(THE HILTON HAWAIIAN VILLAGE, ORIGINAL HOME OF LEGENDARY SURFER DUKE KAHANAMOLU, WAS PURCHASED BY HENRY KAISER AFTER THE WAR, AND HOME TO THE FIRST MODERN WAIKIKI HOTEL COMPLEX. THE ALI’I TOWER NEAREST THE LAGOON WAS THE ENTRY AND DEPARTURE POINT FOR MILITARY FAMILIES COMING AND GOING FROM THE ISLANDS, SINCE HILTON HAD THE CONTRACT. PHOTO HILTON.)

Some of my Hawaiian language skills came back on the recent trip to the Lovely islands- you know, “Aloha” means whatever you want it to, and “Mahalo” seems to be associated with putting things in trash cans. “Kane,” with the emphasis on the sounded soft ‘e’ at the end, means the men’s room, and ‘Wahine’ is for the ladies.

“Kama’Ainia” is two words, sometimes, unless you put a comma in, which is a bit of an affectation dilettantes like me enjoy.. Some say it means “Child of the Land,” which is to say a description of someone born in the Islands, and not a Tourist or a local fresh off the boat. it derives from the words “kama”, meaning “child”, and “ʻāina”, meaning ‘land.’ The word now refers to Hawaiʻi residents regardless of their racial background, as opposed to “kanaka,” which signifies a person with real island ancestry.

There is a fine point about actually being born in the Islands, as demonstrated in recent political history, and we took a certain (justified) pride in being responsible for a couple of them.

I was thinking about the first Kama Aina to join our little family out there in the lush green isle of O’Ahu, which some say means “The Gathering Place.”

I was driving up to Hale Iwa (you can make that one word, too, if you feel like it) to sample the pleasures at Jameson’s on the beach, and of course I had to pass through Wahiawa on the H-2 Freeway, just past Miliani Town.

Wahiawa is one of those places that looms in memory, a tipping point between one thing and something completely different. I wrote about it to the outlaws, long ago. Nearly 32 years ago this month. That is one of the reasons the trip had emotion springing up at every turn. Here is how I started it. I had been looking for a copy of what I wrote back then, but that was before computers and the associated wireless devices were so ubiquitous and all consuming. Many of us had our first enounter with ‘word processing’ on the islands , as if you could put words in a blender and make them of uniform consistency.

This missive was typed on an IBM Selectric Typwriter, with inter-changable type balls, and re-typed in Mississippi on a battered Apple lap-top.,

The Windowless Building

Foot of Battleship Row

20 February 1983

Dear Grandparents,

Well, here it is; the long-awaited blow-by-blow of the events of the recent weeks. I had hoped to get this out before you left town last week, but due to the exigencies of modern life, it took a three-day vacation to get things together.

Your Grandson is flying through development. He is already growing out of his coming-home-from-the-hospital togs, staring at things off across the room, and enjoying his trips around the block. I can’t believe how big he is already, and my heart almost broke yesterday morning when I saw him and his mother curled up in the Big Bed with the covers arranged like a little fort over their heads.

He was looking up with his little blue eyes all wide, just as happy as a darn clam.

Pretty astonishing thing.

Can’t tell you how much we enjoyed your visit. It really helped orient us during that first couple weeks.

Oh, but as I was saying:

Our son’s origin is completely typical, as least when considered in the aggregate of the human experience. To the participants, though, the event assumed epic proportions: the burning of scarce hydrocarbons; sophisticated mind control techniques; dangerous narcotic drugs; the skillful application of the medical arts, and a mild hangover induced by cold lagers imbibed in the tropical afternoon.

But let me not get ahead of myself. The child was singularly unwilling to heed the ETA outlined by the estimable OB, Doc McKenzie. He- we knew that much- was supposed to pop into this space-time continuum on 08 January. We had arranged our busy social calendar to accommodate the nativity. Holiday festivities were duly observed, waistlines expanded as we enjoyed “just one last meal out before we have to get babysitters…”

This went on through the target date with nary a quiver to betray any undue haste on the part of the infant in question.

He seemed happy to be just where he was, and there was a point when I shrugged and decided that pregnancy could be a permanent condition.

As we sailed blithely into the second week past the theoretical end of the gestation period, my wife began to question the legitimacy of the entire procedure. She had labored enormously throughout the course of the project; walking five miles a day; eschewed all forms of tobacco en toto and scorned Demon Rum altogether. It didn’t seem fair that Baby Socotra should view the matter with the upmost in complacency and remain content to burgeon in her womb.

“Maybe we are feeding the kid too well,” she observed one mellow afternoon, looking down at the long curve of her abdomen. “I thought sure the wasabi on the sushi would have driven him out.”

“Maybe he likes it in there,” I suggested. “What do you want to try tonight to see if we can get things started?” I leafed idly through the Honolulu restaurant guide. “Szechuan?”



(THE CELEBRATED CANNON CLUB, FORMERLY THE OFFICER’S CLUB ASSOCIATED WITH THE FORT RUGER MILITARY AREA THAT INCLUDED THE ICONIC VOLCANO AND CRATER. IT IS GONE NOW. PHOTO HONOLULU ADVERTISER.)

Two weeks past due, we fond ourselves in the lanai of the Cannon Club, a cheery anachronism of our Colonial Past situated on the shoulder of famed Diamond Head. Lights of passing cars gleamed red on the streets around the Ala Wai Canal below us, and a flotilla of sailboats cut triangles into the lowering sun.

I was crammed into a three-piece suit for the first time in a year or more, and the wife looked radiant in a light evening frock. The topic of the evening should have been the office party we were attending, but actually revolved around the relative distance and traffic density between us and the delivery room at Wahiawa General Hospital.

Wahiawa is located at the edge of the Dole plantation and the Schofield Barracks Military reservation on the flat uplands of the central island. There were reasons for all this, including a precious “non-availability” certificate, which meant we could deal with civilian medicine at the imposing pink bulk of Tripler Army hospital on the slope of the Ko’olau Mountains above Honolulu.

This particular evening I had an uneasy suspicion that something was happening as I reached for another vodka and tonic. We made it through the appetizer course before a series of fairly sharp twinges prompted an in-depth discussion by veterans of the characteristics of imminent labor present at the table.

The males wisely kept quiet as two of the mothers felt my wife’s stomach and pronounced it fully ripe, though not rock-hard.

“How do you know for sure?” asked my wife suspiciously.

“Don’t worry,” said one of them, who had produced three such projects herself. “You’ll know.”

That was the consensus of the panel of experts present. One of my associates who was in no danger of participating in the adventure suggested a four-wheel drive around the Kaena Point to bring the matter to a dramatic denouement, while another owlishly nodded into his scotch-and-water and said a trip to the Zoo had always worked for him.

“Pete, the Zoo is closed.” The sun had dipped behind the Waianae range to the west, and that was it for daylight.

“Well, we will have to wait for a while, then. My recommendation is have a drink.” Those of us that could, did.

I had a feeling that great forces were in motion, though, and I will tell you about that tomorrow, ins’hallah.

Copyright 1983 and 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303