I opened my eyes to behold the soft and slow march of waves on Waikiki Beach. Behind me, downtown Honolulu rose up out of the sand while I shook the granules from my hair. The Saturday night beach party ended on an unsupervised area of surf moments before dawn. While weaving through the lazy Sunday traffic on my way home, I received a text message.
'Hey haole boy, you finally ready for some grinds'?
My semester at the University of Hawaii was often caught in contradictions, governed by premeditated spontaneity. The entire island slowed down as people fought a current of tropical apathy'but when things did happen, they happened quickly.
Kory, a teammate on our Oahu soccer club, knew I was returning to Wisconsin in the fall and had chosen this morning to treat me to his favorite Hawaiian cuisine.
Kory's grandparents were Japanese laborers who immigrated to Hilo for jobs in the cotton fields. According to him, I was 'haole', a white person or foreigner. The term's meaning is contextual: it is either a benign racial distinction or, when said in anger, a slur.
I greeted Kory's discolored truck'a Flinstonian relic with multiple portions of flooring absent'outside my apartment and we made our way to Yama's Fish Market, crossing the Ala Wai Canal with the mountains of the Manoa Valley looming in the distance.
The perfumed scent of pineapple juice that had floated from vendors' carts vanished when we entered the warehouse; a newly disembodied mahi mahi stared back at me, still moist and more ripened then its freshly squeezed fruit compatriots. To my right, a comically impish Chinese woman, several inches south of five feet tall, was purchasing three pounds of tako poke, a delicacy of which the ingredients include chunks of octopus and strips of seaweed. I learned this dish was a Hawaiian 'pupu,' or hors d'oeuvre, and felt it looked as appetizing as its name suggested. Kory ordered the lau lau chicken while I settled on the kalua pig.
After our excellent meal, Kory and I drove to Kapalono Park for soccer practice.
The green field straddled a plateau in the residential neighborhood of Kaimuki. From our perspective, the crest of Diamond Head extended over the sea like the plank of a pirate ship. Hawaii Kai, home to Orange County refugees and prosperous natives, was visible beyond the crater. There is something very magical about lacing up cleats in February without risking frostbite.
Adam Sandler's '50 First Dates' was playing in theaters that night, so we carpooled to the 7 p.m. showing. The guys seemed to appreciate the movie's portrayal of their local scenery, though none of the full-blooded Hawaiians in the audience laughed at Ron Schneider's portrayal of an ignorant Polynesian (not that most whites ever find him amusing). At one point, a very large Samoan sitting behind me muttered something about 'killing that haole bastard.'
I watched the rest of the film from underneath my chair.
We exchanged our goodnights following the movie and I caught a ride back to Waikiki in Kory's pickup. Since there was no room in the cab, I was banished to the vehicle bed while we sped along on the H1, Hawaii's inappropriately named 'interstate' highway. With the muggy evening air washing over me, I arched my head to watch the stars hanging above me drop the curtain on my perfect day.
