My Oregon uniform is double-knee Carhartt pants loaded with one pencil, two Sharpies (one white, one black), nail clippers (great for removing splinters), a flashlight, an assortment of nuts, screws, bolts, used masks, and a pocketknife. And that's just the watch pocket. My Hawaii outfit was shorts, Chacos, and sometimes a shirt. Occasionally, water shoes for swimming. My pockets were empty. I became prone to fits of patting myself down when my brain sounded the alarm that something had been ejected. There's a local word for that, I'm sure.
The words on the Hawaiian Islands are abundant with vowels. It's like Russia took all the consonants and leftover letters drifted to the middle of the Pacific (The Great Pacific Vowel Patch?), where they washed ashore on the Hawaiian Islands. They proved handy when the Brits showed up and had to convert an aboriginal language that worked just fine for the locals into something able to be phonetically rendered on a street sign.
Tracey and I were invited to spend a week with her sister and brother-in-law, who had just retired from the Great PNW to the Big Island of Hawaii, perhaps a little sooner than their condo renovation was done and well past the date the work was promised completed. My skill set gave me a nice balance between visiting, making sawdust, and frolicking in the sea.
And the sea beckoned. I shucked my provincial tendency never to be seen without a shirt and wandered into the 77° deep blue ocean where the white sand slides subtly into the sea, and the waves break close to shore. Soon after meandering into the surf past the other beachgoers, I bobbed in the gentle swells under the sun. The water is a near-spiritual transparent green and blue that mingles nicely with the dynamic sky. The saltwater added a detectable buoyancy that made dropping to the sandy bottom and springing to the surface effortless. As a wave passed, I would go down to find the beach floor. When my feet met the sandy bottom, I'd push up into the dip between waves, grab some air, then sink blissfully. Again and again, like some physical mantra. An hour would go by in a minute, and it would be time to brave the kids and surfers between me and the shore. I'd find the shade, rehydrate, and try not to be annoyed at the people who had just as much right to be there are me. The surf changed dramatically between daily visits and always offered something new. That "new" could be a wrenching current that kept smart folk a little closer to the beach. The best surprise was seeing a sea turtle an arm's length away, cutting its way seaward. The movie Finding Nemo, which has nothing to do with 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, has anthropomorphized sea turtles with one word: Dude. To my shame, that ran through my head when swimming with this big guy. I'm sure sharing a bit of sea with something as ancient as a sea turtle will be an enduring memory.
Deb and Tracey are sisters who hadn't seen each other in a bit. It's delightful to see them lounging about catching up on those things saved for siblings. Deb's infectious love of the island is reflected in her smile and generosity. She was grateful for my willingness to jump on the condo's unfinished bits. Hanging mirrors and fixing dishwashers kept me from running naked to the shore and jumping in the water. There are laws. The other half of our host team is Fred. Comfortably of my generation, he would come out to share the nautical bobbing in the bay with me. He's one of those easy people who is who he is and tends to run pretty close to relaxed all the time. There is a reason he and Deb decided to embrace island life. It suits them both. Together he and I would let the sea have its way with us while chatting aimlessly through the afternoon. We had nowhere to be, which meant we were right where we wanted to be, until we got hungry.
Guy Fieri and his frosted tips dined across this island, and we followed his path to some of his favorite dives. He wasn't wrong about the places we visited. The longer we had to wait for our food and the more locals hanging around, seemingly oblivious to the heat and humidity, the better the food.
One does not experience a tropical island without experiencing heat and humidity. It is a little percussive for our delicate and comparatively desiccated Northwest sensibilities. It's exhausting but provides a reason to live in shorts and sandals. I marveled at the locals who could ignore the parka-in-a-sauna climate the way we eschew umbrellas here in the spring. As indifferent as the native people seem to be to the weather and torrent of tourists on the streets, they know how to treat people who wander into their shops and restaurants. I observed stunningly rude behavior by meme-worthy assclowns toward wait staff. Never was there a harsh look or word from the staff. While paying my bill, I complimented our server on her ability not to sink a bread knife to the hilt into a particular ghastly guest. She smiled and told me she had to spend a minute in the cooler after that one. I bumped her tip up 5%.
Just as we relaxed into vacation mode, we were visited by the plague. COVID spread through the household. Fevers and snot combined with seething exhaustion put a dead stop to all excursions. For reasons that certainly had nothing to do with clean living, the plague passed me by. Those around me retreated to their bedrooms with fluids and ibuprofen while I lazed on the lanai, watching the warm wind ruffle the palm trees or cloistered in a closet with borrowed tools installing closet systems. We all shared food, air, conversation, and car rides, yet my COVID tests consistently revealed only a single line. COVID tests in Corvallis are easy to find and free. On the big island, they are scarce and are $10. The shelves in the drug stores are dystopian with their lack of cold meds. We would not share a 757 with others for a six-hour flight home after having tested positive--because we are not assholes. We pushed our flight out for five days hoping for the best. If one must suffer the pangs of guilt for extended time away, being somewhere where one uses reef-safe sunblock is a plus.
Taking advantage of a little more time on the rock, Tracey and I loaded the car with water and decongestants and drove across the island to see the Pacific from what would have been the Atlantic side on our continent. The two-hour drive cut through the type of landscape I'd never seen. Tropical forests were separated by swaths of lava flows, the rough grey rock ripping apart the flora on its way to the ocean. The lava rock seems pissed off and is waiting to rub the skin off anyone getting close. The BDSM club sponsored hiking trails through the lava fields. (I made that up.) When heading out of Hilo, the countryside turned to grass-covered plains with sparse trees creeping up the sides of angry mountains. Glowering clouds were swirling around the radical topography. We emerged from those mountains to the sea and the highway that followed the coastline. We stopped at the beaches and lookouts and peered at them through our cameras, but always pausing the see the sights in full analog. The narrow highway twisted along the contour of the island, passing through little towns geared for the residents rather than the itinerate tourist traffic.
I felt we saw a time before the culture shifted to accommodate the invading hordes. Small farms and communities where old buildings with a patina wrought from the salt air set the tone. Garage sales and churches. Rusted trucks going ten miles per hour under the speed limit with loads that remain in the bed with nothing more than a good thought. Since no straps or tarps were involved, it had to be faith keeping the pallets and five-gallon buckets from breaking the windshields of those following. This scene could have been captured on any back road in Oregon. But, without the humidity. It was a gentle nudge to remind us we needed to get back to our world that was 3000 miles east of Hawaii.
The mood was a combination of wanting to stay and needing to return to our lives when we got to the airport, where we said our goodbyes. It was time to leave the friends, sands, sea, and palm trees behind. We passed through all the required scans at the hands of TSA and boarded the plane. After two bad movies and half a Chuck Palahniuk novel, we landed. The grey of the northwest was waiting for us in Seattle, like an old friend at the arrivals gate. A short hop later and we were in Portland trying to remember where we parked the car.
After almost two weeks in shorts, my suspenders seemed to pull a little harder against my shoulders. We were once again surrounded by life in our valley. Forests, lakes, rivers, and plains weave through our west coast, mainland lives. On a still and quiet night, you can feel the valley's living landscape breathe. The island is also surrounded by life. Perhaps the biggest organism on this planet. On any night, you can hear the surf and smell the salt. The clouds that roll through the quiet island afternoons are the same colour as the clouds that bless our valley year-round. It struck me that home is not only the people we love; it's where we see reflections of all the places we love. Life and clouds. Laughter and food. All these things make it easier to weather this damned virus, our unwanted travel companion.