Ahe Lau Makani

Funny happenings of the week at Ronald Reagan Academy:

• Thomas throwing himself to the floor in angst, pretending his Crayola markers are attacking him.
• Thomas lacing his eyelids with stickers.
• My three math students believing I have a fairy in a film canister. It's actually a "device," as Gabi calls it. Alex brought it to my house, also claiming it was a fairy.
• Seventh-grader Adam telling me sheepishly, "You look really nice today, Miss R.

Job search: continues. I have some leads. Those leads have my resume. We'll see what happens.

I leave for Hawaii in 9 days. Well, first we go to San Diego for a day. Then we leave for Maui the next morning. I am going to snorkel the whole time. It's been years since we last went to Hawaii, since sophomore year of high school. We always stay on Maui, at Napili Bay, in a condo there. It's one of the only places in Hawaii that has 3-bedroom condos, a necessity for the eight of us who'll be there this time. The last time we went, my parents had five, disgruntled, ungrateful teenagers. Becky was a junior, me a sophomore, Robert an 8th grader, Katie in 6th, Michael in 4th. Becky had just spent a week in Oahu on a band trip, so she caught a connecting flight to Maui. She was too cool for us then. I remember when we met her at the Kahului Airport in central Maui. She always had an attitude then, a bad one, but it was worse this day. I was intimidated by her. I didn't like her. We didn't get along. She was too pretty; I was too indifferent. We clashed. Robert and Katie were easy-going enough, though Katie always found a way to throw a fit. She was a temperamental child. And then there was Michael. Michael, the babe of the family. The darling, perfect, mistake-proof angel. He was a chub back then, and his agenda for our week on the beach was to sit six inches from the TV and watch Pokemon.

My dad erupted more than once on this trip. "I rented you snorkeling equipment, and you haven't used it once!" (Me and Robert). "You don't come to Hawaii to sit by the pool!" (Becky).
"You can watch Pokemon at home!" (Michael). "I didn't pay five thousand dollars for you to sit your keister in front of the TV!" (also Michael). "Stop blaming other people!" (Katie). "We are never coming to Hawaii EVER AGAIN!" (everyone).

I guess Dad figures it's been long enough that this memory has been burned from our minds, that we're mature enough, and friends enough, to behave civilly. I think he's right. I only wish Robert could go.

I forget which time it was we went to Hawaii--I think it might've been the last time--but I'll never forget what happened. Robert and I had just gotten chewed out by our dad, so we were bummed. We walked to the nearby market. He bought a root beer. I bought a Nantucket Nectar. We carried our libations in paper sacks, pretending we were hobos escaping to our beds on the beach. When we got to the beach, only the locals were there. I remember one of them. He was young, in his 20s. His board shorts hung precariously off his darkened hips, his dreadlocks swaying like ocean waves. He was BBQing. Robert and I found a spot further down the beach, one far enough away we felt alone. In silence, we gazed out toward the Pacific and the setting sun. We sat this way for a while. Probably fifteen minutes. Suddenly, in unison, we both gasped. Out in the sea was a whale, breaching, perfectly centered in the sun. It breached a few times, but never as gigantically as its first jump. Robert and I looked at each other, understanding we'd just been privy to a rare, one-time showing of nature's most carefully made film.

This simple memory is why I can't wait to return.