Oahu: Sharing an Aloha

by Kristen Kosnac | 2010

The evacuation sirens have come to a halt by the time our flight lands; the tsunami warning is over. It is especially relieving to my companion and I, who just fled New York and a snowstorm that lasted for about 18 hours. According to our two local friends who pick us up from the airport, emergencies such as these are the most excitement they have on Oahu—they prefer it that way.

Our "Ocean View" Room
Oahu, Hawaii, United States
© 2010 Digital color by Kristen Kosnac

The clouds hang low as we ascend into the mountains of Honolulu, which seems to be touching the heavens. The surrounding terrain is a lush shade of green like nothing I have ever seen in any part of the mainland; the celestial beauty begins to lull me into a trancelike state as we drive.

A man with shoulder length hair and a tan greets us with an "aloha" when we arrive at our hotel, Maile Sky Court. It is off-season for tourism; there is only one other person checking in, a gentleman with long dreadlocks. Check in is quick and pleasant. Upon entering our room, which is small but cozy, and very clean, we discover that we have received an upgrade to an ocean view room (but only paid for the city view). This sanctuary would provide all the comfort we need to prepare for the adventures of the upcoming days.

Our journey to Diamond Head, which turns out to be further away from our hotel than we anticipate, begins the next morning. We ask at the front desk how to get there and are presented with a small map, complete with hand drawn directions and the number of a bus that would get us there and back. Coming from New York, such courtesy is unfathomable. The trek to the mouth of Diamond Head is scenic, and we are grateful to begin the day with a McDonald's breakfast of rice and Portuguese sausage. The climb up is steep and marred with military remnants such as cannons and gun holsters, but the panoramic view of Oahu with the crystal blue ocean surrounding makes it more than worthwhile.

As the days go by, my desire to forge a bond with the natural elements of the island becomes overwhelming; although I've never surfed before, the locals to whom I express my interest all but adopt me as one of their brethren. Walking down Kalakaua Avenue I stumble upon Roxy, a surf-themed clothing store. The boards near the window are not for rental, the sales associate tells me, but there is a surf shop nearby that loans boards at a very reasonable rate. He explains what kind of board I should use as a beginner and hands me a guide with basic instructions for first time surfers. It takes me a few moments after he wishes me "aloha" and "good luck" to realize that he doesn't expect a dime for the ten minutes he just spent providing me with this vital information.

By the time I pick up my board and paddle out to the lineup where everyone is waiting to catch waves, my arms are already sore. I try to get up on the board, first on all fours, then only on my knees. Local surfers around me offer advice: start paddling now; use the ankle strap attached to the end of the board. The most valuable piece of advice I receive is to never turn my back completely to the ocean. Funny, I think. People here actually place more trust in each other than they do the elements. Despite the kindness and compassion of my fellow surfers, I am only able to stand up on the board for a split second. Defeated, I lie down on my stomach atop my board, as many other novices are doing. The rush that ensues from catching my first wave has me smitten; this is something I will be doing every weekend in Rockaway come summertime.

The next day's activity. a trip to the Polynesian Cultural Center, is a bit less strenuous. It would be impossible to grasp the true essence of the land without visiting this oasis. Here, all misconceptions of Hawaiian culture are cleared; rather than supple women in grass skirts, it is the men that have traditionally performed the hula, as well as the cooking. And the rapid-fire hip shaking that the Western media passes off as hula actually originates from the Tahitians. The largest immersion into the Hawaiian way of life comes in the evening, when we attend a traditional luau where we are served poi—made of baked and fermented taro root, roasted pork, and pineapple. Following this lush banquet we watch a live show called "Ha: The Breath of Life," which follows a native Polynesian's journey from birth to death. It is an inferno of dancing, war scenes, and flaming poi balls being tossed around. As the boy becomes a man, we get a sense of his importance not only to his family but also to his tribe as a whole.

At first I could not comprehend why my two Hawaiian friends have been so generous to me without expecting anything in return, but after visiting Honolulu and getting a better sense of their culture, it makes sense. As we drive into the explosive fuchsia and deep purple sunset, it suddenly dawns on me that this is truly a place where all things, including plants, are acknowledged as living souls; where the people have a sense of respect for the common spirit that flows through everything. Our last "aloha" is the most meaningful farewell I've ever experienced; rather than just saying it to each other, it is something shared and heartfelt. That spirit is something that will be engraved in my memory every time I reminisce about Hawaii.

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