Sisterchicks Do the Hula Page 12

  I put the pouch in my bag and glanced around to make sure no one had seen me take it. That was too easy.

  Convincing myself that my thievery was for a good cause, the best cause, I returned my attention to the surfing lessons. Laurie’s instructor pointed toward the water and made a rolling motion with his hands. Laurie nodded and turned to give me a lipless grin. I waved.

  Timidly, Laurie approached the water. Sliding the board in front of her, she stretched out, tummy first, and daintily adjusted her legs so that her ankles were together. She started to paddle out to where her instructor was patiently floating, straddling his board as comfortably as if he were hanging out at a tailgate party. It almost looked as if he could fit a small hibachi on the end of his surfboard and cook up a few burgers while waiting for Laurie to splish-splash her way out to him.

  The distance they had to paddle to reach the waves appeared to be much farther than when we were watching surfers make their way toward the shore. It looked like a lot of work.

  As soon as Laurie stopped and repositioned herself on the board, I grabbed the camera again and focused in for a few shots. The instructor was right beside her on his board, showing Laurie in one fluid motion how to stand up. He lowered himself and demonstrated the procedure again. And again.

  I felt nervous for Laurie because so many other surfers were out there in the same area, all vying to catch the same, slow-curling waves. I predicted a traffic jam on the more desirable waves.

  Laurie waited until the water was calm enough to try standing up. She made it on her fourth attempt and held her balance in the flat water. I shot a picture of her with her arms out like a scarecrow before she tumbled off the board. She got back on and balanced herself again, ready to stand when the next wave came.

  “Look at you! You are about to surf your first wave, you clever girl, you!” I didn’t care if anyone heard me; I couldn’t subdue my cheerleading heart. “Way to go, Laurie!”

  The instructor pointed to the rolling wave that was headed toward them. Laurie got into position and stood at just the right moment when the wave crested.

  “Come on! You can do it!”

  She was up!

  I let out a cheer and snapped the memorable moment. Laurie was riding that wave like a pro!

  In the close-up of the camera frame, I could see another surfer heading right toward her. He had what looked like a small bundle on the nose of his surfboard. Laurie leaned back slightly with her arms flapping like a marionette in slow motion. The other surfer did some sort of foot maneuver and cut his board sharply to the right just a second before he would have collided with Laurie.

  The surfer went into the deep blue, but the hood ornament on his board leaped in the air and landed on the nose of Laurie’s board. She wobbled like a tightrope walker caught in an earthquake. I zoomed in the camera and couldn’t believe what I saw.

  It was a dog! Laurie had a confident-looking Chihuahua sitting front row on her surfboard with its ears pinned back, taking the ocean spray face first.

  I started clicking shots like crazy. Awkwardly rising to my feet, I trotted down to the water and tried to focus so I could take a clear picture as Laurie came into shore. I captured a great shot of her face. Her expression was a wild mix of surprise, laughter, and pride. The dog remained stoically indifferent to the identity of its driver. He was in it for the thrill and apparently knew when to jump one ship and catch a ride with the nearest vessel heading to shore.

  I waved and called out to Laurie. “You did it!” I don’t know if she heard me because she was in the process of falling off into the shallow water. Her instructor was right behind her, laughing deeply. The dog was still sitting on the surfboard.

  I could hear Laurie talking since they were only a few yards away. “What do I do with this little guy? Can he swim?”

  “I’ll take ’im. Come ’ere, Moku. He surprised you, big time, eh?”

  “I didn’t see where he came from.”

  “Dis is Moku. He’s a big-time surfer like Duke Kahanamoku. He likes to take a ride any time he can get it.” The instructor scooped up the wet little dog and planted him on the front of his surfboard. “You ready for another one?”

  “Are you talking to me or to Moku?”

  “Both.”

  “Sure, I’m ready.” Laurie turned and waved to me. The smile on her face was a sunbeam machine, shooting out happy particles in every direction. She tossed me a big kiss and got back on her board in the forward paddle position.

  “You go, Gidget!” I yelled at the top of my voice. I couldn’t wait to get this roll of film developed. I clicked shots like crazy, planning to use up the roll.

  Laurie caught two more waves. Neither of them brought her as close to shore or turned out as memorable as the first one. I stood and applauded, as she wearily lugged her surfboard back to the surf shack.

  “Wait! One more picture,” I called out. She stood in the hot sand, dripping wet, with that triumphant smile on her face and the yellow surfboard under her arm. “Look at you, surfer girl! You did it! Way to go!”

  Laurie gave me a dazzling smile before tromping through the sand to return the board. Dripping and gleaming, she returned to her towel and caught her breath.

  “You did it! What a little Gidget you are.”

  “Did you see me, Hope? I surfed!”

  “I know. I got it all on film. Even the hitchhiker.”

  Laurie breathed out a giggle. “I couldn’t believe it when that little dog jumped on the board!”

  “I couldn’t believe you kept your balance.”

  “It’s much harder than it looks.”

  “You did great, Laurie.”

  “My arms are so sore.”

  “I noticed you went for the half-hour lesson instead of the hour.”

  “It was a good thing, too. I wouldn’t have lasted an hour. Getting out to the waves is hard work. I’m exhausted.”

  “But you did it, Laurie! You went surfing. In Hawai’i. I’m so proud of you.”

  Laurie laughed. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Oh, wow.” She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lay on her back, with her beaming face turned toward the late afternoon sun. Her smile had not yet diminished. “Thank you, Hope,” she murmured on her slow float to dreamland.

  “Why are you thanking me?”

  “You’re the one who made it happen. I wouldn’t have tried surfing if you hadn’t talked me into it.”

  “Well, thanks goes to you, too. Neither of us would be sitting here on the beach at Waikiki if you hadn’t talked me into it all those years ago.”

  Laurie reached over to where I sat in my low beach chair and gave my ankle a squeeze. “I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you.”

  “I feel the same way.” I drew in the salty tang of the sea air. A fresh breeze came skittering off the waves and went to work as a tireless weaver, pulling invisible threads from my heart to Laurie’s and back to mine, knitting us together, closer than ever.

  “Hey, before you fall asleep,” I said. “Can you tell me how to take the film out of the camera? I used up the whole roll.”

  Laurie leaned over, and with a few snaps, she had the film out. Then she opened her straw bag in search of a replacement roll.

  “Hope, where’s the pouch with the film?”

  Busted.

  I handed Laurie the pouch and watched a look of relief come over her face. My mistake had been in removing the entire pouch. I should have just removed the used film. She had so many rolls, a few wouldn’t have been so easily missed. Next opportunity, I knew what to do.

  As Laurie fell into a sleep of sweet contentment, I watched the surfers and thought about how I really wished I could have tried surfing with Laurie. My husband and sons would have been so proud of me. I would have been proud of me.

  Oh, well, little Emilee and I would have to find something else that the two of us could do that didn’t require extra insurance coverage. Perhaps the contentment season I was entering mea
nt I should be satisfied with sitting back and watching my “older” friend while she did all the swimming with the dolphins. Or at least with the Chihuahuas.

  I reached into my bag for the book about Juliette Cooke that I’d bought at the Mission Houses Museum. At least I could comfort myself with some soothing history of the Victorian era. I flipped open to one of Juliette’s journal entries near the back.

  November 30, 1855

  I thought my duties in peopling the earth were over, having lived to the age of 43 and been the mother of 6 human beings, but it seems likely to be otherwise. According to present appearances, the month of March may see me again a mother.

  I grinned. Not only did this woman serve tea to Hawaiian royalty and teach their children to read and write music, but also, just like me, she had another baby later in life.

  A following journal entry caught my eye because the word Waikiki was listed next to the date. I wondered how different this beach I was sitting on had been when Juliette made the entry on October 10, 1860.

  Waikiki … has become the fashionable bathing place of the foreigners … The tide comes in, and we all, even to little Clarence, rig in our bathing dresses and hats and sally forth … The girls all swim … a great squealing and laughing … ducking them, head and all under water—sometimes hauling them out to sea.

  I read a bit more and learned that Juliette’s baby had been a ten-pounder. Then I leaned back, letting the information sink in. Juliette had bobbed in the waves on this very same beach almost 150 years ago. She apparently didn’t let life happen to everyone else while she sat back and watched.

  That’s when I realized I couldn’t wait another minute. If that New England missionary woman could have a baby at the age of forty-four and go swimming in the Pacific at the age of forty-eight, what was I doing sitting in this beach chair? I was only thirty-nine!

  With a strong-armed push, I stood, flipped off my sunglasses, kicked off my sandals, and set my face toward the deep blue sea. “Laurie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going in the water.”

  “Okay, have fun,” she murmured.

  “I will.”

  With my chin high, I sallied forth into the ageless Pacific. I didn’t stall or take the water inch-by-inch to acclimate myself. I stepped right into the shimmering blue until it was up to my thighs, and then I dove under.

  Oh, the sensation of coming up, covered in glittering drops of warm salt water with all the tiny liquid diamonds forming rainbows on my eyelashes. Being careful to find an area where the surfers weren’t charging toward the shore, I hauled my little Emilee out to sea, where we kicked and floated and splashed around with abandon. Several times I heard myself laughing aloud.

  What was that verse in Psalm 100? Something about “bring a gift of laughter.” That’s what I’m bringing to You today, Lord, because You have filled me with such joy!

  The shore looked different from this vantage point in the water, not the same as when we were in the catamaran. I felt like a mermaid, popping my head up to see the stretch of white sand dotted with people. Beyond the sand was a gathering of trees at Kapiolani Park. Rising behind the trees, mauka, were the hills that lined a broad, green valley. I floated on my back, watching a flock of fluffy clouds hop over the hills like spring lambs out for a frolic while the trade winds tried to herd them back out to sea.

  In all the world there can’t be a more beautiful place than right here, right now.

  Slowly puttering my way toward shore on the tail of a frothy wave, I rose and shook the salt water from my ears and hair. I could feel Emilee doing itty-bitty flip-flops as I strode back to my towel.

  “Hey, little surfer girl,” Laurie greeted me and handed me a towel to dry my face. “I saw you out there splashing around. Looked like you were having fun.”

  “It was delicious! This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. The water is so warm.”

  “I know. Hey, don’t lie down yet. I fixed your spot. Now you can lie on your stomach. I hollowed out a little dip so Emilee can burrow in the sand.”

  “You’re too good to me, Laurie.”

  “I try.”

  After slathering myself with more sunscreen, I nestled in my custom-designed space and kept telling Laurie how beautiful the water was.

  “You know,” she said. “I think God must really enjoy the way you appreciate His creation so much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Even in college you were always noticing the moon or the shape of a certain leaf. You appreciate the beauty of creation more than anyone I know. I thought of that the other evening when you read that verse about inviting God to enjoy His creation.”

  “Oh, right. In Psalm 104.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, because I know what it’s like to enjoy something I’ve created.”

  “Like your photos,” I said.

  “Exactly. But what would it be like for the thing that was created to turn around and express mutual enjoyment of the moment to the Creator?”

  I wasn’t sure I followed her.

  “Think of all the criticism God must hear every day. But not from you, Hope. Every day I hear you express awe and delight for everything around you that He created. You are enjoying His work of art right alongside Him, yet you are part of that work of art. Can you imagine how that must make Him feel?”

  I couldn’t.

  “I think I understand something I never understood before.”

  “What’s that?” The revelations seemed to be coming at Laurie so quickly I couldn’t even try to keep up.

  “I think I understand how deeply the Creator must love the parts of His creation that love Him back.”

  “Laurie, you definitely are getting wise in your old age.”

  She didn’t respond. She seemed deep in thought.

  I closed my eyes and settled in for a little snooze. I slept so soundly that when I woke, I told Laurie she should patent her sand-belly bed and find a way to sell it to pregnant women who had a hard time getting comfortable enough to fall asleep.

  “The sand might get a little messy,” she said. “But aside from that, sure. Why not?”

  “What was that Hawaiian oven Amy told us about last night?”

  “The imu?”

  “Yes. You could call your invention the imu and sell it to people on the islands who have beach houses because they’re used to a lot of sand everywhere, right?”

  “Hope, they use an imu to roast little piggies.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Never mind.”

  Deciding we were done roasting our thoroughly salted little piggies in the hot sand, Laurie and I returned our beach equipment to the “dude” at the surf shack and headed back to our room. But we got sidetracked when we saw the Saturday market at Kapiolani Park across the street from the beach.

  From a distance, it appeared similar to flea markets I’d frequented in Connecticut, with two notable differences. First, the ever-present trade winds kept the tarp flaps in motion. It looked like the blue sheets were cooling themselves and their shelterees with languid fanning motions. That did not happen at New England flea markets. The summer air sits upon my corner of the world like a fat and sassy cat who only occasionally flicks its tail to give the impression of some movement. I much preferred the island breezes.

  The second difference was the types of items sold. Aside from the usual T-shirts, candles, and handmade silver jewelry, this outdoor market carried things I’d never seen sold at home. One booth offered wind chimes made of coconut shells. Another carried polished gourds and teakwood salad bowls. We passed a booth that sold lava stones and shark teeth. These two items were wrapped with braided twine, and a sign promised increased energy flow to the kapu regions of the brain when worn around the forehead.

  Laurie and I kept walking.

  The booth that caught our attention was one where an artist sat doing calligraphy. His gray-streaked hair swirled down his back in one long tendril, like a tornado. He
appeared to be in his fifties, but his skin looked as though it was already in its eighties.

  Hanging from a Peg-Board behind him were dozens of names written in rainbow-colored calligraphy. All the names were in Hawaiian. A list hung nearby showing the English and Hawaiian versions of names.

  “There’s your name,” Laurie said.

  Hope was “Mana’olana,” Laurie was “Lali,” Emilee Rose was “Emele? Loke,” and Darren was “Kaleni.”

  “I wonder if all my girls are listed.” Laurie scanned the list.

  “Any name you want in calligraphy, I can do it,” the artist said. “English, Japanese, Hawaiian … doesn’t matter.”

  Laurie wrote down her daughters’ names, and he went to work on the three masterpieces.

  I didn’t bother to have him write out my sons’ names in Hawaiian, English, or Japanese because I knew they weren’t likely to be impressed with such a souvenir.

  The artist worked swiftly and skillfully. He spoke each of the names aloud before touching the brush to the paper.

  “I love the way the Hawaiian language sounds,” I said to Laurie. “I wish we had asked Kapuna Kalala to teach us more Hawaiian words when we were making the leis.”

  “Kapuna Kalala?” The artist looked up from his work. “She is highly honored in this area. There aren’t many kapunas left.”

  “Isn’t Kapuna her first name?” I asked.

  “No, it’s a title. A kapuna is a wise, elderly Hawaiian woman of distinction.”

  “Well, she certainly is all of that,” Laurie said.

  “Did the kapuna come near to you when she was teaching you?” he asked.

  “She got very close to Hope when we were about to leave,” Laurie said. “She said a prayer over Hope and Emilee Rose.”

  He dipped his head toward my middle. “Emilee Rose?”