by T W Neal
Mike crumbles bran-laced corn bread into the vegetarian soup with every appearance of enjoyment, and I like him for it. My mom’s cooking is known for unusual ingredients. “I’ve had both, too. I came to Hawaii for the surf in 1975, when I was nineteen.” He tells us about chasing his passion for big waves from Maui to Kauai, dealing weed and falling on hard times in his early years, but determined to stay for the surf. He ended up living in a tool shed in Wainiha feeding the Ham Youngs’ pigs before a dramatic conversion to Christianity. “Just like the prodigal son.”
I know exactly where those pigs are and what they look like. Watching the Ham Youngs slaughter a hog with Knight will always be burned into my memory. This man might be the most striking and charismatic individual I’ve ever been instantly smitten with, but he’s all wrong for me. Hard-core surfers like him have an all-consuming addiction to waves, and I’m never going to fall for someone like that. I’m on my way to Boston University and a whole different kind of future—a normal life.
As the evening progresses, I flirt with Mike a little, tossing my hair and letting my dimple show. There’s no harm in it. I’m totally committed to my course of action, headed for the Mainland, and no surfer is going to derail me.
Over the course of the week at the youth camp where we’re both volunteering, we’re on the same tug-o-war team, our bodies crashing into each other, giving a hundred percent to pull our team to victory. We hug exuberantly afterward.
Somehow, that simple hug is imprinted everywhere all over me.
Mike’s totally competent and can fix anything, including one of the broken-down cars and a stove that won’t light; everyone turns to him for help and leadership.
One day he invites me on a hike outside the camp. We move fast, almost running, weaving through Kauai’s stunning high elevation forest. I have to work hard to keep up with his long legs and endurance. He gives no quarter—he expects me to match him, and it’s invigorating to try.
Mike has brought me a rigged-up fishing pole, and we leave the established trail and bushwhack through jungle he’s already explored, fishing for trout in a hidden Koke`e stream. I love every minute of the adventure, and delight in catching my first Kauai rainbow trout; showing it to Mike feels as good as getting an A in physics. He’s brought a camera to capture the beauty around us, and he tells me about his love of nature and the many interesting jobs he’s had, from carpentry to fine dining waiter. I tell him stories about growing up here on Kauai, and we discover that we were in Hanalei at the same time: I was twelve and he was twenty-three. We laugh in amazement that we existed in this same tiny place and time, together—and yet so far apart.
I can’t stop watching his graceful height and swallowing a flight of butterflies when he’s near, even while telling myself repeatedly that he’s too old for me and all wrong; he doesn’t fit with a normal life. I’m only eighteen. He’s twenty-eight—and a surfer!
Mom and Pop organize a bonfire and goodbye picnic for me at Ke`e Beach on my last night before I leave for Boston. Their new friends from church come, and some of our old friends too, like Tom and Cheri Hamilton who looked in on us so long ago at the Kauikeolani Estate. There’s potluck and sparklers, singing with guitars, a sunset that flames glory over the ocean, and the layered magic of the Na Pali cliffs.
I’m sandwiched by my sisters, sitting in the cool evening sand with the flickering bonfire lighting the dark ocean. Affectionate Wendy cuddles me on one side, gentle Anita on the other, while Bonny, all wit and attitude, keeps us laughing.
I wish I could slow down time, turn every moment to honey and watch it drip by. I’m already feeling the wrench of having to leave my sisters after such a short, sweet visit. Tears are close to the surface when I get up to take a break and get my emotions under control.
Mike catches hold of my arm and gives a gentle tug, pulling me aside into semi-darkness under the kamani trees.
His hand is large and beautifully shaped, rough from the construction job he’s working. I wish I could look at it a lot longer. Maybe turn it over, explore those calluses with my fingertips. I’m fascinated by everything about him, even these little details, and I can’t figure out why. Why him? Why now?
Mike clears his throat. I gaze up into crystal-blue eyes filled with shadows and reflections from the bonfire. Dark hair in salty tufts halos his head. “If you ever need help in the big, bad city . . . write me.” He slips a bit of paper into my hand and folds my fingers over it. “I’d like to keep in touch. You know, if you need advice or anything.”
Every simple, innocent contact burns my skin and scares me. He’s all wrong, too old, not the right type. Not normal.
He’s extraordinary.
“You know writing is my thing,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Well, it’s not my thing, but I’ll make an exception. We can be pen pals.”
“Pen pals.” I back up a step and press my fist, clutching the paper, against my chest. “Okay. Sounds nice.”
We gaze at each other a long moment. My heart pounds like a sledgehammer. I wish he’d kiss me, and I think he might wish he could too—but instead he gives a brisk nod. “Okay then.” He turns and walks away, disappearing into purple shadows.
I open my hand and stare at a torn-off bit of lined paper, scrawled with his name and address in bold, slanting block letters.
“Not bad for an old guy.” Bonny’s sneaked up next to me to deliver one of her pithy observations. “He’s hot.”
“It’s not like that.” I close my hand so she won’t see the address in it and fan my warm face.
“But it could be. I saw how he looked at you.”
“He’s a surfer. I’ll never be with a surfer.” I elbow her, and she pushes me, and a minute later the years have rolled back and we’re roughhousing and giggling with the love and closeness we’ve always had.
Sunset gilds the iconic, rugged silhouette of the Na Pali Coast in a wash of gold. My last day as a kid on Kauai ends with the dying light.
Epilogue
Mom and I visit the Forest House and make fern crowns
Maui, Hawaii, age 50+, 2015
I’m sitting with a couple I’ve been working with in family therapy—I’ve been a full-time counselor for close to twenty years now, holding degrees in psychology, human services, and social work.
The dad, Ikaika, is a buzz-cut, mixed-heritage man with the Hawaiian Islands tattooed around his muscular forearm. Lisa, the mom, is a petite Japanese woman with a black plume of lustrous hair she has to move aside to avoid sitting on. I’m helping them with some parenting techniques for their middle grade children. The older child, a boy, is depressed and has been mouthy and failing classes, and the younger has social problems. I’m still assessing their situation after one initial session and figuring out a treatment plan.
“So how’s this week been?”
“He still so sassy,” Ikaika says, with a tone that implies one session of therapy isn’t working. He and his son butt heads a lot, which I suspect has to do with his unrealistic expectations and an “old school” strict communication style.
“What about the reward and consequence plan we set up for when he mouths off?”
“We haven’t followed through,” Lisa sighs. “It’s hard keep up with it all. We both have jobs, the kids have activities, and then there’s my mom in the house. . .”
I let a beat go by, letting us all think on this a moment. Ideas are only as good as their implementation, and if the plan was too involved, it wasn’t a good plan. I don’t want the parents to give up because something isn’t working. It’s my job to help them find something that is.
The mom is the one who dragged them all into therapy, so I know I can count on her. Now I need to engage the dad, using language and a metaphor that will motivate him to try new things. He’s wearing a Raiders tee, so I decide to try a football analogy.
I turn to a big whiteboard propped against the wall. “Let’s make a list of what’s getting in the way of making changes
so everyone in the family can win. As your family coach, it’s my job to help you guys find a plan that leads to success—which means everyone in the family is getting what they need.”
We make good progress problem solving as I draw on the board in an abbreviated version of a football play. An animated sparkle brightens Ikaika’s eyes; he’s engaged with this, seeing it as a team challenge now and not criticism on his parenting. He even jokes about joining his son in a pushup contest when he talks back. Lisa easily transitions to the new analogy.
Near the end of the session, Lisa gives me a meaningful glance and goes out to check on the kids. She’s trying to get me to “talk sense” to her husband, who she sees as the main parenting problem.
“Toby. I know dat name,” Ikaika says, with a lilt of pidgin. I glance at him, wondering why he’s bringing this up. We’ve been through the initial “where you from, who’s your people” of a first session that’s part of the culture here in Hawaii. Credibility with this family was increased when I told them I grew up in Hawaii and have worked in the public schools on Maui for the last twelve years. I’m kama`aina, or “child of the land,” a long-time resident, not a haole fresh off the airplane.
“At least you’re not telling me you had a dog named Toby. That’s what I usually hear when people comment on my name,” I tell him.
Ikaika laughs. “I knew a haole girl named Toby on Kauai, back in grade school.”
“You did? Because I grew up there!” Kauai’s population remains small, and people who are “grown here not flown here” are fewer than sunrise shells on the beach. “Did you go to Hanalei School?”
“Yeah. We were in class together. Dat girl, she had hair like you—and freckles.” His voice sounds warm, not critical, and his whole face smiles. “I knew when I heard your name that you had to be her.”
He wanted to take my measure first, before he said anything. I’m not surprised by this at all. Hawaiians are usually outwardly friendly, but slow to open up to real relationships outside of their immediate circles. Many people try to settle in the Islands, enamored of palm trees and good weather, but those who last are few. Complicating race relations further, the native Hawaiians’ trust was betrayed and their lands stolen. They invented aloha, but they also were fierce warriors with very long memories.
I never forget I’m the wrong color to do anything but earn my place here and prove I’m worthy of their trust.
“What are the chances?” I tug a wayward lock of my hair. “This always made me stand out back then.”
“Remember Mr. Nitta? That’s the last time I saw you.”
“Of course. Remember the tidal wave kits? My parents nevah have the right stuffs fo’ go inside.” I do a little pidgin, too.
“Ho, so crazy. You think my family was going fo’ do dat kine?” He laughs, crinkles beside his bright brown eyes, and I recognize him suddenly, that kid I knew—one of several brothers, a wiry, funny middle child, always in motion, from a big hardworking family who lived at the back of Hanalei Valley. We grin at each other, members of a tiny and exclusive club.
“You were so good at drawing and writing stories,” he says. I’m embarrassed that he remembers so much about me, and I don’t remember much about him but his laugh. “Where’d you go after fifth grade? You just disappeared.”
“It was hard being haole there,” I say evasively.
Ikaika drops his eyes. “I know it was bad. I remember those days. I’m Kira Yoshimura’s cousin. For all we did back then, I’m sorry.”
Kira Yoshimura. The bane of my elementary school existence is summoned before us by her name. Petite, with lovely hula hands, shiny mynah-bird hair, a mouth like a cherry lollipop, and hard brown eyes.
He’s Kira’s cousin. Was he one of those in the group that beat me with sticks and lily bulbs after hula practice? Those faces have mercifully blurred in my memory, but forty plus years after those events, I feel tears well up. I cover my mouth with my hand as we gaze at each other, suddenly two kids on the playground again—two kids who might have been friends if they’d been allowed to be.
I saw Kira Yoshimura once, thirty years ago, when I was twenty-one. Surrounded by my wedding party, I was headed in to a rehearsal brunch at the ritzy Princeville Hotel. Kira was still tiny and beautiful, wearing the fitted hostess muumuu of the resort, a plumeria pinned behind her ear. She walked toward us, and I recognized her instantly. My heart stuttered with old terror, and I froze.
Kira’s face beamed into a genuine smile. “Toby!” She exclaimed. “Oh, girl, you so pretty! And you’re getting married, congratulations!” There was not a shadow of antipathy in her demeanor as she set the menus aside to hug my rigid body. Somehow, I introduced her to my fiancé and the rest of the wedding party as “my classmate from Hanalei School.” She led us into the banquet area, seated us, and gave me a friendly wave goodbye.
I wondered, for years, how Kira could appear to have so completely forgotten her bitter hatred and cruelty toward me. To this day I don’t understand it.
And now, seated beside her cousin Ikaika, I remind myself that I have nothing to fear. In fact, I’m the one in charge here, the “coach,” the one with the answers. I’ve worked damn hard to come all this way and sit in the “expert” chair, and I do it to help.
“I’m sorry,” Kira’s cousin says again. “We don’t act like that anymore. I don’t let my kids hate haole like that.”
“Mahalo. This means more than I can say.”
How could he know how surreal this moment feels, how filled with grace? My hands tremble as I set down the clipboard. I’m broadsided by this collision with my past as my hands come up to cup my cheeks, and my eyes overflow. His apology washes over me, a priceless gift.
“Thank you,” he says. “Now you helping us. So funny, eh?”
“I can’t believe I’ve met you again, and here of all places,” I tell him. “We’ve both come a long way.”
“All the way to Maui,” he says. We both laugh, because moving from one island to another is a very big deal when you’re from here.
We stand up and hug, because Hawaii people are huggers, and we go out to the waiting room. He announces to his wife and kids that we’re classmates, two of the few that went to a little school amid the taro fields of Hanalei in the 1970’s. More hugs ensue.
This family is going to do great in therapy, and my chest is tight with happiness that I get to be a part of their lives.
Me and Mike, engaged 1986
I pick up my travel bag and lock the beautiful home I own halfway up Haleakala on Maui. I get into my highly reliable Honda Civic with my husband Mike, who is driving me to the airport. After I stow my bag, we hold hands as we drive down the volcano. We’ve been married more than thirty years now, and it’s been a constant adventure. Our kids are grown and gone, and we’ve been finding the “empty nest” a satisfying place to be.
How an eighteen-year-old college-bound kid and a twenty-eight-year-old surfer fell in love and stayed that way for so long is a tale for another day.
“I’m nervous about this trip to Kauai,” I tell him. “It’s a big deal to go back there.”
Mike glances at me with those blue eyes I never get tired of. He squeezes my hand with his big warm one. “It’ll be good for you and your mom.”
Mom and I are continuing to heal the wounds of the past, and as part of that, she’s invited me to return to some of the places that have haunted us—we’re visiting the Forest House together one last time, while it’s still standing. Our tiny abode in the jungle is slated to be torn down to make way for a state park.
“I hope going there will give us both some closure.”
“It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure. The island’s changed so much,” Mike says.
“I’m glad the Forest House is still there, and I love it that Mom wants us to go see it again, together.” Mom’s joie de vivre is still the same after all these years, and I’m looking forward to having time alone with her to reminisce about those wil
d days.
The jungle arches over us, lush and thick, as Mom and I pick our way down a muddy track I last saw forty-plus years ago. Damp, embedded rocks are slippery obstacles. The little Chihuahua that Mom’s pet-sitting tugs on her leash, an additional hazard for a fifty- and seventy-year-old making a journey back in time.
“Maybe rubber slippers weren’t the best choice,” I observe as familiar red Kauai mud sucks at our shoes.
“What else would we wear?” Mom says. It’s true. “Rubbah slippahs” are the footwear of choice in Hawaii.
Mom and I have had a bumpy journey, both in our relationship and in life after we left this island. We’re trespassing down memory lane, and the gash of bulldozed track we’re on was once a boulder-strewn path where I learned to ride a bike.
The lullaby of the stream alongside us casts a spell that ignites memory. I look up to catch the way the light filters through giant tropical vines dangling from Java plum, guava, rose apple, and breadfruit trees. Bamboo grass and ferns carpet the forest floor. A shama thrush trills a liquid song from somewhere nearby, and I’m transported back to when I lived here, in the shadow of drip-castle mountains wrapped in empty beaches and aqua surf.
Mom and I both gasp in shock as we reach the little cottage that we called the Forest House.
The building’s listing to one side, and the roof is caved in. A limb must have fallen from the giant monkeypod tree that looms over the house, a tree that didn’t exist when we were last here. The paint is peeling, and the front door hangs open like a missing tooth.
The three lokelani rose bushes, marking the abandoned graves of Hawaiians, still survive in the front yard—the only thing that’s the same.
We go to the back door since the front porch is crushed. The back steps, too, have disintegrated into the leaf mold of the yard, but I grasp the jamb and pull myself up into my childhood home. I turn and give Mom a hand. “Thank God we came now. This won’t be here at all much longer,” she exclaims.