The second part of my Maui adventure, from Oct. 18-22, began with a rocky start, or perhaps a wet one.
We'd just come back from the Kamala Village square or nightclub central "Triangle", as Ron called it, in south Kihei. It's the kind of place I would want to share with a close friend or lover: music, tiki torches, neon lights, warm air and palms, and no matter who else you meet, you have each other. But I didn't have anyone --- only a bunch of people I hardly knew. Feeling desperately lonely in this big group of people, I broke down and wept as we approached camp in the car. It is the kind of situation when a person might wonder: Is it more painful to have loved and lost, or never loved at all? I am the latter, but sometimes I long for very close love.
That was when I met Pat. We talked into the wee hours, sitting in chairs next to the shoreline, and talking about so many things. A mother and grandmother, she "got" it and I let her comfort me. I don't remember most of what we discussed off the top, but it all helped immensely, and grew progressively funnier; I know Calvin and Hobbes entered the picture somewhere, and yes, we both knew what that is. I went from stuffy-nosed and weeping to grinning and laughing through my tears, grateful for companionship. Maybe this wouldn't be my one single "dream trip", with my perfect date or whatever, but I would make the best of it, with who I had around me. Awkward or painful times also help you appreciate the good times.
Next day things began looking up. Unable to handle any more wrong directions or air conditioning, I joined a group heading to the Sugar Museum . . . in Lin's rented convertible Camaro! With the warm wind whipping my face and the engine revving, I could live large for a bit in my own little way.
The Sugar Museum is a bittersweet place. It documents a history of people and progress (or so some call it), of innovation and migration, but also of back-breaking work for rock-bottom wages. Immigrants from around the world came to work . . . and then went on strike for better conditions. Plantation-type barracks were replaced with individual family homes, and towns with full amenities grew up around the single beating heart that a sugar mill represented:
Dad visited here over ten years ago; of course he would! He loves history. If he comes back, he will have discovered Maui's last sugar mill has closed, as of 2016. But the museum still offers the full experience, with the exception of a factory tour.
And just look at this cauldron!!! Instant love! This is the biggest cauldron I have ever seen, in photos or in person, so it's an honor to touch it. Snape would crap his britches! It's perfect. (Too bad I can't get it home; I checked the airplane baggage fees, and they're horrendous! What gives? Friends on social media quickly began responding: "Get yourself some oars and paddle it home!") Called a "try pot", it was once used to render whale blubber into oil, before the mill got its hands on it for boiling sugar cane. It proved ill-suited for this use. Still, I like the sugar idea better!
Besides the magic-plus-elbow-grease of sugar processing, the alchemy of the foundry, with its molten iron and sand box-molds as familiar to me from Dad's work, was also present. It was cheaper for the mill to have its own on-site foundry and make its own parts. Likewise, the mill saved literally tons of money and resources . . . by burning old sugar cane stalks as fuel, instead of coal.
As a souvenir, I bought some ready-to-chew sugar cane. Of course!
That afternoon, I had a wild hair up in to document how I'd packed for Maui. Everything was working quite nicely. Besides little things, my sandals, water-shoes and snorkel stuff, and like one shirt, nearly everything is shown; the sarongs and tanning lotion I purchased. Word quickly spread that the young blonde woman had not needed to check any bags, and people began teasingly asking me if they could take tips on how I packed so lightly. My method had a simple premise, or two: I didn't want the worry of checking a bag, or the hassle of carrying a large one, and I wanted to spend as much time as close to nekkid as possible!
The next day, the 20th, I went with Pat again in Ron's truck to a place called Baby Beach. It was time to brave the art and challenge of snorkeling!
I was torn, typically, between sunbathing and snorkeling at first, but Pat was already eager to get in the water and teach me the ropes. Now: If you're like me, even someone well-meaning can exacerbate nerves if they're hovering. Such was the case. I took Pat's instructions as well as I could, but felt I was only testing her patience. As I first tried on the awkward fins and attempted to get used to the breathing tube, heading further out in the water, I kept panicking when water leaked in, then dogpaddling frantically for shore, gasping for air. I don't float well and am not a strong swimmer; I also told them I needed a floaty device, and they hadn't listened!
Ron Bearden himself saved the day. He led me up to his buddy's house near the beach, and the guy lent me his granddaughter's own "Frozen" themed boogie-board. How delightfully ironic, that on her first tropical trip, this high school ice queen and glacial science hopeful should be loaned ice princess gear!
The board made all the difference between fear and failure, and courage and success. Acting like a portable dock, it let me "haul out" as needed to adjust equipment, dump water out, rest a cramping limb, or just get a deeper breath. Now I could relax and learn the rhythm of breathing and using the fins. So my foray into deeper water began. . . .
My first thought was, Damn, these corals look creepy! Sickly, like they had it rough. Which they probably did, living on this human-infested beach. But life clearly still persisted, for amid the slimy brown were spreading patches of vibrant white covered with stubby little feelers. Bursts of yellow, and multi-armed anemones. Electric, UV-resonant, light bluish-purple polyps that danced in the eyes.
And the swimming creatures!!! The dozens of colored fish Dad had spoken of, which I later identified using my photos of Virginia's fish chart! I saw the Hawai'ian state fish (or Humuhumunukunukuapua'a) I'd first seen at Ka'anapali Beach, and lots of others, including what was possibly my favorite: a little black fish covered in tiny white polka dots and shaped like a box (aptly named "spotted trunkfish"). I soon learned to comb the sides, rather than the tops, of the coral reefs, for the fish hung out "under the eaves", as it were.
Then, tootling along over a coral hump, I saw the most magnificent surprise of all, as suddenly loomed in front of me a monstrous sea turtle, floating gently between surface and bottom, feeding, nibbling on the corals. Only the breathing tube in my mouth prevented me from saying something like, "Holy shit!" It was a beautiful, primal thing, big as a washtub, and no doubt used to petting, prodding humans. Still, I gave it three or four feet of space, watching only briefly before I swam away. What an incredible sight!
Turtles are a symbol of home and family, carrying houses on their backs and bearing many children in the sand
When I sensed the afternoon wearing on and my feet getting sore from the fins, I snorkeled my way back up the beach to our company. I got in a wee bit more sun before Pat pleaded for lunch, so we all drove into Lahaina, to a place Penelope and I had passed the first day: Down the Hatch ("a place to eat fish"), in the big open-air, tourist trap boardwalk outlet mall. Not much beats walking down Front Street in only a bikini and sarong!
Down the Hatch had good food, and it was happy hour. I got the Mermaid Fries and a delicious Lava Flow cocktail with coconut in a classically tacky tiki glass. Next to us, a man in a hat with guitar and soundtrack played Hawai'ian style music. The ahi tacos and shrimp were also wonderful.
I wanted to shop, but Ron had already texted to say he was nearing to pick us all up again. Besides, the night was not yet over. . . .
Most of us drove out to Kihei again, to a country club where dancing was scheduled, which is Ron's passion. Ron is a car salesman and has a lot of connections, which he uses to bring people together. I walked through a posh clubhouse room out back to a covered patio with fancy tiki torches, where a fine soul cover band was playing as the sun set over the ocean and Maui's western peak. Magnificent!
Now, with great music playing and plenty of room to move, I felt more at ease than I had on previous nights and immediately began to dance. I'd prepared well, too, with my pretty Hawai'ian blue skirt and floaty sheer top, choice jewelry, and the pinkish-blue lip gloss I'd made myself. I might not hang out frequently with these country-clubbers, but I'd rock what I had!
I didn't need food, and hadn't planned on buying a drink, but Ron bought a large number of not-too-sweet margaritas and offered me to partake, so I ended up having a couple, which contributed to a good time.
Inside the bar, I was reminded but pleasantly of back home: A sign for Kona Big Wave beer hung back there. I could not estimate how many bottles of that beer I've watched go by in our bottling factory in Portland, thinking faintly of Hawai'i and what part I might pick to visit. Now I was here!
After the soul band finished with a rousing rendition of Caribbean Queen at nine-thirty, some folks wanted to keep dancing, and went back to the Triangle, where we'd been the other night. I was tempted, having gotten all wound up and considering I might now make a better memory there, but instead I opted to end on a guaranteed positive note and head home to camp.
Living the dream --- a shaka "dope shot" heading home in the convertible
There I could relax and keep working on the souvenir projects I wanted to finish --- namely, a hanging carryall out of the coconut shell and to attach the lava rocks to one of my necklaces. Later, I joined a few others by the fireside.
My last Maui morning dawned with the usual chorus of birds and gently crashing waves. But this time, I strolled around camp rather meditatively, listening to all the changing sounds as I caught them on an audio recorder. Here was a part of Maui no one had any problem with me bringing home.
After that, I changed into my skimpiest bikini that I had made myself. I was bound and determined to do a few "dope shots", inspired mainly by Brandi Scott --- pictures of me at my silliest and/or sexiest, celebrating the body I'm in, which I can look back on with fondness and pride, and continue to inspire myself to aim high. We need reminders of our positive attributes sometimes, one of which might be our physical package.
We also might have trouble overcoming shame and acting silly or sexy for our own joy or sense of expression, not merely for someone else's entertainment. I worked to get these pics early, before people could wake, swarm camp, and start trying to interact with me. Few people will see these except me, and that's fine: There is freedom in thinking I'm smokin'-ass hot while not caring what others think, or if they even know. It was fun to make these photos. After an action-packed week, often fraught with the drama of 30-odd people thrown together and lashing out in frustration, it was important to add one more fun thing to this trip . . . and to meet a goal. I was here. I came, I saw, I lived and had fun.
F---k yeah! Not too much out of order physically with this gal, except the attitude! Then the sun rose and I became a golden sun goddess with a fresh tan. . . .
There is also victory in that this is not eighteen or twenty-four, not the illusory chosen youth of this practically pedophilic patriarchal culture we live in, obsessed with media perfection and plastic surgery, but an un-Photoshopped image of what, come Nov. 3, will be one-point-five years shy of forty. I look damn fine and am proud of my body!
hang loose bitches
The hours were growing short until the time when we'd have to bid goodbye to Camp Olowalu, and cross the ocean again. With help from Paul and his car, I made it to the fruit stand across the road to grab images of their beautiful spread.
The little lychee candies are so cute; I thought about getting some, but saw they contained a corn syrup. . . .
. . . .so I bought a couple starfruit instead, just to remind myself that I'm a star, and it's time I treated myself like a star.
Pineapples and dragonfruit! And I love the handpainted signs.
The morning sun bathed Camp Olowalu and it was already growing uncomfortably hot --- record heat, I was told --- as I got this shot of a long beautiful palm frond framing one of the tentalows.
I barely had time to say goodbye as I got a lift back to the airport with Paul and Shay; it seemed weeks since I'd landed. We'd had so much to drink, in terms of alcohol, at camp that my bottle of wine had gone untouched. But I couldn't pack it back with me! Nor could I bring the fruit. So before we checked in, I shared the bottle of wine with my new friends and we ate all our contraband, including my last starfruit.
Alas, something did get forgotten in the shuffle: not merely a ginger ale, which I drank right there at the pre-bag-check zone, amidst much hiccupping and belching, but my nice new Maui Babe suntan lotion! It was over 4 oz., so the whole thing got confiscated! Nine bucks flushed away. I was bummed. Note to self: Pack airline-compliant small plastic bottles --- many of them --- for just this kind of situation. Always. (Besides, I might need them for a sacrificial offering or potion or something.) On the upshot? They didn't even bat an eye at my rocks and souvenirs!
Then we were through. Only one more incident followed: Another guy from the trip and his wife were there to meet us, and for some reason, he felt the need to grip my shoulder up by my neck to calm me, or control me, or something. Quite bluntly, what the fuck? I've heard about people being "triggered", and freaking out. I think of myself as quite mellow, but that day, I found one of my triggers. I'd just had an item taken from me at bag-check, so I was mildly shaken but not too badly; more critically, I'd had more than my share that week of close quarters, and specifically of rather entitled, parental-type white people (not just white, actually) touching or patting me without verbal permission. Now this stranger's hand was halfway encircling my neck, he was all but up in my face, out of the blue, and thinking I was somehow all right with that? Shock and surprise transmuted instantly into righteous anger. "Do not grab my neck! Do not touch my neck," I yelled at, for me, top volume. Then the most important one:
"Do not touch me without asking!"
Because, really, isn't that the least any of us deserve? Who the hell do some people think they are? And no matter how white or entitled or fatherly that may be, those people are never too old to learn a lesson, or to hear an angry but still well-clarified order. And if it comes across to him as the "emotional woman"? Too sodding bad. I have felt I've been too passive for years. It felt good to discover how I'm able to break out and draw lines where needed!
Whereupon coming we chased the sunset to a land of brilliant light and heat, now we fled from it, even as we left behind our brief sunlit paradise. We arrived by night over a quilt of many lights: Oakland. By far the hardest part of the journey was the frigid 7-hour layover there. I tried but failed to get much of a nap. But on the next leg of the trip, we were treated to the sight of the sun rising over the Pacific West Coast. I got seated behind the great engine with its roaring mouth, like some fat shark hanging under the wing, and felt grateful once more for the gift of petroleum . . . even as I felt equally grateful I was not stuck in what could only be Oakland's rush hour!
The sun rose and floated in many shifting layers of golden cloud, as for awhile we flew alongside at least one other jet "cloud-bus", leaving streams of gossamer in its wake. In spare patches of clear sky, I could see the ground move below.
Closer to home, familiar landmarks became visible: the Columbia Gorge followed by the shapes of our local volcanoes, Mts. St. Helens, Hood, Adams and finally Rainier, poking frosty noses above the clouds.
Throughout much of this second leg, my friend Pat slept, on a pillow that can turn inside out and transform from a rainbow to a unicorn and back again!
In SeaTac airport, Shay and I nearly missed our connection due to not realizing at first that our group had been split onto different flights. I checked my ticket, and she and I didn't have to wait until 1p.m. --- ours was at 9:50, and began boarding within ten minutes! Hastily, we tore the length of the airport. She was glad she hadn't stopped to order food and that I'd checked my ticket!
Twenty minutes after takeoff, followed by flying through rain-sodden clouds that left streaks of water running in thin droplets across the windows, then by towering castles of puffy white on which we could see the silouhette of the aircraft ringed by a perfect rainbow, the embroidered patchwork quilt of Portland's outlying countryside appeared below, speckled brilliantly with autumn. Miniature trees stood amid tiny brilliant haloes of their own fallen leaves.
Shay and I reunited briefly in the airport, now somewhat cemented as hopeful future friends and "sistas". I had a strange feeling of wistful euphoria as I left the PDX airport to catch the light-rail, failing to find reason to linger further. I'd booked my first flight and vacation, taken it, and just come off a three-leg return flight with minimal stress and mishaps.
Serious, serious adulting:
check "accomplished".
Now it's almost immediately back to work, after the remainer of my return day to rest and nap. Back to the grind of moving, which I failed to get done beforehand. Back to repairing (more adulting, and nervous-making here) and registering my car, so I can move.
But after I get that done, I want to take some time to relive parts of this trip, meditate upon it, as it went by so quickly: the people I met, the things I did, the stuff I bought. All the different happenings large and small, positive and less so --- for I learned each has its value, and it was during some of the most challenging moments that I discovered my power --- that created the experience. . . .
Then in the back of my mind I'll note all those things I still have yet to look forward to doing . . . and I'll remind myself never to be afraid to jump into the next adventure.
