Birthday in Hawaii, Part Deux

My birthday started out a whole lot like last year, woke up in tropical paradise and applauded myself for not being somewhere snowy.

And then I went off in search of Hula Pie. 

Hula Pie is an island tradition.  It’s a massive hunk (think 1/4^th of an actual pie) of macadamia nut ice cream with a cookie crust, mounds of whip cream, hot fudge and some sort of hard, chocolately malted top.   In a word: heaven.  And the best place to get one on Oahu is at Duke’s Waikiki.  So I head over there, order one for breakfast, wolf it down and then wonder why it is that my heart is racing at 9 in the morning.  Go figure.

Then I head off to buy myself the same present I bought myself last year on my birthday: string bikini.  It’s becoming something of a tradition and yes, I still feel like a total rebel buying one.  And keeping in tradition, I’m posting the pic (and please keep your comments to yourself, I just went house on enormous ice cream pie dessert.  Mahalo.)

As if it’s not awesome enough I’m spending my birthday somewhere tropical, the Super Bowl falls on my birthday this year.  Now this is 90% a good thing.  It’s only bad if the Saints don’t win.  But unless you live under a rock, you already know the Saints wiped the smug expression right off Manning’s face.

And I did my part too, to wipe some smug expressions off Colts fans faces.

I headed to Tiki’s, a rooftop bar with excellent TVs, drinks, and Superbowl food specials.  The problem was, the only really good seat available at the outside bar was right in the middle of a bunch of guys (and a few ladies) decked from head to sandal in Colts gear, most of them wearing Manning jerseys.  Now, do I sit down and watch the game in the vipers’ nest or do I take a seat far away from a TV?  I think we know how this goes.  I am no shrinking violet, so I made friends with Colts fan and pretended to be vaguely indifferent about the game.  In reality, I'm a bitter Patriots fan and I hate the Colts on principal alone. 

For the first two quarters, things were okay.  That was until this guy, I’m going to call him Drew.  Drew is one of those Guys Who Doesn’t Get It and I’m pretty sure he’s modeled himself and his wardrobe after “The Situation” from the Jersey Shore. At some point early on, he tells me the Colts are heavily favored and that the spread is 10 points, that’s a touch down and field goal, he adds helpfully.

Drew is full of crap.  The spread is 5. 

Here is a pic of Drew in a rare, quiet moment.  It's a Manning jersey.

Then Drew begins explaining the rules of football to me, starting with what a first down was, because I wasn’t cheering every time the Colts touched the ball.  I ignore him and order another beer, but he’s very persistent that I understand the rules of football and also that I know he played football in high school.  He also critiques every play, every coach’s call, every referee’s call, in addition to all of the commercials.  I make a game-changing decision: I’m going to have another Bud Light and then throw myself off the balcony at Tiki’s.  Into a firepit. 

During half time, I sneak over to the restaurant side of Tiki’s where I find a pair of old people, Tom and Wanda, who clearly want to adopt me.  They have great seats and they let me sit with them and their adult son, Kevin.  They are from Minnesota (which is a whole bag of football worms in itself), but they’re rooting for the Saints.  They have fun accents and tell me I remind them of one of their granddaughters.  So I’m good for a quarter with them. Aren't they cute?

I head back to the bar side of Tiki’s during the 4^th quarter and thoroughly enjoy myself as the Colts fans get more and more despondent.  This translates into alcohol-fueled belligerence and the introduction of silly string.  Question: who brings silly string to Hawaii and then to a super bowl party?  Apparently, Colts fans.  And for the record, these kids aren’t from Indianapolis.  They’re actually from Jersey, which makes it even worse they’re rooting for the Colts.  That and I hate silly string.  It’s unnatural.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to see the ultimate soul crushing moment because I have to leave the game two minutes early to make it on time to my big birthday present to myself: sunset cruise on the Na Hoku, but a certain someone is nice enough to text me the score (thanks again), so I know as I’m stepping on to the large Catamaran that the Colts have lost. 

Sorry, Drew.  Maybe next year. 

Also, because this is a booze cruise, Captain Mike, First Mate Miles, and Master of Ceremonies, Randy have checked my ID and now know it’s my birthday.  Randy gives me a huge hug. Here is a pic of Captain Mike and Randy.

We get on the boat and Miles gets the booze going immediately.  In ten minutes we’re all friends.  This is how it worked at Sam Adams.  Give people booze and they bond.  It’s just nature.  Don’t fight it.

Of the 25 people or so on the cruise, 15 of them are from Seattle, so I make friends fast.  Soon we’re all on a first name basis.  Everyone is friends on a booze cruise and people think its adorable I’m all by myself on a booze cruise and it’s my birthday.  And they start spilling drinks on me, that’s a sign of friendship for sure.  Or the fact that the boat is rocking something fierce.  Good thing I wore black.  They also let me on the secret that half of them are not wearing underwear (which is a little weird, these peeps are all in their mid to late thirties).  So I spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out who has gone commando.  The wind helps with this process as it lifts a few skirts.  This is a pic of the Seattle crew taken from A-Deck.  I tried to get their attention, but again, how do you get the attention of people who don't wear underwear?

Then there are the boys from Australia, who are adorable with their accents and pronounce my name “Jezz-ee-ka.”  They’re both surfers and they have shark stories to share (Snarky = smitten by shark tales of any kind).  They ask me if I know any good island hikes and I’m come off looking like solid gold because I’m able to describe three (and that’s all I got).  Thank goodness they didn’t ask for anymore suggestions.  I’ve just used up all my coolness.  

Let’s not forget the two pilots either, guys in their fifties, sucking down Coors Light and making the standard “be glad I’m not your pilot,” joke as they get drunk.  When one of them empties half a can on my sandals, I am sincerely glad they’re not my pilots.

Finally can’t leave out the quartet of cougars who shanghai the Aussies into a corner for awhile.  And one of them takes a body shot off Randy.  I’m just saying.  That’s an unforgettable sight, seared into memory. 

So once we’re out a little bit, Randy calls for everyone’s attention.  “There’s a birthday girl on board,” he explains.  “Let’s all sing happy birthday to her.”

Oooh!  That’s me!  (Okay, so at this point in the cruise, I didn't look this demure, but whatever.  I'm cute here as the birthday girl.  Deal with it). 

For the record, Happy Birthday sounds really good when you’re in the middle of the ocean holding a Mai Tai.

But Randy isn’t finished.  Afterwards he says, “that was just awful.  But don’t you worry, Captain Mike and I have composed something a little special for you.”

And then he busts out an ukele.  S**t just got real.

Randy and Mike serenade me with an absolutely hilarious rendition of “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz.  Everyone joins in on the chorus.  Okay, all snark aside for a moment:  I feel incredibly special, like a little drunken Mai Tai Princess.  Alcohol-fueled or not, everyone is being so nice to me on board and I’m 3000 miles from home and celebrating my birthday alone, and now, well now I don’t feel alone.  First I got adopted by cute old people in the bar and now I’m being serenaded on the high seas. It's enough to make you a little misty-eyed.

Snark back on.

Captain Mike calls for me to dance in the middle of the song.  I’m standing on A-Deck at this point (that’s the top of the boat where I come from, I’m sure it’s called something else) and since I’m an obliging kind of girl, I break into my best hippie dance imitation.  Arms twirling, spinning the black dress around (and yes, I’m wearing underwear.  Do I look like the kinda girl that channels Britney?).  It’s awful.  I move like a drunken walrus that’s been gored by a harpoon.  I cannot dance, and I know it.  But nobody notices or seems to care, everyone is singing along at the top of their lungs to “I’m Yours,” and this night now reigns in the top 3 of best birthdays ever.  And no, there are no pics of me dancing.  You all know what a drunken walrus that's been gored by a harpoon looks like.

But wait, there’s more.  As we sail out further we see giant mint colored sea turtles and in the distance, a whale breaching and not the mild mannered blow hole spouting stuff.  No, this whale is out of the water, shaking his tail for all he’s worth.  The sunset is brilliant and clear, the bright orange orb sinking so fast over the horizon that I can just get one click of the camera off before it’s gone.  And no, that has nothing to do with the Mai Tais I’ve been drinking. (You can see the whale just in front of the sailboat)

After the cruise,  the Seattle peeps decide to adopt me, even if I am wearing underwear, so we head off with the two Aussies in search of general debauch and drinks with umbrellas in them…

Another birthday for the books.