The Day Before The (Jaws) Dance

Maui on Stab’s dime?  Yes, please!

Let’s push that travel budget to the limit! Live the motherfucking dream! Mama’s Fish House for dinner. Macadamia nut heel scrubs and deep tissue massage. Drinks are on me. Anyone know a dealer who’ll write out a receipt?

Or, I guess, a rental car and a private room in Wailuku. I can handle a hostel, I’m not yet that soft. Won’t do a dorm room. Been there, done that. My nights of trying to sleep while my bunk mate furtively masturbates are long in the past. If anyone’s uncomfortable it’s gotta be you. If anyone’s acting sexually inappropriate it better be me.

Inter-island travel is an expensive milk run. Last minute flights don’t come cheap. Cramming into a flying fart box, people sniffing, sneezing, contaminating my space. Could’ve done without the haole trio’s over-loud kvetching about the difficulty of turning a profit from their respective AirBnBs. But the flight attendants were lovely. Handing out POG and aloha. The water off Molokai is iron red from the recent rains. Defunct cane fields fill the valley. Haleakala towers overhead. Maui is a lovely island.

A nice young lesbian paid me a compliment on my t-shirt. An elderly gay man did too. I don’t know what to take away from the interactions, but I do enjoy the attention.

A long car rental line dictates politeness. As annoying as the wait maybe you know they don’t get paid shit. Surely not enough to deal with a pissy attitude. So I’m pure happy smiles. Upbeat, open. A total act. But people appreciate that kind of thing. It may feel fake to me, but they can’t tell the difference.

“Hey, brother, I tossed in an upgrade. It’s in C-64. Enjoy your trip.”

What a nice fellow.

The candy apple red hardtop Mustang was not what I expected. Not what I wanted. I considered heading back inside, asking for something that didn’t shout “haole asshole” quite so loudly. But no one enjoys having a kind deed denied and I’m trying to be a kinder man. Besides, it’s fairly on the nose. And I did pack an aloha shirt. Fuck it, I’ll own it. Wide open towards Paia, I can accept what I am.

Here on ‘business’.

Checked Ho’okipa before sundown. Still too early for the forecast swell to show. But the wind’s dead calm. Not typical, it bodes well. It’s slightly overhead. I arrive in time to see a set clean up the lineup. Not big big, but bigger. A north wind creeps in before dark, makes my heart skip. But it dies with full dark. Gives me hope for tomorrow.  Because my fear, deep down inside, is towering sets marching in from the horizon right as the sun goes down. Peaking in the dead of night, then dropping with the dawn. It could happen. The way life works it probably will.

But Pe’ahi is a spectacular show. One my own jaded ass loves with all his might. The energy in the air, the cliff top view from the contest area. It’s truly magnificent, something that pictures and video can’t quite do justice. Feeling fear from a safe perch as some madman scrambles over the ledge. Watching the lunatic chopper pilot roar overhead, plummet over the cliff’s edge, then ride the wind up the face of a moving mountain. Screaming with the luck few privileged enough to score a spot. I love it. Can’t wait for it. 

Worst case scenario, I’ll eat Krispy Kremes and bemoan my fate. Trapped on an awesome island for three days with nothing to do but cause enough trouble to make an interesting story. Poor me.

Maybe the young accents I hear giggling from the common room can help. I better go check. Fortune favours the bold.

Who needs a live feed when you have the lens of one, “I am not a photographer” Rory Parker?