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Traveler & writer Paul
Tripp may be contacted on his email address.
Paul is keen to hear from you... okaycreativepaul@yahoo.com
OAHU DIARY 1
July 27, 2003
I'm flying in to
Oahu.
My mind races. It's been a perfectly smooth flight, physically, but
also emotionally. It was a quick
flight, too. The five hours took 15 minutes.
Nice Korean gal next to me says, "Oh No!" when I tell her I can see,
from my window seat, a Japanese Carrier Task Force "down there" on the
water.
Think my eyesight is off by 60 years or so.
Earlier, the stewardess asks me what I want to drink. "A chocolate milk
shake," I respond. She smiles, thinking, "Oh. I've got one of those
guys," answers,
"No chocolate milk shakes, here!" "Okay," I sigh,
"make it vanilla."
The Big Island appears on my left, not so big. The
only land for hours, however. Twenty minutes later,
Oahu pops up, clouded. Turquoise blotches dot its
shoreline, white breakers roll to shore.
We veer inland a little, pilot not sure this is the
place. We then cut eastward out to sea to line up for
the Honolulu Airport.
"This guy missed the place," I tell my wide-eyed
Korean companion. "Shall we punch the call button to get him
straightened out?"
"Now he's lost in the clouds," I moan. "What's the
name of this airline? ATA? No wonder!"
I walk through the terminal after a muggy traipse up
the gangplank thing.
Fresh air conditioning. Out two doors, into the
central part of the airport, open to the weather.
Muggy and hot. Welcome to tropical Hawaii, my braintells me.
Hungry, I stop and dig out the formerly-frozen chickencordon-bleu
loafette, bite, chew, swallow. Soft, where is the chicken? Mostly
cordon, I tell myself. If cordon is mushy. I eat two thirds,
impulsively toss the last third into a passing waste container.
"I can afford this," I tell myself.
Stop and eat the last aspartame-yogurt, mango peach. Warm mango peach.
Yumm.
Welcome to Hawaii, I murmur again. Down the escalator,
I spot Holly and Brigham, and Eliza. Through the glass doors. And
Brigham spots me, comes at full gallop. I swing him airwards, crush his
spine, he blurts,
"You're gonna sleep in my bunk bed, and I'm on top!"
Too old to climb up there myself, he figured. Some
things I can't deny.
An hour later I'm eying an 86 Jeep. Rust color,
crushed roofline. Tim-the-owner takes me for a spin. I drive. I turn
left at the first street, the Jeep keeps going straight. "This is a
sign," I tell myself. I
jerk it. We jerk around the corner.
"The steering is a little loose," Tim volunteers an
answer to my unasked question. The window plastic, zipped down, allows
me to dangle my arm over its edge.
I hope to breathe real Hawaiian air. Hot. Sticky. No
air conditioner.
Feet barely reach the pedals. The seat, fixed, no
movement there. It's all axiomatic for Tim, saddled
with this vicious vehicle the past two years. We're
headed into Honolulu for a mechanic inspection I told myself I needed.
I abruptly exit the freeway, tell Tim, "This is too
old, no need to look at it any more."
"Could you make an offer?" he begs, "I leave here next Wednesday."
"Yeah," I think.
"I'll take it off your hands for a hundred bucks. You
pay me."
But I don't say it. I'm too nice. Actually, I offer
him $1800, he declines.
My best loss of the day.
Next morning I fall in love with a Mazda Miata. White. Mag wheels. Good
rubber. Peppy. 32 miles a gallon, I hear.
Everything is perfect. I hear. Gotta have
transportation, I tell me. I cave in and pay Bob and
Peggy, or is it Boopsy, or Mopsy?, $3000.
I drive proudly to Kailua, or is it Kakakahaounah, or
is it Kamakama, or Kukulala?
It definitely starts with a K. It's over there on the
east coast of Oahu. World's greatest beach, Courtney tells me. Goes for
3 miles. Bikini babes, my dream, everywhere. It gets dark, and they're
still there.
The sand, powder; the breakers warm. I could lounge out there hours,
even in the dark.
Fall in love with Bob's--Hawaii has two Bobs--studio
apartment. $800.
Upstairs over a two-car garage. Clean, open, windows,rafters, hot
plate, flush toilet, shower, two sinks, one for the kitchen. Four
cupboards, new fridge,wicker table and four chairs. Vinyl floor. $600
for the place, I figure, $200 beach and bikini-babe fees. I fill out
his application form. Expect we will make adeal on-the-spot.
He defers, thinks I can't make it up the stairs with
that gut. He'll let me know Monday.
Will I have to keep looking? Bob, I'm still in love
with the joint. Actually, the beach. And bikini babes.
Copyright 2003 Paul L. Tripp |
A
Japanese Carrier Task
Force "down there"
on the water
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Now
he's lost in the clouds," I moan.
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Next
morning I fall in love with a Mazda Miata
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The
World’s Greatest Beach
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OAHU DIARY 2
August 4, 2003
Bob-The-Kailua-Landlord threw me over for a young couple. There's only
one reason: I was drunk. Bob could tell you. You know that rock out at
the end of his driveway? I cut the driveway short, ran over therock,
got hung up half way back on my Miata. Courtney and Bob lifted up on
the right rear of the Miata, and, presto!, I slid the rock out. "Put it
there to protectmy lawn sprinkler," Bob explained. Go figger. Bob musta
thought I was drunk cuz who sober would not see a 6 inch tall rock?
Still daylight.
I thought of telling Bob I was a Mormon Boy, never
drink. It was too late. Bob would mutter, "A drunk,"
then figger anew, "And now, a liar." Bob tells me next day what I
expected, "I offered the place to that
young couple that was here when you showed up. I'm sure they'll take
it. If they don't, I'll call you."
Not holdin' my breath.
Reminds me of the time in 1985 the baker came out ofhis back room, saw
me showing my TV GUIDE brochure to his young female clerk. He blurts,
"No salesmen allowed!" He knew I was hittin' on her, twisting with
jewelry pictures. There wouldn't be words or time to clear up what was
crystal-transparent in his mind.
Well, Bob doesn't call today. The young couple
snatched the place out from under me, all 'cuz Bob had me runnin' over
his rock drunk. Heartbroken, I'm runnin' round town in my Miata. In my
mind it's nice.
But it's so dang hot here, about 90 and 90% humidity.
It rained 88 inches Sunday morning, too. Makes me
wonder if I should forget the convertible stuff, sell
the Miata and get a Toyota Camry with air. Air? They
all have air, don't they? But, holdit. Courtney
volunteered its really not this hot and rainy here in
Hawaii. This is a fluke, he says. I say, "You did this
to
lure me here. Then you forced me to get the Miata convertible".
My mother warned me against convertibles. "Too hot in the summer," she
advised. Mom, how quick memory fades.
And here I am running around under a tropical sun,
baking to death. I look at my arms. They're peeling.
My scalp, through all my thick, wavy, luxuriant hair,
turns pink, touchy. My new $6.95 shirt, the one Sarah helped me choose
in St. George, about to fade.
Wouldn't you? I spent a lot of money to come out here. And, now, I
sweat and bake. It's not right.
Better get better. No. Can't say 'better' twice. My ma
says. Better get gooder. Uh-huh. Better get gooder.
I'm not complainin', you see, but the Miata itself
knows I just arrived. So, it shreds up its rubber boot
that goes 'round the console stick shift, called a
thermal boot. It lets in the hot air from the trans
and catalytic converter. The black plastic console,
next to my right leg, feels like 880 degrees, burns a
hole to the bone on my knob next to my kneecap. So I hadda take it
apart today.
Butch the neighbor-pilot wanders by and says, "Replace that boot and
the heat will disappear." Butch knows. He drives a Corvette. And now I
know it's the sun from above and my hot little Miata from beneath. And,
I cook till the new boot, from the "mainland," arrives Tuesday. But,
I'm ramblin', here.
Truth is I drove the 14 miles back from Kailua to
Pearl Harbor on the Pali Highway. Pali is Hawaiian for "cliff." Or, is
it clift? I lost my tongue looking at
the Nu'uanu Pali mountain range. It was an hour before sunset. Clouds
hung over jagged summits. Green slopes so steep you'd fall to the
bottom if you were up there and slipped. Wet, dark-and-light greens,
trees hang on the rocks, grasses and bushes cling to the slim earth
crust. Rain water, ever present, cascades uncontrolled.
My eyes can't get enough. Everything is new.
Different. Never before had I seen this earthly
arrangement.
Vertical canyons, I'm stunned as I write.
Stunned when I first saw it. Behind, I look down
eastward to see Kaneohe Bay, then the distant Pacific. Calm, emerald
here, aqua there, yellow sands beneath. Distant, sapphire. Underneath,
I know a million fish and sea things wiggle, swish, meander, munch.
Hawaii lives.
Oahu beams.
Shouts to me. "Here. Over here. There! Over there!"
my eyes can't take it all in.
Copyright 2003 Paul L. Tripp |
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“Clouds
hung over jagged summits.”
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‘My
mother warned me against . . .’
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