#DeliaWouldGo

On February 25, 2016, the Eddie Aikau surf competition took place on Oahu’s North Shore at the world renowned Waimea Bay. It had only been the ninth time in over 30 years that the prestigious, invitation-only, meet took place due to stringent guidelines that require a minimum of continuous 20-foot open swells to hold the event held in Eddie’s honor.  It seems fitting that only the biggest waves be ridden by the best surfers in the world when considering that the meet’s namesake was notorious for surfing the largest and wildest swells for hours on end in his beloved bay. Eddie was the first lifeguard hired on the North Shore of O’ahu and Waimea Bay was his “home”.  Everyone knew that they were safe when he was on duty because no one died on Eddie’s watch.  It was his tenacity, his strength, his fearless grace and steely determination to ride the biggest waves and brave the most dangerous rescues, that inspired the phrase, “Eddie Would Go”.

Friends and family described him as being “full of aloha”, always ready to welcome and help another, attributes befitting his given Hawaiian name, “Makuahanai”, which translates to a parent who fosters, feeds or adopts. A native son of Hawai’i, Eddie’s love for the sea and his people earned him a spot on the Hokule’a, a voyaging canoe that set out to follow the ocean paths of ancient Polynesian ancestors, utilizing only traditional navigational tools and skills. When the canoe capsized several miles south of Moloka’i, it was Eddie who would “go”, as he hopped on a surfboard and paddled off towards land in an effort to save his crew. He was never seen again.

One may ask why I’m dedicating a blog to Eddie Aikau since I don’t surf and I’m certainly not a water person. I’m not quite sure myself except that as the island prepared for this rare event and thousands of people made the journey to the North Shore to share in it’s magnificence, I found myself moved and deeply interested. I pondered on the significance of this single human life and what he stood for. Here was a Hawaiian braddah, hailing from humble local circumstances, very little formal education and no career aspirations that the world would consider lofty or even economically sustainable. But Eddie followed his heart, his passion and I’d like to believe, the call of his ‘ohana and ancestors that came before him. He was brave, true, authentic. In a sports arena where your life was on the line daily, his courage and masculinity were not emblems of bravado and ego, but marks of an inherited, developed talent and gifts of service and aloha. He had to have been scared, whether riding a 30-foot-wave or paddling off to seek land on a lone surfboard. But he went anyway, time and again, he went despite any fears, self-doubts and expectations. He went because he loved; he loved and respected the ocean, he loved to surf, he loved people. And as a Hawaiian, as a woman, as a person of this ‘aina, I want to emulate the values that he stood for.

I’ve ridden many swells in my life and I’m fairly certain that I would have drowned without the help from God, family and friends. There have been days when I’ve looked out at the surf and thought, “should I stay on shore?” or “should I chance ‘um?”. In the last year, I’ve become the mom of a newborn and went back to school part-time to pursue a passion, while trying to balance a full-time career, a family and other responsibilities. Sometimes I want to call it a day, the waters seem too rough, the waves too high. But its when I do “chance ‘um”, its when I “go for broke”, that I enjoy the exhilarating rides of adventure, the satisfaction of fulfilling my potential and the joy that comes from doing what you love, and honoring who and where you came from. And so, if you’re reading this, I challenge you to catch the big wave, to chance ‘um. Because #EddieWouldGo and you can, too.

Going Home Again

Lately I've been listening to a song entitled, "The House That Built Me, " sung by country artist, Miranda Lambert. The lyrics speak of a woman who has a yearning to return once more to the home of her childhood and it starts out with her on the front steps asking the (now) owner of the home if she can go in and walk around.  She hopes that by touching and feeling the place, "this emptiness inside me might start healing" and continues to recall memories of her bedroom, her daddy building it by hand and a favorite dog buried under the oak tree out front.  As is my sappy practice, when I find a song I love, I play it two hundred times, sing along, shed tears and get all introspective. This time was no different.

I was raised in Kalihi at 1412 Kamehameha IV Road, in (what I believed then to be) a large, two-story home that was full of great places to hide, lots of neat stuff and a yard that wrapped around it on three sides.  Two large glass plane windows upstairs looked out on the small street and provided an ideal place to display a Christmas tree or watch the lights of neighboring KPT turn on every evening.  It is the only home I lived in as a child and one that lingers in my memories and heart until today.  In fact, it is the only house that I ever dream of, even as a grown woman.  None of the dwellings, including the home I own today, have made it's way into my dreams, go figure? Ironically, the home that my husband and I purchased 10 years ago is only one street over from the famous Parker house. And yet, I rarely drive or walk past it, perhaps deliberately.

So today, as I decided to take an early morning walk around the neighborhood, I found myself drawn to 1412.  I stood gazing at it across the street, at first, and after a moment's hesitation, walked over to stand in it's driveway.  An older Filipino man was in the garage cleaning out his car and he didn't notice me at first.  I took in as much as my eyes could behold-so many changes-the color of the house, new fencing, another set of stairs, a cement driveway, dogs in the yard (something grandma would never allow, though we tried to sneak animals in once or twice). And everything looked so much. . .smaller.

"Can I help you?", the man asked.

"I just wanted to take a look at the house, I grew up here", was my reply.

"Yeah, ok", and he returned to his task.

Hmmm, maybe he didn't hear me. "I was raised here, lived here for over 20 years and I just wanted to see the place."

"Yes, well good morning to you, then", he replied with an irritated tone.

Hmmm, this wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped. What did I expect? An invitation to come in and walk around, shoot the breeze about the family that lived here two decades ago?

"How long have you lived here?", I tried again. 

At this point, he gave up trying to clean his car, figuring I wasn't going to leave him alone until he engaged in conversation with me. "Four years," he finally said.

A young boy peeked down at us from the big window upstairs, just like I used to when someone came to visit.  We talked for a couple minutes and he asked where my family was and I said that my parents and grandparents had passed and he told me, "rich or poor, everyone dies one day, yeah?".  I nodded and told him there were so many changes and asked if I could touch the garage wall. He obliged and I reached my fingers out, expecting to feel the familiar rough texture of the cement blocks that I'd leaned against a thousand times and found it had been replaced by a hollow wall.

I looked at the unkempt yard, once the pride and joy of my grandmother, a woman who arose at the crack of dawn and returned at dusk to water and tend to her beloved plants. I could picture the bird of paradise and torch ginger, the array of plumeria trees bearing pink, white and yellow flowers. I recalled the banana and papaya trees, the bushes and shrubs and the magnificent mango tree in the back which was aptly named "King". King was a haven for birds, the bearer of hundreds of juicy mangoes every season, the temptation of every housing kid who tried to steal his succulent fruit, the provider of numerous climbing adventures and a shelter for the many children who played in it's shade, year in and year out.

The memories fluttered around me and I spoke to the worn, old structure in my mind.

"It's me", I whispered, "I've come back to visit you, I never forgot you. I dream about you all the time.  Do you remember how my brothers and sisters and I used to make a racket running up and down the stairs? How clean mom kept you? How wonderful it smelled when she baked biscuits from scratch and cakes for our birthdays and turkeys at Thanksgiving?"

"Do you remember the hand-made coconut goblets that lined the dining room walls that my grandpa made? And the huge dinner table that I'd hide under when I was scared or the giant bed in grandpa's room that he built, too?  Can you recall all the many, many people who walked up the front stairs to visit, celebrate, talk story and seek shelter over the years? Do you remember how loud grandma cried when she found out my dad died? And how many books he had in his bedroom? And how we all slept together in one room for the longest time? And how we played war games at night in the yard and climbed over the fence to play with the neighbors and jumped off the back wall? Can you still hear the music we played and the songs we sang, the late night talks and bursts of laughter ringing through the house? Do you know that you were a refuge, a hang out for our friends and a 'second home' to so many others? Do you remember the rites of passage-the first kisses and newlyweds who needed a place to start out and the newborns that grew and crawled down these halls? Do you remember?".

I've always believed that houses have a spirit and hold the memories and energy of it's family and I wondered about the new inhabitants. Did they ever hear the echoes of the family who made this house a home? Did this big old house keep their secrets, as well? Could it possibly love them as it did us?

As I caressed the hollow garage wall, I found myself feeling that very thing. . .empty. It was as if this new wall and that new fence and those new plants in the yard had no concept of all that took place before and it felt like the spirit that used to live here had. . .gone, just as we had.  Now I know that sounds crazy and perhaps I am.  Maybe I expected too much, maybe I hoped too much, or maybe I just. . .moved on.

I thanked the old man and headed back home. . .home to a single-story house with a big glass window where my dog appears, barking madly whenever I return.  Home to my son in the front driveway riding his bike, to my husband in the office and my in-laws watching television, to my Filipino neighbors who greet me cheerfully.  And I know that the four walls and roof that houses my family, wherever that may be through the years, is the place that I will consider home and it will hold new memories. . .but the house, and the family, and the neighborhood, and the friends, and the childhood that built me will always, always live in my heart. . .and most likely, in my dreams. 

This is the Life!

Saturday in Hawai'i and I've decided to do what thousands of islanders do every Saturday-no, not go swap meet-but hit the b-e-a-c-h! Though born and raised on what is arguably the most beautiful set of islands in the world, surrounded by pristine beaches and the glorious warm Pacific ocean, I'm ashamed to say that I've never really been a beach goer. Don't get me wrong, I love our beaches and I've always felt the ocean was sacred and beautiful. But alas, I've spent more evenings on the beach, playing a guitar and cruising with my friends, than I have days baking in the sun and ripping a wave.

I mean, there's so much pre and post work that goes into a family beach day-packing, prepping the food, slathering on the sun screen, pulling out the boogie board, finding a parking space. And then there's afterwards-the sand in the car, the sand in your. . .everywhere, the salt in your hair, the wet clothes and towels that need to be washed right away, the unpacking. . .*sighs*. I must admit that my laziness has contributed to my absence from our white sandy shores. But not this day! I reckoned that it was time to buck up and live like a true island family, and so, to the East Shore Hubby, Sonny and I went.

The sign reads "Waimanalo Bay" but the locals call it Sherwood Forest. In Hawaii, we have an interesting phenomena of mini forests that grow right near the ocean. Upon arriving, my little ohana excitedly unloaded and dragged our10x10 tent, cooler, blanket and back packs through the pine needles and cones. As we cleared the trees, I caught my breath. What lay before me was the stuff of postcards-white sand stretching as far as the eye could see, hues of green and blue ocean, rabbit island to the right and the mountains behind us. Yes, this is why people save up for a lifetime to step foot on these sands and swim in our waters and I was touched by the sheer beauty of God's handiwork.

We pitched our tent, lay down the blanket and all our stuff and my son ran off towards the water with his boogie board (while refusing to take off his shirt because he's in this weird "I don't wanna show my body" phase. Wait til you get older, buddy!). It was a windy day and the water was rough. To top it off, there were warning signs with bright orange flags down the beach that read "Beware: Man-o-War". Great, the one day we come and we have to worry about Portuguese man-o-war. No childhood would be complete on this island without a sting from one of those bubbly creatures, followed by a cousin or sibling making shi shi on it to get the poison out. I think of yelling after my child, but see that he's decided on a quick dip and has resorted to playing on the shore, waves are too rough. You can tell we don't frequent the beach because little girls younger than him are braving the shore break to ride the waves, but he doesn't seem to mind.

I have a confession to make: I've only been in the ocean ONCE in almost 7 years! This would be my second time. The thought of traipsing around in a bathing suit had been enough of a deterrent to keep me in the shade all these years, but it was a new day, a new year! "Are you going swimming, hon?", asked Hubby with a hint of incredulity in his voice. Me: "Yes, I am!" Hubby: "Are you planning to wear your pants in the water?". Hmmm, tempting. I moved quickly before I could change my mind, and walked out into the sunlight with nothing but a bathing suit and lava lava on. I tried to ignore the fact that I was whiter than the haole people on the beach. Heck, the old haole man to my left in his speedos was darker than my husband! What started out as a little self-consciousness soon led to a long overdue revelation-I LIKED the beach! It was a gorgeous sunny day and as I dipped in the water (and got pummeled on the shore by the waves, while I attempted to get my bearings, all the while pretending I was in control and my son shouting, "isn't this fun, mom!?", but I digress) and lay in the hole that my son and I dug together, sunglasses on, face tilted towards the azure sky, I thought to myself, "This is the life!".

While I got a much needed tan, I took a moment to reflect on how a beach day in Hawaii is a wonderful tribute to the way we live here and why I love my island home. 1) It's freakin' gorgeous! Enough said. 2) Family comes first. One has only to view the dozens of family groups, multiple generations coming together to enjoy a family day to know that doing things as a family is how we do things in Hawaii.   3) Locals love to grind! Food is an integral part of our lives here-one has only to look around at the locals with their hibachi grills-kalbi ribs, teriyaki chicken, poke, spam musubi, noodles, mac salad, rice and manapua to appreciate our diverse cuisine and appetite for food and life. 4) We no care how you look! You got your range of body types on the beach-from the wispy blonde and Asian girls to the BGs (Big Girls) rockin' their bikinis or board shorts. Braddahs with ripped abs shredding the surf, or big blalahs with their opu hanging over their shorts. Tattoos, shades, slippahs, ehu hair, no hair, we got it all and you can look like you want and not worry about being judged or ridiculed.  5) We get ALOHA! You see it in people's smiles, you hear it in the greetings, you taste it in the shared food, witness it when you see all the keiki playing together on the beach (Hawaiian, Filipino, Japanese, Chinese, Haole, Samoan, Micronesian, etc.).

Ah yes, just another beach Saturday in Hawaii. . .think I'll do it again, soon.