Famous Last Words

Aloha!

It means hello and good bye. But it’s more than that. The ‘ha’ in ‘Aloha’ also means the breath of life.

I lead a charmed life. Like everyone else, I’ve had my share of the proverbial heartbreaks and hardships. This year in particular, it seemed like more than usual and why is it that bad things always seem to come in threes?

First, after three long years of law school, I found myself deferred and adrift for seven months. And while I was certainly one of the lucky ones to have a job, when so many smarter, more capable classmates didn’t, the realization of the hold a law firm actually has over you was evident when that firm asked our first year class to go away for awhile. And again, we were lucky enough to be sent away with a stipend. I really will be working for one of the classier firms around. Like many others in my position, I tried to fill up the time with pro bono activities and working, although as a Sam Adams tour guide, could we really call that work? More a labor of love. For the love of beer, if you will. But still I floundered. I wanted to be working and practicing law just like everybody else. Instead I felt cut off and aimless.

Second, and it hadn’t happened in a long time so it was probably good for me, but I let a guy get the better of me. At the very least I (re)learned two important things: the first being that sometimes it’s the nice guy who deals you the worst blow, behaves like an utter jackass, and kicks you when you’re down. Twice. The second being there are some things that time and distance just can’t fix. And for everything else there’s Mastercard.

Lastly, it was a difficult year for the Martin family clan. One of its founding members had a frightening health scare in the fall and this knocked all of us for a loop. Fortunately, while that issue eventually was resolved, we were not so fortunate with my grandmother, who passed away at the end of January. I mean no disparagement to my other three grandparents, but my grandmother in particular had a lasting influence on the person I became. She was one of my first role models, one of those people who went to college when so little was expected out of women. A leader of her union and a proactive member of many clubs, she taught me to be a doer and a leader (and to sing in the bathroom, because who really cares anyway?). But most importantly, my grandmother was described by all who knew her as ‘colorful.’ She had the driest of wits and a killer sense of timing. Think about it, ‘colorful’ is just an old-fashioned term for snark (similar to saying ‘dapper’ then when nowadays we mean ‘metrosexual.” Different lingo, same concept). All that snark in me had to come from somewhere, right? I think we know the origin. Man oh man, sweet Lauretta, she will be missed.

All in all, while not a great end to last year into this year, it could have been a lot worse and somehow it all came right. I took some of my stipend and earnings from Sam Adams, and I spent the last five weeks in Hawaii relearning her historically rich culture, exploring the island, and making some life adjustments. And that’s why I’ll sit here and tell you with the biggest, goofiest grin on my face that I lead a charmed life.

Hawaii was the breath of life I needed. I did things I’d never done before and may never do again. I swam with sharks and rode up in the clouds in a helicopter. I went on a sunset cruise for my birthday and tramped around the island in the dark with nothing but a flashlight on a ghost tour and defied state parks and recreation law and carried a pearl around in my mouth. I ate BBQ abalone (file that under “stuff to never put in your mouth”) and sunbathed topless (wait, I definitely did that before and will again). I survived a tsunami. I blogged, I snarked, I gave myself a fat lip juggling poi balls and I finished my book. Not my Hawaii book, no no. That would have been too easy, I came up blank there. Go figure. I just didn’t have a chick lit book in me right now. Instead my inner geek reared its goofy little head and I wrote an urban fantasy fiction novel involving Norse mythology AND law students. Yup, let it sink in. Maybe this is what She meant when She said I’d finish it now, and if you don’t know who She is, go back and read the back blogs.

So when I say my very last night in Waikiki was clearly going to be a bittersweet one, I meant it. On one hand, I was bummed out to be leaving (let’s face it) a tropical paradise, on the other hand, I was eager to get home, start work, settle into a routine.

I decided early on that I wanted to spend my last night doing something that summed up my entire experience there. So I settled on Germaine’s Luau. There would be food, fire dancers, poi balls, intoxicating island beverages, dancing, one last sunset. And yes, it’s a little bit hokey (if you’re being a snob about it), but Germaine’s prides themselves on being a luau for ‘Ohana’ (family) and the escorts (not that kind of escort), make you feel like Ohana.

For instance, our escort, Cousin Jerry, was clearly the Dad of our good-looking Ohana.

He was one part good natured rogue, two parts true Hawaiian gentleman. Chew on that. He inquired protectively about the beaus in my life to make sure they were suitable. He called me little wahine. Once upon a time, Jerry was in a little film called “Blue Hawaiian,” perhaps you’ve heard of it? No? Maybe it’s star, Elvis? Jerry was the little beach boy in brown shorts. When he was older, his parents took him to Vegas to see the King. Not only did the King remember Jerry, but the man from Memphis put Jerry and his whole family up front for the show, paid for their time in Vegas, and hung out with them afterwards. Jerry was a gentleman and a scholar, a true Hawaiian.

And absolutely nasty at the hula.

Did I also mention that as a legend of Germaine’s, Jerry had unrestricted access to drink tickets? So instead of the usual three drink maximum, Snarky had (in no particular order) unlimited access to Mai Tais, Blue Hawaiians, Pina Coladas, Lava Flows. And she made good use of this access. Enough said, mahalo.

Here was my last sunset on the beach of Germaine’s. What a stunner. Palm trees, sand, beach, waves, all bathed in pink and purples and a slight sea breeze.

This was my last pig cooked in an underground oven (Imu) with river stones (unless someone has a backyard and are feeling adventurous. Call me. And here’s my last luau plate: lomi lomi salmon, chicken long rice, kalua pig, poi, and Hawaiian wedding cake. (And yes, mom, that’s my big tiki drink just behind it).

And here’s my last fire dancer. I saw him dance last year. Yes, I have a thing for fire knife dancers. Here’s what it is: THEY JUGGLE FREAKING FIRE. In less than a week, I will disappear into an office with questionable lighting and I will push paper around for the rest of my existence, bother my favorite Marmot for coffee breaks, work out in the tiny gym in the basement and these guys will still rise every morning, throw on a manly grass skirt, grease up, and JUGGLE FREAKING FIRE.

It all comes back to fire. My first memory of Waikiki when I first landed her last year was this: oh my, the entire place is lit by torch fire. That can’t be a good thing. Island or not. So from me to you, please enjoy the fire dance. I certainly did.

So over the course of the evening, I did what I always did one last time, I befriended strangers and found myself adopted into our Ohana by two little old ladies from Texas. Here is what I now know about little old ladies from Texas: They will drink you under the table each and every time, Mai Tai for Mai Tai. And they carry guns. This is a great argument for why one should never mess with Texas.

I’m kidding. Mostly.

So after gorging on the best food on the planet, I settled in for the show one last time…

First, a welcoming by our playful host and hostess.

Then the part where they pull up three suckers, dress them up in coconut bras and set them loose.

The rhythmic tribute to Pele.

The warriors from Aoterroa.

And their women with their poi balls (stupid poi balls, stupid fat lip)

The Hawaiian wedding dance, strangely beautiful and so unlike the touristy trap weddings actually staged on the island.

The Tahitian rump shakers (in yoga pants) and their female counterparts (not in yoga pants, can we say double standard?)

And then it was time for th

at special time of the evening. Germaine’s always ends their luau with the singing of “Aloha Oe.” Farewell to thee. A good bye song composed by Hawaii’s most beloved queen which always gets Snarky a little misty eyed.

Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe

(Farewell to you, farewell to you).

E ke onaona noho i ka lipo

(The charming one who dwells in the shaded bowers. One fond embrace, one fond embrace)

A hoʻi aʻe au

(Ere I depart Until we meet again. Until we meet again)

That night I returned back to Waikiki where I ended that last night underneath the stars in my old, familiar places.

All good things come to an end. That’s what made them good in the first place. This was the end. I woke up at five the next morning, unable to sleep. It was raining in Waikiki, a rarity. Funny enough, this happened last year on the day I left. Obviously, I took this as karmic significance. Waikiki was clearly going to miss me. That’s why she sent me a rainbow.

Aren’t you jealous?

Jealous yet?

Wait, really? It was a perfectly defined arch!

And what’s with the hand thing, Snarky?

(I survived a tsunami -- everything is alright)

(And I have beach sexy hair -- everything is alright)

(And this is me in a Kayak for 1 -- everything is alright)

(And I carried a pearl in my mouth -- everything is still alright)

Enough already...oh just one more




(And this is me surviving the shark cage -- everything is alright)

This is the shaka, the universal symbol for the Aloha spirit, their ‘hang loose’ symbol. For Hawaiians, it means, everything is alright. What a great mantra. Here we use a hand symbol, most frequently traffic. That symbol does not mean everything is alright.

But what a great thing to remember: Everything is alright.

And for me, after what felt like one of the rougher patches of my snark existence in a long time, everything is finally alright again. In 48 hours, I’m finally going to be an attorney. A real, honest to goodness, billing (hopefully), working attorney with absolutely no free time.

And you know what else? When I first got home, I saw my parents, my wonderful, hilarious parents and quasi-wonderful kid brother (you’re not quite all the way wonderful yet, g ive it a few years) and I thought: I love these guys. We have good times together. With them around, I feel like I can pretty much do anything and I’ll always have two people in my corner (okay, so maybe my mom wouldn’t go over the ledge at Spouting Horn, but I’m pretty sure she’d have stood in front of an oncoming tsunami for me).

And after seeing my parents, my totally baller Wilmer friends, who know how to throw a dinner party, threw one down for the March babies and were thoughtful enough to include me. If that weren’t an awesome enough homecoming, on Sunday, the poker crew gathered for a Hawaiian-themed poker night at my place. Seriously, good times. Like my bff Mike says, it’s the best twenty bucks you can spend. There’s no one I’d rather sit around and lose money (and dignity) to. What could beat an evening of the hottest game in town? How bout, the two devastatingly lovely glitter bandits of last year’s shenanigans in Hawaii and three years of law school emailing me to set up drinks for next week? And maybe I've, uh, met someone worth gushing over (don't even think of getting a big head about it, mahalo). So yes, I feel like the luckiest kid on the planet to get to have these kind of people around me. Really, no snark. I mean that. Attorneys shouldn’t get to have it all. But maybe I do :)

It happens to everyone, sometimes things just pile up and we lose sight of the things that make us happy. And sometimes, sometimes, if you lead a charmed life, you get to go to Hawaii, pull your head out of your (well you know) and get yourself right again. I think I'll take my cue from the Hawaiians here. Everything is alright. It’s not perfect. That’s what we have snark for. Everything is as it should be.

And I still got this sweet tan.

So for those of you who read, commented, or otherwise enjoyed this blog:

Mahalo nui loa and Aloha ʻoe, A hoʻi aʻe au.

Airborne

It was my last morning in Kauai, which meant it was my last day in Hawaii.  By mid-afternoon I’d be back on Oahu for one more sunset and one more night of revelry, luau style, on the beach. 

I quickly packed my bag, checked out of my beautiful spot on the beach, got in the rental car and drove it to the airport.  Only, when I reached the airport, I didn’t turn left for rental car drop off, I turned right for the airfield. 

The morning was gray, windy, and rainy.  It was afterall, winter in Kauai, which was still a billion times better than winter in Boston because I could still wear flip flops.  I parked and walked nervously up to the small office with wooden shingles.

“Checking in, sweetie?”  A woman with a bouffant hair style out of the fifties, horn rim glasses with rhinestones, and a little pink sweater greeted me.  She immediately won my good favor because she didn’t ask for a parental release form.  But then she killed it when she added, “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to fly today, the conditions are really terrible and it makes for a choppy ride.  You don’t get sick easily, do you?”

Not unless it’s a shaved ice.  “No, I don’t.” 

“You don’t have a fear of heights or flying, do you, sweetie?”

A rampant, crippling fear of both, actually, that I’ve been diligently suppressing since the age of 9.  “No, I don’t.”

I sat there looking at the glossy photographs of the Na Pali Coast on the wall.  This was where I had wanted to go and had tried to raft three times, but my expedition had now been cancelled each time.  If couldn’t raft it, the second best thing was to fly over it, just to see it.

A pilot came in, don’t ask me how I knew he was the pilot, but I think it was the cockiest walk I’d ever seen that tipped me off.  And he was hunktastic, like Top Gun vintage Tom Cruise.  There were eight other people in the room waiting with me for a helicopter ride and the five who were ladies sat up straighter in their chairs, smoothed their hair etc. 

Adele, the woman who looked like she had been sealed away in the fifties time capsule, began a deep earnest conversation with gorgeous pilot man.  While this conversation was going on, another pilot entered.  He wasn’t young or gorgeous like Pilot #1, he was tall with grizzled iron-short hair and creased skin.  This was Gary, the seond pilot.  He let the door slam behind him carelessly and winked at Adele.  “What’s shaking, baby?”

“Oh, Gary.”  Adele shooed him with her hands, but you could tell she liked it.

Gary joined Adele and Maverick at the desk and they really had a heated conversation that none of us could hear but that all of us were watching. I had a sinking feeling this was going to end in me not being able to see the Na Pali Coast for the third time in two years.  Epic fail.  Not by sea or by land.

After much discussion, Adele stood up and came over to us.  She kept pushing her glasses up her nose.  “Now as you can see, it’s not a very nice weather day.  Visibility is poor and it’s raining and windy, which can make for an unpleasant ride.”  Her clasped hands broke into a nervous flutter.  “Now, we’d like to offer a full refund for those of you who would like to cancel your trip today or we suggest that those of you who have more time with us on Kauai reschedule for tomorrow.”

There was some murmuring.  The two older couples (probably from Minnesota or Wisconsin or somewhere wholesome like that where fannypacks are always in style), immediately got up and went to the desk for refunds and rescheduling.  A newly wed couple (and yes, they’re always newly weds, and you can tell because they still like each other, they’ve always got that FF glow and oh hey, it’s Hawaii.  Honeymoon capital of the word, every third person is a newly wed) asked if we could still go out.  Maverick shook his head and at the same time Gary said, “I have room for 5.  Four in the back and one up front with me.  It’s not going to be a smooth ride, but Uncle Gary will still show you the island.”

I immediately put my hand up.  “I’m in,” I said.  I liked Uncle Gary.  He didn’t look like the kind of guy who crashed planes.

“You all by your lonesome?”

All my life.  “Yep,” I said brightly.

“Afraid of flying.”

“Nope.”  Liar.  Liar.

“Weak stomach?”

“Never.”  Unless you’re serving hallucinating-inducing shaved ice on our in flight beverage service.  Snark snark.

“How much do you weigh?”  I gave him my actual non five pound subtracted weight without blinking.  No, I’m not going to list it here.  He was a pilot.  You’re not.

“Then you can ride up front with me.  What’s your name?”

“Jessica.”

“Like the rabbit.”

Yeah sure, Gary.  Whatever lights your torch.  As long as you show me the Na Pali Coast you can make as many pop culture references as you want. 

The newly weds put their hands up.  Gary went through the same set of questions with  them.  Although, I’m pretty sure Ms. Newly Wed lied about her weight.  For shame. 

Then we looked at the remaining couple.  Their faces clearly said they were in disagreement, he really wanted to go up in the air and she didn’t.  So  hubby said, “why don’t we just go back to the hotel and snorkel, hon.  I don’t want to go if you’re the least bit uncomfortable.”  He put his arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Obviously she agreed to go.  Men are geniuses. 

“It’s settled then, let’s go,” said Gary and we moved toward the door where beyond lay a helicopter.  But Adele now blocked Gary’s path in a formidable fuzzy pink barricade.

“Gary, I’d like a word with you,” Adele said, her voice like a disapproving school teacher. 

“Adele,” he said.

“Gary.” 

In these one word exchanges there was a lifetime of meaning: tussles, harried exchanges, jokes and battles that had been waged and fought in this very small office off the airport.

“Maybe these folks can wait an hour for the weather to clear.  We’ll bump up the noon people and…”

“Don’t you sass me, Adele.”  Gary through his arms and turned to the two men in our party.  “Women.  Can’t live with them, too pretty to live without em.” 

Adele blushed and let Gary pass.  On one hand, I was glad I was getting to finally see Na Pali.  On the other hand, I wondered if Adele hadn’t made a fairly good point in the name of safety.  It was too late now.  And it was definitely too late after we strapped on these bright yellow safety packages to our waists.  They were standard issue, ‘please don’t inflate these inside the cabin because only morons do that,’ packs.  

We climbed in, the two couples in the back, Snarky in the front.  Gary helped strap us all in and then we got really sweet BOZE headphones.  The banging, strings heavy theme from James Bond was playing and I relaxed just a little.  Gary had a sense of humor.

Once we were all strapped in and secure, Gary came over the headsets and explained to us where we’d be heading (the Hanapepe Valley, Waimea Canyon Na Pali Coast, the volcano and Hanalei) and the issue of potholes.  Potholes, because it was windy and gross out, would occur frequently.  Gary didn’t explain anything else about them other than they weren’t like hitting a pothole in your car.  I didn’t like this.  That meant they were really bad.  But the theme to 24 with Keifer’s voice over, “my name is Jack Bauer and today is the longest day of my life” started playing.  I did like this.  I forgot about potholes.  I have the attention span of a zit.

Then we lifted off, an uncomfortable lurch forward, a dip back and we were up.  You will not throw up on Gary, I told myself sternly.  Gary is a bada$$ and he deserves better.  But for the first thirty seconds or so, the likelihood of Gary wearing my breakfast was quite high.

“Anyone seen the movie, Jurassic Park?”  Gary asked.  Everyone nodded.  “Anyone want to see where all of the opening shots were filmed, including the waterfall in the opening scene?”  Round of nods.  The opening strains of Jurassic Park came over the headsets.  “Okay, that’s what I hoped you’d say.  Now we’re just going to dip into the Hanapepe Valley over here to get to Manawaiopuna Falls.  Get ready for some potholes.”

Potholes suck the big one.

You know those rides like the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, where you climb up to some great height and the floor drops out from beneath you, your stomach is instantly in your mouth and have just experienced the feeling of what it would be like to hanged (think about that one for a minute).  That’s what hitting a pothole is like only the floor keeps dropping out from beneath you.  My knees were jelly, but my determined smile was still plastered on my face.  But then there we were just yards away from the waterfall (Gary got close, really, really freaking close to the waterfall) and it was just beautiful.  Potholes be damned, the coolest dinosaur film of all time was filmed here.  The soundtrack in our ears was reaching the majestic main theme with the strings and trumpets.  

Gary spun the plane around 360 style and we flew up the valley wall and over, headed for Waimea.  I had certain fondness for Waimea, this is the canyon, the “Baby Grand Canyon” as it was called because this was the site of my infamous bike ride down with Kauai’s favorite stoners, the Roach brothers.   

The light was gorgeous over the canyon and Gary was playing “Southern Cross” over the head set.  We were musical soulmates, Gary and I.  If only I’d been born twenty five years earlier and wore my hair in a bouffant with accompanying pink sweater.  Sigh, Adele was a lucky, lucky gal.

Then we were off to the Na Pali Coast.  I was kind of breathless as we headed toward the coast.  This is what I had waited three years for.

It was a take your breath away kind of place.  Grand and gloomy in the weather, which gave it an even more mysterious look.  There is something so unspoiled and untouched about Na Pali.  There are no access roads in, if you want to reach the wild coast, you have to hike in 11 miles over rough, dense terrain.  And someday when I’m not traveling solo, I’ll do it.  Even I won’t hike in eleven miles myself.  That just seems like inviting trouble of all sorts.  Although, the thought of me slashing through the undergrowth with a machete, dressed in sweaty stained khakis and binoculars, was kind of appealing.  

The water on the coast was turbulent sea blue with lots of froth that crashed up against the dark cliffs.  Na Pali looked like a place where things have happened, old things, dark things, secret things.   

In the more temperate weather, you can raft here and explore the sea caves (which is what I’d been trying to do for two years now), but now she had her winter game face on and there was no boating near her shores.  Gary played music from the Lord of the Rings (The Fellowship of the Ring).  I waited for orcs to start storming the beach but no such luck.  It was okay, Na Pali didn’t near orcs, it was cool just the way it was.

And here the sun picked this moment to break through the clouds and the rain and it too was lovely, though I had liked Na Pali in the gloom just as much as in the light.  

Seeing Na Pali made the trip for me.  The potholes no longer bothered m (liar, they just didn’t bother me very much after that).  My fear of flying in a small craft and crashing into the canyon walls, my remains pulverized into bits, became a distant memory I’d left back at the launch pad.  This was so flipping cool.

You might ask what could top Na Pali for me.  Well, nothing.  But a close second was our next stop: Mount Waialeale.  Waialaeale (which is a real b**tch to spell by the way) means rippling or overflowing water in Hawaiian.  Aptly named, it is the rainiest spot in this hemisphere receiving anywhere from 400-600 inches of rainfall a year.  Compare that against Seattle, between 52 and 70 inches a year although the Olympics get up over a 100.  That’s a whole lot of rain.  So of course it was raining when we got there.  But it’s not just a rainy summit.  Mount Waialeale, a shield volcano, birthed the island of Kauai.  So for the birthplace of Kauai Gary brought out the Braveheart soundtrack.  Whoa.  For the Love of a Princess.  Oh hey now.

Gary got us awfully close to the volcano wall and mumbled something about “them not liking us to do this.”  I can only assume by “them” he meant Adele.  Surely, she was formidable enough in her fuzzy pink sweater to warrant the use of the plural pronoun “them.”  

The cloud cover had moved across the peak, but it was still a heart in throat moment as we climbed up it, my whole body pressed back against the seat by gravity (and if there were anytime we were actually in any slight danger of crashing, I would say this was it.  If I had to guess).

After Waialeale, we headed out toward Hanalei Bay, our last stop, the home of Puff the Magic Dragon and stoners the world over.  Flying over the area was just like driving through it, everything was electric shades of green and there were taro fields everywhere  (purple potato like plant that is ground up to make poi).  Gary flipped a switch, “this is me improvising for our little gal up front,” he said over the head sets. And he put on “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers.  I grinned and gave him the biggest thumbs up I could manage.  Adele had better watch out.  

We touched down, took pictures, and said our good byes.  That’s Gary behind me giving the shaka, which is still better than bunny ears.  

These were my last glimpses of Kauai, a beautifully musically narrated and expertly flown chopper ride piloted by a roguish cowboy of the skies.  Not a bad way to say good bye to Kauai.  But there was more island left to make my farewells to and so I made my way back to Oahu, the Gathering Place, for one more night...

Kayak for One

For the first time in nearly five weeks, I woke up in a blisteringly bad mood. I hated everyone, everything, every place including each and every island of Hawaii. This may have had something to do with the fact that I had nearly died in the night. Well, maybe not really, but close. And the point was, I was feeling awful. The weird part was, this was the second time I had been violently ill on the island of Kauai after eating one of these made by this woman.  I'm calling her, Bertha (inside joke for Dad).

This is a shaved ice.

Apart from the fact they nearly killed me twice, they are vastly superior to regular snow cones. Last year, I had one of these when my parents were visiting and I became so sick upon eating this that I may have, uh, thrown up cold shaved ice. Through my nose. I had attributed this to the bucket of Mai Tai I had consumed that evening with the parentals. But this year, I hadn’t had a drop to drink. I ordered my shaved ice from the same place (you get three flavors: I went with Blue Hawaiian, Pineapple, and Wild Cherry). I don’t really pick on flavor, but color. They all taste like high fructose corn syrup. Blue, red, yellow are all primary colors and quite pleasing.

I was so stomach sick and feverish that I actually hallucinated; believing there were lizards crawling up the wallpaper and that the ceiling fans were dripping black ink. Looking back, I reasoned that it couldn’t have been the Blue Hawaiian, that’s an Elvis movie. And Elvis was lovely. And Pineapple, well hey, even though it’s not indigenous to Hawaii, it’s pretty much the state fruit. But then again according to a pineapple expert* they can give you canker sores. Still, my money was on the Wild Cherry. Perhaps on Kauai, the word ‘wild’ is code for hallucinogenic mushroom flavor, because that’s how bad and trippy my night was.

So I awakened with an overwhelming desire to kick puppies and skip that day’s event: kayaking on the Wailua. Now, I’d been dying to kayak the Wailua because I love kayaking (from my Camp Nokomis days) and the Wailua, until about twenty years ago, was off limits for kayaking per the government because it had been sacred land. So I debated myself back and forth and finally, kayaking won out over the evil effects of Wild (hallucinogenic mushroom) Cherry. This is my long winded way of saying, I was in a really queasy, weak and bad mood en route to kayaking and would be exhibiting none of my usual social graces and cheerful disposition.

I arrived and as usual, it was immediately made clear that I was an anomaly for being by myself. There were 13 in our group and I was the only one in a single kayak, everyone else was in a double. Kayak for one please.

The guy who was helping us launch our boats eyed me doubtfully and he actually said to a group of four guys around my age, that one of them should be a gentleman and take the single kayak and let me ride with one of them. All of them graciously offered to be in a double kayak with me. I grimaced. I only like sexism when it’s in my favor. Obviously. So, I politely pointed out that I was an experienced kayaker and perfectly fine to kayak alone, mahalo. And yes, given my mood, it took everything I had to be marginally polite.

But the boat launch guy wasn’t through with me yet, he went over to another kayak guide helper and said something to her about me. I knew it was about me because she immediately came over to where I was standing alone with my pea green chariot.

“Excuse me, yeah? I’m going to need your parental release form before we can let you out on the river.”

I looked at her confused. “I need a parental release?”

“You have to be AT LEAST eighteen to go out on the river. So we need your release form or I’m afraid you can’t go out today. When you called us for a tour, we would have asked you over the phone whether anyone in your group was eighteen or under.”

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

That was my first thought.

NO REALLY, ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

That was my second thought. And my third thought was murderous and unrepeatable.

So, I unzipped my wetbag, shoved my license at her aware that now everyone in our little cluster was staring at me, the little lost orphan child. And I was blushing scarlet. “There,” I said and pointed to my date of birth, “guess I probably don’t need a parental release form.”

She looked me up and down, opened her mouth to say something when our actual guide, a tiny elfin woman with that islander tan and wavy sun-streaked hair down her back, walked between us and said, “don’t bother, she’s the year of the rooster.”

No, I’m not joking, this woman guessed my actual birth year by using the Chinese Zodiac reference, AND as she walked away, she looked over her shoulder, winked at me, and said, “and she’s an Aquarian.”

This woman had had no access to my ID which would have given her my birth year or astrological sign. I don’t believe in psychics, not really. But I was deeply creeped out by her all the same. She had one of those mysterious looks, wide dark eyes and that long curling hair. She would have looked at home right behind a crystal ball and a spangled curtain.

Regardless, I was here, at the mouth of the beautiful Wailua River, the wind at our backs, sun shining. I even got one of the four guys I had refused to kayak with to take my picture and help me drag my boat down. Apparently, I wasn’t totally lacking in all feminine charm. Life was aces again.

 We took off and I hung back in the rear for a very simple reason. I can get out of the way of a newbie kayaker better than they can get out of the way of me, and since I don’t think kayaking was intended to be like bumper cars, when I’m in the back, I can see what’s going, stop, and not plow into the boat in front of me.

(This is me cultivating the sexiest water shoes tan ever.  Jealous?)

The first thing our guide, I’m going to call her Maya, asked us was to not take pictures of us, something to do with capturing the soul. I was only half-listening to that because the boat in front of me was just godawful, full of the two most coordinated people I’ve ever encountered. In just under a minute, the girl sitting in front seat had managed to whack the guy behind her not once, but twice with the paddle and he had nearly capsized the boat in the reeds. Then they got stuck in the overhang for a good three minutes. Maya tried to talk them out of the overhang, but there’s only so many nice ways to tell people they’re being morons. It was stunning to behold. I imagined this is what it must be like when someone was watching me dance, a slow, grisly car wreck of movement that one couldn’t help but smirk or grimace at.

(Hopeless.)

So we set off and Maya explained to us a little about the Wailua. Wailua translated into the place where the heart meets the soul. We would be kayaking down it, beaching the boats, and hiking to a sacred waterfall where the last queens and kings of Kauai had bathed. I of course, nerd of nerds, was lapping this up, but even I noticed that this woman was off the reservation and I was perfectly okay with this. I liked a little crazy.

My suspicions were further confirmed when she kind of cornered me on the river and told me that I had beautiful strokes and that I was obviously a kayaker. Doesn’t take a psychic to know that. But the ego stroke was nice all the same. Tthen she asked me if I knew about 2012.

I looked at her doubtfully, “The John Cusack movie?”

She looked at me like I’d just kicked her puppy. “No, do you know what will happen on December 11th, 2012.”

I thought, no. Why, do you? Instead, I shook my head.

And she replied, and I’m not exaggerating a single sentiment here, “the age of the patriarchal Pisces is coming to an end and the feminine age of Aquarius is dawning. It’s going to be a golden age.”

It’s all I can do to stifle a giggle because of course I’m now thinking of Steve Carrell in his pajamas at the end of the 40 Year Old Virgin musical montage. This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius, the age of Aquariusssssss. Aquariusssssssss.
But it’s the absolute serious expression on her face that stops me.

Then she says, “this is a sacred feminine space we’re approaching, only the queens could bathe in the waterfall, the kings had to bathe downstream.” (Don’t even get me started on the mental image for that one, all sorts of snarky fun). “Groups from all over the world come here to dance and restore the feminine rites.” I literally had no idea what this woman was talking about, so I just smiled, nodded wisely, and kept paddling. Deeply creeped out.

She pointed to a high green cliff to my left. “That is kapu, you understand?”

“Why is it forbidden?” I asked to let her know I wasn’t a total idiot.

“It is the forbidden cliff, some people must stop there on the journey, they don’t get to reach the enlightenment and feminine wonder that awaits us.” And if you think I’m augmenting the way she talked, you’re just dead wrong. If anything I’m missing some of her stunners.

It got even more fun once we reached shore. Maya started talking to all of us about the Menehune. Now, the only reason I didn’t bolt back for the boat was because each one of us got a really cool walking stick for the hike in and this made me feel like a hobbit (awesomeness!). Now, the Menehune mean different things to different Hawaiians. For most, the Menehune were the race of humans here before the Hawaiians got here. They were little people and not like dwarfs, but just small sized, regular proportion people, only bite sized (like Kit Kats).

The Menehune were expert masons and tireless workers and legend had it that they would only undertake projects that could be finished in a single day. And while that doesn’t sound overly awe-inspring (I know what you’re thinking, you can reorganize your sock drawer in a single day and that doesn’t make you legendary. Just dull.) What I’m talking about are huge projects no one could finish in a day. The most common example of these are the Menehune fishponds. The Menehune were clever little buggers (haha, pun), and they would build fish ponds with walls and the walls would have small holes in them for the fish to fit through. Once inside they would munch on the oh-so-delicious water plants the Menehune would conveniently stock, and they would be unable to swim out the holes again. And the ones that could, well, they weren’t fat enough to eat yet, anyway.

(Menehune fishpond on Kauai).

Legend had it that when the Tahitians came along and brought black magic to the island, the Menehune disappeared into the hills and were never seen again. Now, most Hawaiians believe that the Menehune were legends or at least that most of the stories surrounding them were legends. You can’t dispute the fact that there are in fact fishponds and large stone walls on Oahu, Maui, and Kauai and that these things were built by people with a skill eye (and rumor has it that the measurement used is called the Pyramid Inch, the same type used at Stonehenge). And then you got people like our guide who not only thought they were real, but believed she was descended from them and that we had to make offerings to the Menehune.

Now Maya led us into the jungle with our walking sticks and maybe I was crazy for following her. But again I told you, having the walking stick was so fun. Normally, I made fun of those people on hiking trails, but hey if someone was telling you HAD to carry one, then it was okay. And I felt like a hobbit. So Maya made the rounds and worked the crowd (she wasn’t just being a creeper to me, I heard her tell a young woman in front of me, married 6 days and on her honeymoon, that she would have a baby before the year was out. The woman was actually excited about this news). When she came to me I braced myself for whatever crazy train was speeding down the tracks. And this one was a doozy (although not the biggest one, that was yet to come). She reached into her pockets and handed me some wilted Ti leaves.

I asked her why she’d given me Ti leaves just to her know that I knew what these were. The Hawaiians would plant Ti around their homes and also cemeteries to keep the spirits from getting in/getting out. And she said, and I swear, “a spirit is following you. A woman’s spirit. It’s a friendly spirit but you can’t have spirits following you around. Life is for the living (or something like that).” I was just about to write her off, anyone could say a throwaway line like that, when she added, “I believe it’s the spirit of your grandmother.”

Nope, not making that up. Kinda wish I were though. My grandmother had passed away at the end of January and I’d delayed going to Hawaii a few days because of it. Now I got kinda cold all over, even though it was eighty degrees out. I was also a little angry, quite certain that somehow, somewhere, someone was playing a joke on me and it was seriously not funny and that any moment Stierman, Seth, and Matthew were going to come crashing out of the underbrush with a big “gotcha” sign. No such luck.

But, I’m a logical person so I reasoned that this could have been a throwaway line, she had a 50/50 chance that someone at some point had died in my life and had been a female. It was just the timing of it. She’d gotten lucky.

I chewed that over until we reached the Falls. They really were beautiful; you could see why only queens could bathe here. No sense in sharing this with the common folk. I didn’t care how cold it was, I was going swimming. I was dirty from the hike in and covered in bug bites. But to my dismay, I discovered my bathing suit top had lost its string. A bad omen. This was not the kind of place you could swim topless, so I resigned myself to the fact that I was going in, t-shirt and all.

So I sat on a rock, eating dried pineapple, making small talk with other people on our kayaking trip (I want to point out for the millionth time that I love Canadians, just love them and want to hug them and squeeze them and…). I was getting ready to head into the water, having already handed my camera off to someone who would take a picture of me, when I heard Maya call me over.

Oh great, I thought. Another deeply creepy life reveal. But if she tells me I’m gonna be pregnant before the year is out I’m going to whack her with the hobbit stick. That’s the deal.

But she doesn’t guess the name of the first boy who kissed me or tell me my worst fears or where I’ll be in ten years or the date of my death or anything like that.

Maya: “Jessica, you have a pure soul. I want you to make an offering to the Goddess.”

Me: I got nothing for you. There is so much wrong with that sentence, I’d need a wrecking ball. Also, I have no idea which Goddess you are talking about. But remember, I’m only snarky in my head so I said, “umm okay, sure.”

Maya: (reaching into her pockets and pulling out bits of stone, shells, string, goose feathers, a pearl, and something white and oblong that reminds me of a Good N’ Plenty, but clearly isn’t). “Pick your offering.”

Me: (to myself) Choose your destiny, young one. Sow your own seeds of fate. You are the chosen one. There can be only one. And so forth. I have no idea what to pick, I ended up debating between the shell and the pearl because I like ocean things. Eventually, I decided on the black pearl because the shell had a crack in it and the black pearl has seriously deep literary roots. ‘This one.”

Maya: “That’s interesting. Now what I would have chosen for you.”

Me: (thinking) WHAT THE HECK DOES THAT MEAN??? You can’t just say something like that and not explain it!

Maya: ‘Now, you go into the waterfall all the way under the falls, you leave the offering for her and wait for her to take it. Only then do you come out.”

Me: “Okay.” I have a billion questions, like, how will I know if she takes the offering? Are there snakes in the pond? Does the kayaking company know you’re off the res?

Maya: “And you must carry it in your mouth.”

I’m floored. Literally floored, although I do have a passing snark thought, thank god I didn’t take the feather.

This is not my life.

I’m an attorney, a deferred one, but I went to law school, damnit. I’m risk adverse. I eat poptarts. I go to the dentist regularly. I subscribe to Bon Apetit. Occasionally, I argue with the ESPN PTI guys, even though I know they can’t hear me. I jog with an i-pod.

I’m not seriously going to wade across a waterfall with a pearl in my mouth and make an offering to an unknown goddess, am I? Am I being Punked?

But Ashton Kutcher doesn’t jump out of the underbrush with Nikon in hand and trucker hat on head. And part of me, the anal type A part, just can’t bring myself to let someone down even if it means acting ridiculously mystical. I want Maya to know I’m honored that she chose me for this…this…thing. And I don’t wish to insult her.

So I put the pearl in my mouth. Right up front on the bottom row between the two front teeth. You are not going to swallow this, I told myself, just so we’re clear. The Goddess would not be pleased. Then I picked my way down over the rocks to the waters edge. It was deeply green and murky. I’m not such a fan of bodies of water where you can’t see the bottom. I like to know what I’m getting into. So I sighed and began walking out through the cool water.

Then I stopped. I feel like if you’re going to go all crazy train, you might as well go ALL crazy train. So I reach into my pocket, take out one of the rumpled Ti leaves and I place it on top of the water. If it floats, no water lizard. If it sinks, your a$$ is grass, expect a watery death by lizard.

The leaf floats. Safe passage.

I waded out until I reached the falls and could stand under them. Behind them lay a big, black rock that looked volcanic (not a bad guess when you’re in Hawaii). It had a concave top perfect for depositing the pearl. No I didn’t spit it out or lay the pearl on there with my mouth. That was just too much. I took it out of my mouth with my fingers and laid it there. The water cascaded down over it, making it rock back and forth, until a particularly potent jet of water carried it down and off the rock.

Offer and acceptance.

We have a contract.

Snark snark snark. But I’m still calling the pearl sliding off the rock because of the water, a total win. The goddess took the pearl. 

I actually stood there for a good, long minute having a peaceful moment. The waterfall felt great and it was loud, the water rushing down, but also somehow quiet. My trip was ending in two days and I felt this wonderful feeling of appreciation and connection, maybe not to a Goddess or anything like that, but I felt incredibly serene and happy. And that was enough for me.

On the way out, I posed for pictures. And yes, I was wearing this Bob Dylan t-shirt last year when I went swimming up at Manoa Falls for those of you who read the blog. Yes, it’s my favorite shirt. And it’s black and won’t show, uh, anything if it gets wet, which makes it ideal for waterfalls, kayaking, and other water recreational activities.

I headed back to the rocks, thankful to have not been struck down by an unnamed Goddess who did not appreciate snark or dragged to a drowning death by a water lizard (remember the Ghost Tour blog? Yeah, the whole drowning child calling for help nonsense wouldn’t have worked on me. You know what I would have done, mahalo). I met Maya at the waters edge. She asked me if the Goddess took the pearl and I nodded.

“That’s good,” she said. “You’ll finish now.” She gave me a mysterious smile, full of promise.

And that was the last thing Maya said to me for the remainder of the trip, other than a thank you at the tour’s end when I tipped her and thanked her for the tour. She did give me a big Hawaiian hug (hug, slight chest bump, cheek kiss) and despite her having really, really freaked me out with the whole, “I know things about you,” shtick, I had kinda enjoyed Matya. It’s good to hang out with people who you have nothing in common with other than being a carbon-based life form.

But I was left with:

You’ll finish now.

Finish what?

 

(The moon that night, kinda looks like a pearl, doesn't it)

*Leslie Stierman, JD and PE (Pineapple expert. Surprised you didn’t know that).