Kalama Beach

       For a few years now I’ve flown to Hawaii three or four times a year to visit my elderly parents who are in their eighties. My father is in a nursing home now. He has vascular dementia. My sister Cynthia who lived in the next town over, passed away in 2015. My brother Bob had a massive stroke and lives on Maui. I usually get a layover on Maui to meet with him and his wife for a few hours. 

Me with brother Bob and his wife Kathleen at the Zippy's in Kahului, Maui.

Then it's on to Oahu to see my Mom and Dad. Mom has had to adjust to taking care of the house and finances by herself. She goes to visit my Dad every day to feed him his lunch. I try to go back three or four times a year to help her out.

Mom feeding Dad lunch.

Mom and I visiting Dad.

       As soon as people hear that I’m going to Hawaii, they forget the beginning of the sentence about visiting to help my parents and assume I’m going on vacation. But when I go to Hawaii, I’m going to my other home. I'm a native Hawaiian. I’m going to see my family, not to be a tourist. I get irritated when people ask me if I went to Aulani, or ask where my tan is.

       I’m usually driving around to visit my father, take my mother to doctor’s appointments, and cramming a lot of errands into a week-long visit to make mom’s life easier after I leave. The only tan I get is if my left arm is out the window when I’m driving. My husband John is in Washington, holding down the fort, so I’m kind of on my own. Yes, Hawaii is a beautiful setting, but taking care of elderly parents is the same no matter where you are.

Entrance to Hale Nani Rehabilitation and Nursing Home. 

       For me the highlight of my trips center around eating local food with my mother and my brother-in-law Bruce, or by myself—at Zippy’s or the Chinese restaurant close to my parents’ house. I savor the special dishes that I can’t get in Washington:

Mom and I eating macademia nut haupia pancakes and bacon.

Saimin

Somen salad

Zip min at Zippy's

saimin, zip min, somen salad, kalua pork and cabbage, chicken long rice,

Kalua Pork and Cabbage

kau yuk (Chinese pot roast), crisp gau gee min (noodles with crispy fried gau gee which are similar to won ton), shrimp with black bean sauce, 

Variety of malasadas--plain and stuffed.

malasadas, Chantilly cake, dobash cake, 

Dobash cake.

coco puffs, the list goes on and on. These are my comfort foods from Hawaii.

       I also like to go to a store named Don Quijote to buy souvenirs to take home. It’s in the heart of Honolulu and when John and I lived in Hawaii in the 1980s, Holiday Mart was in the same building. That’s where we went to buy groceries. I swear they haven’t repainted the double decker parking lot or changed the tile flooring since we were scraping by when John was a student at UH. We used to look for our favorite and fastest cashier, Alberta before there were scan barcodes on everything. Alberta had the prices memorized!

       As shocking as this will sound, I don’t go to the beach often when I visit. I think the last time I went was two years ago. The closest beach is only a half a mile from my parents’ house. But here’s the thing. If you go to the beach in Hawaii, you will notice that locals rarely go alone. My parents taught me to never go alone. They were very strong swimmers. I am not, and I know that I’m no match for the Pacific Ocean. In Hawaii, there are currents named for where they will take you—like the “Molokai Express.” Hawaii is 3000 miles from any other land mass. So, I’m cautious. Even strong swimmers can get in trouble and drown.

       My favorite beach, Lanikai, has been overrun by tourists thanks to magazines ranking it among the top 5 beaches in the world. So the beach where we used to play most often as kids, and where my cousin’s ashes were scattered after she died, now has tour buses dumping tons of tourists there. My aunt, who lives across the street from Lanikai beach sometimes spends hours trying to get home and then finds tourists parked all over her yard. So I don’t savor Lanikai’s gentle waves much anymore.

Lanikai Beach, 2013

       A few years ago, it was my last day in Hawaii after a few weeks, and as I was packing I realized I hadn’t even been to the beach. It was getting late. I decided to go to the beach closest to my parents house, Kalama Beach. This beach can be dicey, a little dangerous sometimes. It’s not gentle like Lanikai or Waikiki. There’s a strong current and no life guards. (There aren't life guards at Lanikai either.) As I closed the screen door behind me, my mother cautioned, “You be careful! I don’t like you swimming by yourself.”

       The sun was setting which was good because everybody else was leaving so I was "swimming" against the current in the public right of way leading the the water. My slippers slapped the bottoms of my feet past the legendary naupaka bushes with their half flowers and I plowed through the soft sand sprinkled with the familiar tiny pine cones from the ironwood trees. 

       I wore some old board shorts and a tankini top with a pareau wrapped around me. I laid my ancient straw mat, towel and slippers near some local Hawaiians—who are usually sitting in the shade of trees or a tarp tent, not sprawled out on towels to get a tan. They looked at me with faces that said, “Eh, you local. Why you by yo’self? Kinda late too.”

       I just raised my chin to them, and then waded into that perfect clear green/blue water, scooping salt water onto my chest, shoulders, and face the way my father had taught me many years ago. I timed it so I got past where the waves were breaking and then dove under one. The water felt so good I couldn’t help but grin and toss my wet hair. Then I rolled over, laid back and floated with my memories.

      Every time I go to Kalama Beach I remember a story my Dad told us. When he was a teenager, he and his buddies were bodysurfing. One of them caught a wave and to show off, he curled one of his legs back so that his calf and foot were sticking up out of the water. As they watched, a barracuda jumped out of the water and bit his calf. They found this hilariously funny.

       When I was in 8^th grade at Kalaheo which was a junior high school back then (now it’s a high school), some friends threw a surprise birthday party for me at Kalama Beach after school. John and I went there countless times while we lived with my parents after we first moved to Hawaii as newlyweds. Sometimes my brother and sister were with us. Like me, my sister would scream a little and try to walk on water when a piece of limu (seaweed) wrapped around our ankles. Years later, I passed my parents' water safety lessons on to my kids and then watched them boogie board and frolic in Kalama’s waves.

       This is also the beach where my brother Bob learned to body surf. He was probably five years old. I’m not sure my mother was fully onboard with this idea. When we were little, we weren’t allowed to have blue or green bathing suits. My parents wanted us to wear bright colors so that if we got in trouble in the water, they could find us. My brother’s swim shorts were red with white trim stripes.

       I listened carefully to my father as he gave my brother instructions: “When a wave comes, I’m going to push you really hard. You curve your shoulders in and kick as hard as you can.”

       When I asked if I could do it too, he told me girls couldn’t body surf because even when they curved their shoulders in, there were two bumps stopping the water from flowing through the tunnel of your shoulders and chest. At nine years old, I know that I didn’t have my bumps yet. I think he just wanted it to be a father-son moment.

       He took my brother pretty far out. My mom was wading in the shallow water and watching them. My four year old sister and I were sitting on the beach watching too. A big wave swelled. My father launched my brother.

       We watched for his head to pop up. It didn’t. We looked for his red bathing suit. Nothing. My Dad started swimming in toward us, stroking quickly with his head out of the water, looking for Bob. My mother started swimming out, searching too. 

       It seemed like forever, but it was probably only seconds. My brother skidded up onto the sand on his belly, then jumped up and down with glee. “Let’s do it again!” He’d gone way past where my father thought he’d pop up. He was a natural!

       My memories ebbed. The moon was rising. The tide was changing. I could feel the current pulling me, so I kept an eye on “my locals” to keep track of how far I was being pulled. They were keeping an eye on me too.

       I bodysurfed a few waves, in spite of my bumps. It felt so good! All the stress I’d walked in with had disappeared. After the ocean threw me back up onto the beach, I took the hint. I gathered my stuff up, wrapped my pareau around me, smiled a thank you to the locals who nodded and smiled back, and then I headed home. They started packing up too once I was in.

       It was another good memory of Kalama Beach. Maybe the next time I go, I won’t be by myself.

Laura Keolanui Stark is back home in Washington state. She’s not going up in the Space Needle or doing any tourist stuff here either.