Maui
We’re shooting at sixty-five miles per hour down the 163 north when Barb gets a call on her phone. Babygirl has Blue-tooth®, a kind of magic you-can-hear-and-speak-to-someone-else-system that allows her to keep both hands on the wheel while talking. I can’t hear everything, but here’s the gist of it. Nicole is going to Maui with Shane and the boys.
‘Big deal,’ I’m thinking. ‘Cole always goes to five-star resorts; works hard, brings home the bacon, eats tender juicy steaks, gets up at the crack of dawn. So when she’s off, she plays hard at places that make Disneyland pale in comparison.”
I don’t see an exaggerated look of excitement on Barb’s face that’s not explained by what I’ve overheard.
Then Barb looks over and says, “Nicole wants to know if we want to go to Hawaii.”
‘Hmmm, let me think about this for a micro-second.’
Barb turns her eyes off the highway, at the place where there’s a road sign advertising gambling at Sycuan Indian casino. During this millisecond I consider, and she considers, and we come to the same conclusion, flashing the decisive signal back and forth with our ojos. As much as going with Nicole and Shane to Hawaii is a gamble, it would be more fun than throwing money away on an Indian reservation in the San Diego hinterlands.
I enthusiastically nod yes, and she smiles, and delivers the message over Blue Tooth ®.
I’ve heard the story of Hawaii is a tale of ruthless principals. On the mainland, we stole the all the best land from the Native Americans and returned the scraps and worst pieces. I’m familiar with that story, westerns being our national film genre, Indian Wars, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, John Wayne cowboy persona, and all. Somehow the Euro Misfits immigrants and poor Dirty White Boy immigrants that made up America’s Immigrant Nation got hold of Hawaii too. I can’t imagine how that happened. Here were the Hawaiians, a sovereign island nation, with a King, and don’t tell me some American explorer waving Old Glory landed on Waikiki Beach one sunny day said,
‘Hey, this is a pretty nice island. Can I have it?”
And some big bronzed-skinned Kanaka-in-Charge put down his pineapple and longboard and replied, “Sure.”
This proves I know absolutely nothing about Hawaii and need to do research. Everybody has been there but me. I have to find out how the great island land grab happened, and if that’s not what happened, then I’ll find out what’s become of it now.
Over the next few miles Barb starts to go over a list. She’s The Mistress of Organization, whereas I’m The Captain of Chaos. It may be one reason we’re so good together.
“You’ll need to go in the garage, sort out the suitcases, and pack the umbrellas.”
“I have sunscreen, do you have sunscreen?”
“Yes, and I want a separate suitcase just for my books.”
Uh-oh, her precious books. Looks like I’m going to take the part of native bearer and the load is already getting too heavy. Wonder if the native bearers on Burton and Speke’s expedition had this problem when they searched for the source of the Nile. I’d e-mail a letter to find out but they’re all long dead these many years.
And the list goes on, and on, and grows with every twist and turn for the next fifteen miles.
Maybe I’ll write a travel journal. That’s what they did in the old days. What was good for Sir Richard Francis Burton is good enough for me. After all, by the beard of the Profit, and by the grace of God, the age of discovery isn’t over yet. Not for this crazy white crackerjack fella.
To be continued…
©StevenHunley2015
http://youtu.be/0iNlzRH7UBo Bringing Home the Bacon
http://youtu.be/r1JYZmT2uPQ The Holy Shrines
http://youtu.be/5HarLg46uU8 Dirty White Boy
http://youtu.be/2DHraWHABKg She Wore a Yellow Ribbon