Hawaiian Embrace
When I was 11, my mother took me to Hawaii. As a single mom, she'd saved for this trip, pinching pennies so that we could have this special time together. While we'd done plenty of car camping and had taken endless trips to the ocean to stay with my grandparents, there had been no extra funds for airplane vacations or jaunts to exotic locations. As we boarded the plane, even my pre-teen self knew how monumental this trip was. I understood that it was a voyage born of sacrifice and her hard work, and that it was not likely to be repeated again anytime soon. We both recognized that it was a time to be treasured.
I remember stepping off the plane that day and feeling my first warm Hawaiian breeze. I was immediately entranced by that sweet floral scent that is pure Polynesia. I recall that exact moment, the suspension of time when I first felt Hawaii. As a child of the perpetually damp and dreary Pacific Northwest, I was immediately in love, like a direct hit from cupid's bow. I remember thinking, "Why did no one ever tell me that air could feel like this?" Up until that point, I doubt I'd ever thought about air at all, except perhaps when getting hit full in the face by a rainy winter gust. But this, this warm, softly infused caress was like something I'd never experienced. To this day, getting off the plane and being enveloped by the deliciousness of a Hawaiian breeze is one of my favorite parts of every trip.
On that first wonderful adventure with my mother, I remember being awed by beaches so unlike the ones from the Washington coast that I'd known all my life. I'd loved the beach at home, the endless expanses of cool gray sand, the sandpipers running from the surf, tiny feet moving in a blur, hunting for sand-dollars and razor clams, feet frozen from wading in frigid water, the huge pounding surf of a beach my aunties and uncles fondly called "Little Waikiki." I was sure I knew what beach meant. I'd loved beach all my life. But this soft sand filled with tiny white shells circled around a center hole so perfect for stringing, warm water lapping gently at my ankles, palm trees swaying, this gave beach a whole new meaning.
And when I was handed a snorkel and mask, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. No amount of sunscreen could protect a back from that many hours spent floating face down in absolute bliss. I'd never known colors like that existed, all the shades of blue dappled with sunlight from above, coral flowers and brightly striped tails. I loved the back and forth of the gentle waves, the crackling in my ears, the amazing honu, their turtle beaks munching as they drifted peacefully along the reef. I remember suddenly looking up and realizing that I'd floated far down the shore, laughing as I ran back to my smiling mother. When she finally insisted that I come out of the water, I sat for hours in the sand, letting the grains run through my fingers as I listened to the surf.
What I didn’t know then was that she was giving me a lifelong safe haven, a place I would return to again and again through the whole of my adult life. It was where I did my residency and fellowship, where I started my career as we lived as newlyweds in a tiny apartment below Diamond Head. After we'd moved home to the Northwest, it was where we'd come yearly as a couple to rest and recharge while she tended our young children.
During our years on Oahu, she would come often to stay with us. We'd snorkel together at Hanauma, drive the coast past Makapu'u, watch the surfers at Waimea, and eat shave ice on the North Shore. On one memorable day, she was startled by a wild boar while hiking alone in Waianae. At the end of our workday, she’d regaled us with tales of her adventure, always fearless and joyful. I remember the best sunset of my life, sitting next to her on a plastic lounge chair, white straps bending beneath us to hold our combined weight as we snuggled together watching the sky explode. She’d enjoyed Hawaii, but what she really loved was coming to see me. We never could stand to be apart for long.
Before she died, she asked me what I would do after she was gone. So many years we'd been together, fighting this endless illness that would finally take her from me. She knew I would be adrift after her passing. She wanted me to have a plan. "I guess I’ll go to Hawaii. I’ll sit on the beach and cry until I don't feel like crying anymore."
"Good," she said. "That's exactly what you should do."
When the time was nearing, my kind husband asked if there was anything he could do. "Please, buy me a ticket," I said.
No other words were required. He knew exactly where I needed to go.
After she passed, I sat in the sand for days, tracing endless patterns through the grains, listening to the rhythm of the surf, and crying my loss into the warm Hawaiian breeze.
Danielle