Chinaman's Hat.

A few weeks back, Mike and I were in HAWAII.

That sounds really stupid when I say it now, because these days, I am constantly repeating my new mantra, "No one dies in carpool"--and three weeks ago, I was *fairly* certain I would be eaten by a tiger shark.  Sometimes, perspective makes no f--ing sense, and THIS is one of those stories.

So.  Mike and I happened to find ourselves on a plane to Honolulu, without kids--all to see a DEAR friend get married.  It was one of those spur of the moment decisions, and when we decided to cash in ALL of our frequent flier miles, we weren't *really* sure how this was all going to work out, but my in-laws were gracious enough to take my children, and Hawaii was awesome enough to just exist; and from there, it was like MAGIC.

Well, there's nothing like having kids (and their 27 various sports schedules), to remind you that time is PRECIOUS.  Which is precisely why we packed our bathing suits in our hand-carries, and were beach-ready by the time we hit baggage claim at 2:30 p.m., island time--because if I find myself lucky enough to survive eight hours on a commercial aircraft that has flown continuously since 1965, I'm gonna make life WORTH IT.  And typically, this would mean heading straight to a place that serves spam and hot dogs--but on this particular day, Mike and I had a plan, and it included strapping two LARGE paddleboards to the top of a 1998 Corolla.  It's funny how life works out to include scenarios like that.

Here is where I learned that I *sort of* fear the ocean.  Well, not that first afternoon, when we dropped the boards into the calm water at the beach I grew up going to; but the next morning, at 7:30 a.m., when jet lag had us up early, and we decided it might be fun to paddle to "Chinaman's Hat", which is a small island, just off a beach that's 15 minutes away from my parents house.  If that name offends you, then you should probably look away because the first 18 years of my life are, essentially, not "politically correct"--and also, no one in Hawaii will know what you are talking about if you don't call it "Chinaman's Hat".  

It was a BEAUTIFUL morning--my parents literally live on the side of the island where the mountains nose-dive straight into the ocean, and ever since I left for college, it absolutely takes my breath away, because living in the Midwest is a constant reminder that this sh#! just doesn't happen everywhere.  For my first 18 years, I NEVER NOTICED THE LUSH, GREEN MOUNTAINS because I was consumed with teasing my hair seven inches vertically, or memorizing all the words to every New Kids on the Block song--a universal truth of life, be it in Des Moines or Hawaii.

We unstrapped the boards, and carried then to the water--which is QUITE a sight, because when a GIGANTIC surfboard meets island tradewinds, it becomes an ENORMOUS sail.  Mike was yelling at me to angle straight into the wind, whatever THAT means, and there was REAL poetntial that I would be carried airborne, which was scary because my street cred was *fragile* and SURELY this would make me look like a real poser.  

But even that was not as terrifying as putting my board in the water and feeling pretty certain that I was gonna drown trying to paddle out to that island.

Now.  Mike doesn't understand any of my VERY RATIONAL fears, because he doesn't believe that log flumes can kill you, or that you could possibly drown while attached to a very large and buoyant surfboard.  But here's the thing, friends--I have this CONFIDENCE about Hawaii, because I grew up there, and I know my way around, and I have opinions about where to get a meat jhun plate.  And I'm very familiar with Chinaman's Hat; I've seen it my WHOLE life.  From the beach.  Never actually set foot on it, and in that moment on my paddleboard, I was certain that is because it is surrounded by tiger sharks or rip tides that will sweep you right out to sea.

I'm 10 feet from shore and I'm starting to panic.  Because I've never SEEN anyone to do this, and I believe that's because everyone else is smart enough to know it will KILL YOU.  Which is really terrible logic, to imply that watching someone do something before you will guarantee your safety.  Cliff jumping, alligator wrestling, and using heroine would be strong arguments AGAINST this theory; and also that time on New Year's Eve, when all of my friends were lighting firecrackers without incident, until I was *fortunate* enough  to set a banana tree on fire.

So maybe, I just have the kind of luck that often requires the fire department, or finds me in a gang of tiger sharks on my first trip to Chinaman's Hat.  It's funny, how life works out to include scenarios like that--except I probably should have seen this coming, with the fires, and that one time the entire wheel and axle came off my friend's car while we were driving on the freeway.  And also, that photo shoot in the motel that very well could have been how "Silence of the Lambs" or "Debbie Does Dallas" was inspired, except that it really was a legitimate portrait sitting.

To my knowledge, we NEVER went to the beach on my parents side of the island; and without another explanation, I assumed this was because of the tiger sharks, or the riptides.  Because otherwise it DOESN'T MAKE SENSE to drive 35 minutes to another beach, like we did my entire life.  But then it got me thinking about Hawaii, about how you stick to what you know; how you don't really see the mountains, or the other beaches, because they are comfortable and familiar, because this too, is a universal truth of life.  And if you think I am crazy about the tiger sharks, then just ask any Hawaiian local about carrying pork over the Pali highway and why this is likely to lead to haunting or death (not sure which, but does it matter?).  You grow up there, you learn this stuff, and it SHAPES you; and then one day, you're the only two people paddling out to an off-shore island, and it crosses your mind that there is a REASON for that.   Hawaiians will assume that reason is death or haunting, and then Mike will remind me that Hawaiians are CRAZY sometimes.  There's the Hawaii of my childhood, and then there's this husband of mine, 800 feet ahead of me and leading me out into OPEN OCEAN--and he makes me see this place I know so well, so differently.  And it's freaking terrifying, because someone forgot to tell him that there are TIGER SHARKS out there, and they think surfers are giant turtles.

As it turns out, we paddled the half-mile out to the island at low-tide, which means that the reef was never more than 2 feet below our boards.  I would have had to bend at the waist and held my head under water to drown, but in the abscence of tiger sharks, it turns out that there are eels and sea urchins to panic about, along with all the poisonous creatures we studied before our 3rd grade reef walk.  {Edited to note:  what could be more terrifying than taking THIRD GRADERS out on the open ocean to stick their fingers in the reef home of creatures that will bite/poison you?}.  Despite all that fear and being barefooted, we managed to park the boards on the small, sandy beach of Chinaman's Hat--and stared back, for the first time, at the town I spent my entire childhood in.

That kind of perspective is amazing.  Even if it's more comfortable to imagine it from the shore.

We spent the rest of the week dropping the boards in wherever we felt like it; we paddled on the North Shore with sea turtles at sunset, and on our final day, we crossed (what I consider) an ocean channel to land ourselves on one of two islands off the beach at Lanikai.  There were patches of reef, and LOTS of turtles, but mostly just REALLY deep, and what I can only imagine to be shark-infested, water.  The surf was breaking hard around the island and it took a little more concentrated effort to get there; however, this time we were joined by kayakers, and I was at least confident that they would reenact my story on the Discovery Channel for shark week, in the event this excursion turned tragic.

It was honestly one of the best weeks I have spent at home in YEARS, and it's just the tip of the iceberg, as far as relearning this place, and what I think I know, and what I've never REALLY seen.  Sometimes, I wonder if all the changes we've made in two years, trying to figure out who we are and what's important to us is a wild goose chase--and that at the end of it, we'll define purpose and happiness the EXACT same way  as it began in that nice, five-bedroom suburban house on a golf course.  

But now I know that sometimes we're trained to feel like we are going to drown without those things, before we find that island that changes our entire perspective.