re not seen, or ignored. The clear waters allow visualization to the sandy depths from high above.

Eventually, the revelers will meander back. Maybe grab a carne asada or fish taco from the food truck for lunch. Sitting on the south side of the pier, a half moon of ridged mountains astound. The pier juts silently into the breathtaking panorama.

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