Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Will Chapter 1

It had rained during the night, one of those warm tropical showers that leaves the air heavy and sweet. A steady breeze born far out at sea kissed the shore at sunrise, rustling the coconut palms. The clouds, like the folks around these parts in no hurry to move on, scattered slowly as the sun rose out of the ocean and washed the sky with bold streaks of light. A few ares of rainbow loitered above, offering promise for the new day.
Hawaii's locals make a clear distinction between themselves and haoles, the sunburned tourists from the mainland. It is less a term of contempt than a bemused pity. On the scenically spectacular island of Maui, most of these visitors pick up their rental cars at Kahului Airport and drive directly to Kaanapali Beach on the western coast, where they stay in glitzy resort hotels, down premixed Mai Tais served by waitresses in synthetic grass skirts, and tap their toes to the canned melodies of Don Ho. Haoles just don't know any better.
The real soul of Maui is manifest on the south shore, with its endless stretches of blinding white beaches. The sun bleached dunes roll up to wide verdant fields of pineapple and sugar cane. Herds of cattle graze contentedly on the grassy slopes of the West Maui mountains. Majestic Haleakala, the highest point on the island, is a two mile high peak topped with a massive volcanic crater, a dramatic reminder that this is a land of sudden, violent change.
At Maalaea Bay boat harbor, Charlie, the winch operator, was working a squeaky crank that unwound a cable still wet from the rain. "Never thought I'd live to see the day this old gal went back in the water," he offered to anyone within earshot as he controlled the speed with which a trailer bearing a thirty foot wooden sailboat rolled down a launching ramp.
Boat launchings were hardly uncommon hereabouts, but a small crowd of locals had gathered to watch this particular one. These folks and a few hundred other kindred souls lived aboard boats in the bay. Most were dreamers who collected sea charts, atlases, and books about faraway places, yearning to pull up anchor and sail away, just like the excited young couple whose boat was now the center of attention. But few would do so.


Chapter 1

the night, leaves rustling the clouds, hurry on the ocean of light. loitered above, a clear distinction between sunburned contempt On the most western waitresses and the canned soul of endless blinding white cattle of Majestic violent change.

Charlie, the operator, was a squeaky crank that unwound still wet from this old gal he offered speed with uncommon crowd this particular one. These kindred souls in the Most collected places, yearning to pull young attention. But few would do so.

Saturday, June 11, 2011


And yes, there really was a
dear friend, and


I killed him
didn't complain

So long, old pal, you are sorely missed.