Of Pineapples and Rip Tides

In honor of all you East Coasters buried in snow (and by buried, I mean, no snow whatsoever in Boston), who continuously remind me how much you despise me for being in Hawaii, I decided to spend your big snow day eating pineapple and chilling at one of Hawaii’s most famous beaches. Snark, snark.

It was not my first time at the Dole Pineapple Plantation. For those of you who’ve read my blog posts from last year, you all know my feelings on mazes. There’s something deeply creepy, a little Victorian gothic, about winding your way through one and at nearly 2.5 miles, the Dole Pineapple Plantation lays claim to the largest outdoor maze. And while it is constructed from local flora like hibiscus plants and such, it is not constructed from pineapples, because pineapples are freaking sharp.

Did I say local flora? Oh, I did. Well this time I visited the Plantation, I decided to do some of the educational stuff. So against my better judgment, I bought a ticket for the Pineapple Express (insert stoner jokes here). The gaily colored little train takes tourists on a half hour tour through the actual plantation and provides a historical narrative. And also, some of the worst local music ever created by a group called Aloha DNA or something grossly cute and family friendly like that. The narration of the history of the Plantation would play for about 10 minutes, which is still 8 minutes longer than the average American’s attention span and 9.5 minutes longer than the average Japanese tourist’s, and after this time, Aloha DNA would play. Now I understood why the conductor and other train employees looked so pained. If I had to hear this twice an hour for 8 hours a day, I might end it all by falling on the sharp end of the pineapple.

Which brings me to the noble pineapple. Did you know that the pineapple isn’t even indigenous to Hawaii? The Hawaiian name for pineapple is “Hala Kahiki” (yeah, I had to look up the spelling, so what?) and it essentially means, foreign fruit. Pineapples come from Paraguay. And Hawaiians aren’t exactly certain how the pineapple came to Hawaii. The most popular theory is that they ended up here on a shipwreck of sorts. I like that theory best because there’s something random and a little romantic about that. And it’s better than giving the Spanish explorers credit, because we all know what they liked to bring to a new country was small pox. Zing.

(pineapple roadkill)

 (Stierman, I decided to skip cankersores caused by eating too close to the core & went girly pineapple souvenir cup)

And then I found five dollars…

After that I headed further north to Waimea Beach. Waimea Beach is a small sandy bowl of a beach park tucked in between sheer, jagged cliffs. It is one of my favorite beaches for the simple reason that the waves here are high and dangerous, and as a result, tourists go out of their way to endanger themselves. In the winter months, the swells can reach over thirty feet high. So not only can you lie around and tan for hours, you can watch people put themselves in unnecessary peril while ticking off the lifeguards to no end.

The last time I was at Waimea the lower beach was roped off and there were signs that prohibited swimming because of the swells and riptide. Ask yourself, did this deter people from trying to swim? Of course not. So the poor dogged lifeguard team had to keep getting on the microphone and continuously remind people not to go swimming. It’s an uneasy line to walk because the lifeguards want to make the beach fun enough so people will visit, but they must also protect people. From themselves.

This time, there’s a new breed of lifeguards at the tower. They’re deliciously snarky. They ridicule the surf perpetrators from atop their cream-colored tower.

“Hey man, maybe you could get your girlie surfboard out of that surf before I send my sister down there to haul you out.” Ouch.

“Hey dude over by the rocks, yeah you! You better get back to your girlfriend on the beach or I’m gonna go over and show her what a real man looks like.” Ouch to the second power and extra points for good delivery.

Now occasionally, not even snark prevails and one of the lifeguards (probably the one who lost the rosham contest) has to crawl down the ladder, get in the beach buggy and head down the beach to extricate some jack monkey from the surf. Then the lifeguard left at the tower narrates:

“Well it’s a close one guys, neck and neck. Oh wait, hey idiot, you’re swimming against the tide now. Here comes JC from the beach, he wastes no time, folks. He plunges into that surf with reckless abandon [I swear to you that the lifeguard said reckless abandon, I laughed so hard that I snorted sand. Honestly.], and he’s making his way out. He’s got the guy by the neck and he’s bodyslamming him! No, JC! Don’t do it!” In reality, JC has just browbeaten the guy into coming in from the ocean and then he puts him in the buggy for a ride of shame back to the tower. But it sounds cooler the way the lifeguard tells it.

Now where am I in all this? Clearly, not in the surf. But interestingly, I’m closer to the roped off area than is prudent because I wanted to take some pics of the surf for you, dear readers. No matter, the sun is shining, people are being reckless, and I’m neatly laid out on my beach towel, lathered in Maui Babe, and engrossed in a really funny audio book by Neil Gaiman. I’m pretty much oblivious to all errant noises except the lifeguard’s bullhorn, which easily pierces through the i-pod narration.

Let me say this again, I’m oblivious to everything around me.

The next time I hear the lifeguard on the bullhorn, he bellows the following:

“Hey, hot chick! You’re too close to the rope. You’re gonna get wet, chica.”

I ignore this, it’s not worth sitting up for.

“Hey girl in the rainbow bikini, did you hear me? You’re gonna get wet, girl! The tide’s coming in!”

The beach isn’t overly crowded, but surely he doesn’t mean me. And then it hits me, literally, water splashes over my feet, towel, beach bag, i-pod. I snap up to a sitting position. The surf having swelled up the beach is now sinking back down again. I look around me in shock, people are laughing at my surprised reaction and I notice that most of them have noticed the incoming tide and have moved up the beach. FML. My stuff is all wet.

But wait…he called me a hot chick. SCORE!

I don’t care how vain that is, how ridiculous I looked now all wet, it was like this guy had yelled, “Hey, attorney of the year! Hey, Pulitzer prize winner!” It doesn’t matter if the lifeguard is 300 pounds with no teeth (he’s not, he’s on the short side, completely jacked with an unfortunate faux hawk). It also doesn’t matter that we’re all modern women now and this kind of remark is supposed to have no effect on us. I don’t care how militant of a feminist you are. We all want to be called hot chicks in our bikinis. I’m counting this one as a win.  And I'm not even remotely embarrassed to admit it.  So there. 

But seriously, there’s a moral to the story here: Spend February in Hawaii.

No, no, I mean, if you’re gonna lie around on the beach all day and snark on people being idiots, don’t be one yourself. Mahalo.

PS.  And then I booked it home to catch the sunset at the beach park outside my condo.  This one was a particularly good one (made even better because I grabbed take-out fajitas from Senor Pepe's):