Calm Before the Storm

Black Pot Beach at low tide on Hanalei Bay PHOTOS:KCS

Early morning at Hanalei Pier

 

Hibiscus

Trail to Anini

Anini Beach

Accidental Moments

Heading north somewhere between Kapa'a and Kilauea, May 6. PHOTO:BBS

The spirit of aloha shows up at the most unlikely of times and places.

Last Friday we found ourselves held up in traffic for two-and-a-half hours. Two cars had collided on the two-lane Kuhio Hwy near Kilauea which shut down the road in both directions, creating a chain of parked automobiles that circled about half of the island.

There are few, if any, alternative routes, so it became a stand-still. We were heading home after a consultation with our car-mechanic rinpoche who had blessed the Blue Buddha, our island Honda CRV.

"Dis izza good vehicle. You scored," said Wayne, brushing off the wear and tear of 163,000 miles of island driving. A native of Kauai who cut his teeth on socket wrenches, Wayne owns 11 cars. He can diagnose most car problems by telepathy. He dreams about the finer points of restoring vintage roadsters. On retainer for at least one  local car dealership, Wayne shuffles his mechanical priorities based on your attitude.

He owns and runs D&W Auto Services in Lihue where you will find more trophies sitting in the loft of his garage than chickens on the island. He is also the dragster king of Kauai.

"Don't grind me," he told a dealer rep who called complaining about a dead battery, threatening to end their business relationship. "Batteries aren't as good as dey yoostabe. I can't be responsible for a bad battery. If you don' like it I don' need yoh bidness."

The rep on the other end of the conversation backed down. He knew better.

Wayne shook his head. "Deez guys."

"What is yoh name again?" he asked me. 

"Kevin," I said. "It rhymes with heaven."

He burst with laughter. "Dat's good energy."

Even without an appointment, the Buddha received Wayne's immediate attention. The exhaust system needed recalibration since our battery had died after sitting mostly idle for months. In 15 minutes, we were back on the road.

Our ride home was interrupted by the accident in Kilauea, known for its lighthouse on the northern most point of the island, also a national bird refuge. For nearly three hours cars were backed up in both directions. No one was going anywhere, except for three ambulances and numerous police vehicles that rushed by, sirens blaring, on their way to the scene.

This is a big deal for a small island that often feels third-world due to road infrastructure breakdown given the climate of plenteous rain and runoff resulting in floods and mudslides.

With no information about the accident itself, folks began to step out of their vehicles. The scene transformed into a another roadside attraction.

One gal began swinging an Eskimo yo-yo.. Two circling yo-yo balls appeared to bounce back and forth, without making contact, defying simple physics, an optical illusion. I fell into a trance. Not a bad place to be under the circumstances.

"Not again," said Barbara.

“Water, does anybody need water?” A woman passed by holding a large bottle and wearing an endearing smile.

Another woman in a white dress, carrying a plastic bag, started picking up trash from the side of the road, most of which was hardly visible in the thick grassy shoulder. She spent the next hour filling two large bags, receiving mahalos from the stranded motorists.

Don't these people need to get somewhere?

Some strolled by with their dogs, as though a canine parade had been announced.

Is that a miniature Husky or a Pomeranian? There goes a Chiweenie! We suddenly missed our German Shepherd, Frida, in Santa Cruz.

A couple came by wearing backpacks. They had abandoned their vehicle.

"Last time this happened I ended up sleeping in my car," he said.

They were hiking home with supplies in their backpacks.

No one seemed too stressed. Horns were not honked. Expletives were not exchanged. Fingers were not given. Although in the back of our minds, we all wondered about the accident itself, hoping it was not serious and did not involve anyone we knew. Barbara and I were relieved when she reached our daughter by text. She and the grandkids were safe.

The bad news arrived the following day, front page.  One person had been killed in the collision, a 69-year-old man. Three others were injured.

Despite the occasional, and sometimes deadly, accident, the pace of island life, like the flow of the tides, rarely falters amid the birdsong and sweet-smelling flora.

Following the impasse, the Blue Buddha started right up, like the unfolding of a white lotus.

Trail to Hanalei, a Pictorial Study

PHOTOS:KCS

Hanalei Pier

Makana Mountain aka Bali Hai

The Blue Buddha

Island cars are one way to beat the car rental rates. Or not.

Flying to Hawaii is much easier than last year. No tests are required and masks are optional. About 60-percent of passengers on our Hawaiian Airlines flight covered their faces. About one-third of the seats were empty in the back of the cabin of the Airbus 321 neo aircraft, known for cutting fuel-burning emissions by 16-percent. Its long narrow body flies lower and faster.

We were told not to change seats because that would upset the balance of the plane. We had never heard that one before. As we approached the Maui airport in Kahului, where we would make our connection to Kauai, the plane began to rock from heavy headwinds.

We sat in aisle 15 which had no windows, so we could not judge our proximity to the ground. It reminded me of the Disneyland ride, Guardians of the Galaxy the previous week, where I sat with my granddaughter Viva inside a dark chamber that rose and fell like a squirrel running up and down a tree. Pretty soon you don't know if you're going up or down because you cannot see.

The rocking of the aircraft lasted longer than the Disney ride. The Tradewinds were blowing strong when we landed on the ground in Maui, following the interminable approach that had Barbara and I squirming in our seats.

A short hop to Kauai later, daughter Bryna, who lives on the island, picked us up at the airport. As we headed north on the narrow Kuhio Hwy the greenery thickened as man-made construction disappeared the farther we went. If the island road crews were to stop their regular trimming of trees on the sides of the road, the jungle would take over. There would be no road.

Surrounded by multi-shades of green plant life, spotted with dots of red lehua flowers, it felt as though the world's problems were fading away. The nerves in my body began to dial down and I remembered why this place drew me in: Ever changing clouds moving gracefully through patches of blue; floral fragrances filling the humid air; the signature sound of swaying palms that influences the hula and instrumental strings of island music; and perhaps most of all, the spirit of aloha expressed by residents whose attitudes have been imbued with the island flow.

You could live on this small island without an automobile, which would be good for all living things, as we're often called. But, alas, king car is practically necessary even out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. 

At some point you're going to need supplies which means a trip by automobile to CostCo, the central market of Kauai where you'll see a mix of dark-skinned locals who smile and wave at each other, as well as a range of visitors shopping for supplies for their island stay, like us. It's the center of convergence, linking west and east, north and south.

For lunch, enjoy a meaty hot dog for a buck-fifty, comes with a soft drink of your choice, or a slice bready pizza for two dollars, served outdoors.

We have run into old friends at the Kauai CostCo, folks we hadn't seen in years and never on this island. And we've made new friends whom we see again. The island is a mere 25 x 33 miles.  

Most civilization carries on near the perimeter, for the center of this ancient volcano, the oldest of the Hawaiian chain, rises steeply toward the sky or falls just as severely into valleys tangled with vines and trees. Lava turns out to be very rich soil.

The island remains part of the United States, which becomes blatantly obvious by the sight of all the Jeeps and oversized pick-up trucks that burn gasoline like factories on wheels. Try parking one of these beasts in a standard parking space. Do you really need that ginormous rig to carry two foam boards and a fishing pole? 

And yes, the Teslas have arrived, the E-car that reminds us of the geek who would be god, the wealthiest and one of the most annoying men in the world. Elon Musk's Teslas have come with the beautiful people, aka celebrities who have discovered paradise. These folks have helped alter the economy by purchasing prime real estate, driving prices skyward.

A sub-economy has been developed by the celebs who hire handy contractors to caretake their palaces when they're away. Some have hired the best chefs on the island for their private use, leaving restaurant owners scrambling for cooks, not to mention bartenders, wait people and kitchen staff who cannot afford to live here.

B's Kitchen in Princeville features two hand-made signs near the entrance: "We're hiring! All positions."

The owner of B's, a guy named Austin, filled  me in about celebrities hiring chefs. He mentioned actor Matt Damon. We knew that musician Carlos Santana had found his personal chef at a restaurant in Kilauea. Word travels fast on the coconut wireless. These chefs are known to go on the road with their employers, willing to travel being a secondary requirement.

When Bryna landed here several years ago after more than a decade of traveling and living in South and Central America, she finally settled down. The alternative vibe on the island and distance from mainland culture made her feel at home, a place to raise her two children, one, Mystiko, was born on the island. 

Barbara and I rejoiced. We finally had a place to visit her and our grandchildren that wasn't thousands of miles away like Uruguay, where granddaughter Viva was born. We arrived three days after her birth following 15 hours of air travel and five hours of driving.

The island culture is laid back, to a fault if you ask Michelle Obama. In his latest memoir, former President Barack Obama tells the story of Michelle calling his leisurely walking style his Hawaiian stroll.

The friendly go-with-the-flow nature of island life became readily apparent upon arrival at our Puamana condo in Princeville. During our last visit six months ago, in an effort to beat the exorbitant car rental rates of $250 per day, we purchased an island car for $2,000 from friends who were leaving Kauai. 

An island car is one whose paint job has faded from the intense tropical sun and whose body shows signs of rust and caking of red dirt from the aforementioned rich lava soil. Our new ride, a 2005 Honda CRV,  easily qualified, with the bonus of hula stickers on the windows.

Next to a Tesla, the Blue Buddha, as our neighbors christened it, stands out like a wizened kupuna (Hawaiian for elder). We opened our wallet and spent a few more dollars to fix a few minor problems, like overheating in traffic.

Upon our recent return the Blue Buddha refused to start. Or I should say it did start with a battery jump, then it refused again, when I stopped at the store in the middle of Hanalei town. I began asking local merchants for jumper cables which were provided by a friendly employee at the surf shop. This time, Buddha refused to turn over.

I asked a guy coming out of a store if he could give me a lift to Princeville, a couple miles up the road. No worries. That's how I met Austin of B's Kitchen. The next day I met a surly looking but good-hearted tow truck driver who had the golden touch that Buddha wanted. The engine hummed like a faithful power lawn mower.

"You need a new battery. This one is shot," said the tow driver, a Buddha in his own right with ample body, shaved head, long beard falling from his chin and multiple tats on his arms.

So I drove 23-miles to Kapaa to the closest auto parts store where I met Dennis who sold me a new car battery and even installed it for me for no extra charge (pun not intended). I pulled out of the parking lot singing a popular Hawaiian mele (song) -- Henehene Kou Aka -- about finding love riding the bus around Waikiki.

But when I stopped for gas the Buddha wouldn't start up again. So I ran back on foot to see Dennis at the auto parts store. Then Dennis and I ran together back to the Buddha at the gas station, dodging cars on the Kuhio Hwy. 

He went to work cleaning the battery terminals and the connecting cables. Then we heard a plunk. The head of his socket wrench fell into the engine compartment. The Buddha was playing tricks again.

Then came the moment of truth. "Start her up," said Dennis.

The Buddha refused to start.

"Put it in neutral and try it," he said.

The Buddha started.

We drove back to the auto parts store where Dennis got his magnetized instrument and was able to fish out the socket head from the engine housing.

From this point it would be just me and the Blue Buddha who had a new battery.

"Good luck," said Dennis.

                                       

The Ears Have It

      

Misty and Mama on the carousel. PHOTO:KCS

                                                                      

Over a span of 50 years, he hadn't aged one bit. 

I didn't recognize the outfit, but the face, the posturing and those unmistakable ears were the giveaway, still round and black as midnight, not a touch of grey.

Mickey Mouse lives! And looks like a million bucks!

I spotted the founding icon of the great and timeless Disney empire -- a mouse -- prancing around, waving his white mittens and showing off his welcome smile in the center of an intersection at California Adventure Park, an extension of the original Disneyland in Anaheim, California.

"There's Mickey!" I shouted.

Viva and Misty. Note the mouse ear on the post.

My two grandchildren, Viva, 11, and Mystiko, almost 4, barely skipped a beat. They and Mama Isabel Bryna were hot-footing through Car Land with their sites on another wonderful, thrilling ride.

And why wouldn't they be? That's why you come to Disneyland: to have fun, partake in the dream and enjoy the latest greatest rides on Earth. It's a total immersion experience. And it costs an arm and a leg.

These grandchildren, Kauai kids, had, according to Misty, "crossed the ocean" to get here. He waved his miniature arm to emphasize the distance traveled and smiled a smile that rarely left his munchkin face.

Big sister Viva, also full of smiles, had ridden the amazing Incredicoaster, Disney's fantastic roller coaster of tunnels, swoops and water splashes "We went upside down!"

Our group of four began the day with a simulated flight, Soarin Over California, an IMAX-like virtual experience that flew us over numerous California landmarks, including Yosemite Falls, up a gorgeous tree-lined river, over the  snow-capped Sierra Nevada and zooming among colorful air balloons above Sonoma County.

Misty barely made the 40-inch height requirement. He sat in the front row, his little feet dangling above the clouds. We all did.

"Did you smell the orange blossoms and the ocean?" Mama asked me, referring to the full sensory experience.

"No, I was wearing my mask."  Bummer, I thought.

I was among the .00002-percent of thousands of attendees who were wearing the controversial protective face masks due to COVID. In other words, face masks were harder to find than drinking fountains (remember them?).

On the other hand (or side of the head), we were not among the 70-percent of attendees who were wearing mouse ears in honor of the founder.

It dawned on me how that far-away, long-ago television show, The Mickey Mouse Club, in which all the kids wore caps with mouse ears, had reverberated through time and space. In the year 2022, Mickey's ears still signify membership in the all-inclusive Disneyland club. 

I worried that if I were to stay at a nearby Disney resort and visit the park daily, I would be wearing the ubiquitous mouse ears by day two. How could I resist? Some were wearing mechanical mice on their shoulders. That's cool. I want one.

Years ago I had sworn off the Disney thing, during my anti-establishment period. In the meantime the franchise and has circled the globe with theme parks, produced an entertainment empire that includes films like The Little Mermaid, Frozen and most recently Encanto, all of which my grandchildren have watched and loved. These films have evolved with the culture, introducing characters who empower women and stories that exalt diversity. This is a good thing. Right?

Based on my unscientific study of attendees, more than 75-percent of visitors during our visit were Latino. That is a large and growing market. Welcome to the club! Your orders, according to one entertaining vignette presented by a team sporting green soldier fatigues and faces:

"Have fun!"

Me wearing my mask next to Viva inside the chamber of the Guardians of the Galaxy. YIKES!

Fun requires an investment of more than choice.

For a family of four, you're going to throw down at least a grand to have fun, with day tickets alone running around $200 each. Upgrades for the waiting lines run $20 each. The most poplar rides tack on an extra $18. If you don't pay for the upgrades, you could be waiting in line until the next full moon.

We spent near three hours walking from and to the parking lot a few blocks away from the park, for which we paid $30. No worries. Misty rode in a stroller and I raised my children to walk. Mama booked it like the cross-country runner she once was, pushing the three-wheeled BOB safely through the pedestrian traffic. By end of day, according to my iPhone Health app we had trucked more than six miles.

You must have the Disneyland app to upgrade. That is where I turned to Mama to negotiate the digital fineries of virtual adventure, else I find myself immobilized in the proverbial mouse trap.

Lucky for us, the Disneyland employees -- mostly young folks -- were happy to assist, always courteous and helpful, providing a good, honest vibe. In Florida, Disney employees nudged the corporate giant to stand up against a discriminatory new law by the governor. Strike one for the corporate giant, currently in a political pickle with the autocratic governor.

Why can't it just be about fun? 

Despite the cruel prices, we had a blast, which included continually announcing our favorite rides, which seemed to change with each new experience. Creative rides and attractions, cleanliness and a sense of WOW kept us entertained.

We spent eight hours inside the park and couldn't possibly see everything. We stopped to eat only once, since we were on a mission to ride. Mama and I both finished a craft IPA ($12) and the kids shared a gourmet potato with fixings. Concession food and drink cater to a wide palette and the prices are not over the top. Purchases must be made through an app. Grrrrr! Leave your cash in a safe deposit box. It will soon be an artifact.

We steered clear of souvenirs, although our quintessential decision arrived when Viva said:

"I want a pair of those ears."

The moment called for ride distraction. Memories are worth more than a million ears.

Masters of War

Kateryna Hyrshchenko, former sous chef and basketball point guard, joined Ukrainian Military. Photo by Alexander Chekmenev 

World War III will be fought with sticks and stones. 

                                                                    -- Johnny Morris, 8, 1956

Growing up during the the post World War II period, I heard many war stories that circulated through our working-class neighborhood. It had been a mere ten years since the war ended and many of the fathers in my neighborhood had served in the military, including my dad.

Since he didn't talk about his wartime experiences, most of what I heard came from the kids I played with on the street.

Horror stories were told about torture techniques practiced by the Japanese in their prison camps. They were called Japs and the gruesome tales, that included genital mutilation, left uncomfortable images in my head. 

One kid named Galen proudly claimed himself a Nazi. He promised revenge in a most disturbing tone of voice that caused my eyes to nearly pop out of my head. I didn't know anything about Nazis.

War surplus materials were extremely popular, purchased at the Army Surplus store downtown -- bomber jackets, army clothes and empty hand grenades.

During one period it seemed as if all the kids had a gas mask strapped over their face. They were much more imposing than the pandemic face masks we've been wearing. They included a can with a filter inside that I presumed was supposed to keep the radioactive gas from reaching your lungs. The masks were free, handed out in separate cardboard boxes at the UA Theater downtown where we innocently went to watch Saturday matinees for 20-cents.

Even at eight or nine, I knew that the gas masks were bogus, how could they possibly save your life. They were simply one of those things that became popular, like hula hoops and yo-yos.

In the early grades, we practiced duck-and-cover exercises by hiding under our classroom desks, to protect ourselves from nuclear attack. I didn't lose any sleep over it, because in my life a nuclear bomb seemed about as real as the cowboys and Indians on television. In fact, Disneyland opened its gates in the mid-Fifties less than 30 miles away with Frontier Land, Fantasy Land and Sleeping Beauty Castle. My kids' world was filled with pretending.

Although the Cuban Missile Crisis between the U.S. and Russia in 1962 threatened nuclear war.

Those days seemed so long ago, until recently, when the prospect of a nuclear weapon being fired became real. We're told that's the reason we cannot help Ukraine militarily, because that would put the United States in direct conflict with Russia, a war of super powers. Since WWII our wars have been proxy wars where we have fought Communism and terrorists groups like Al Qaeda on the soil of other countries -- Korea, Vietnam, Central America, Iraq and Afghanistan. 

That's the way we like it. Don't tread on us here at home. 

Russia's invasion of Ukraine opens up a new war theater for us. Ukraine is a Western democratic country that has chosen our way of life, European style. They look like us, share the same liberal values of individual freedom and a free marketplace. They have a free press, although we have seen how that can be twisted backward with alternative facts here in our own U.S. of A.

Look at Russia, where free expression can have you thrown in prison and tortured. Alternative facts rule in Russia. It's called propaganda, and it helps maintain order. The rules are simple: Shut up and heed the single message of the authoritarian, the dictator. Democracy is too messy and leads to all sorts of problems, like transgender and gay people, and offended segments of the population asking for historical truth, or God-forbid, reparations, and pretty soon it's all chaos. And how do we pay for it? Wouldn't want to put a dent in our affluent life style.

In a suburb near Kiev recently that was occupied by Russian military, a patriot's pamphlet was discovered at a site that had been occupied by Russian military. It contained a page with quotations by the Dalai Lama. The propagandists are expert at twisting words to support their cause. Would the Dalai Lama truly urge patriots to rape and murder a woman?

Our Western ideals and extravagances -- yes, we are wasteful and oftentimes obnoxious -- are under attack by an ancient mode of order that is exemplified by Russian President Vladimir Putin. That is, squash rebellion and liberty with fear. This includes executions, obliteration of lives and homes with  beheadings and bombs, return to the medieval means of control. It worked for centuries. Power equals control. The only principles belong to the authoritarian expressed through loyalty.

It could not happen here, right?

I wouldn't be so sure. Ask the natives who lived here before us, whom we replaced. In the big picture, that wasn't so long ago. Our democracy has been an imperfect experiment yet it has produced periods of peace, wealth and a good life for many. We proudly believe that our Western standards are best, that every nation would want to follow us, as the Ukrainians have.

Authoritarians are multiplying around the world: in Brazil, Venezuela, China and Hungary, where Prime Minister Viktor Orban wields control, a darling of the far-right in the U.S. 

Putin's popularity, if you believe our mainstream media, is growing at home. His patriotic rallies -- the epitome of nationalism and mob mentality -- attract throngs of adoring supplicants, ever ready to crush the non-believer. They seemingly will do anything for him. At least his soldiers are proving this to be true.

This mentality starts with fear, aimed at building resentment: You're getting screwed. I will bring order and make things like they used to be. They're soft on crime. They support child pornography and your children are next. You have been screwed by the liberal elites. The mainstream press is your enemy. I'm on your side.

We saw this with the Stop the Steal movement and resulting, farcical at times, insurrection at the Capitol in January, orchestrated from the safety of the autocrat's office. He is not really on their side. Authoritarians want power and control. They pose before the gullible, the innocent, the mistreated. They stir them up with flags and hoopla and hate. This isn't new. History is full of tyrants like Hitler and Putin, whose egotistical aims would have him remembered as the great ruler who saved Mother Russia. 

Because of the threat of nuclear war (fear), Putin may win his war over Ukraine, or at least the parts of the country that contain resources and shipping ports that support his power. The war could go on for years.

The questions for us in the U.S.: 

Are we going to fall victim to regressive authoritarianism? Are we willing to give up our individual rights for this type of dictatorial control? It's called fascism. 

There is no perfect system or person or political party. Our flaws make us real. Our ideals give us purpose. If our unique experiment in democracy is to survive, we must give a little. Make concessions. Forgive trespasses. Hold to the truth as best we can. You see it your way. I see it mine. That's okay.

Let's figure out a solution together, lest our remains be sticks and stones with no one left to use them.

 

An Unforgettable One

Samson and Finn spot a whale at Its Beach in Santa Cruz. PHOTO: KCS

I awoke early,

during that period between dark and light, just before nighttime gives way to a new day.

At dinner the night  before I had regaled the grandsons, ages 10 and 13, with stories of pirate caves, shipwrecks and buried treasures. I had promised them that we'd go surfing at dawn not realizing it would be the first day of April.

Now that morning was near, I could have announced, "April fools! Sleep in boys!" And the joke may have ended then and there.

But when the elder boy came to my window like a ghost blown in with the fog, I didn't have the heart to quash his youthful exuberance. I read adventure in his eyes.

"Let's suit up," I said. 

I led him into the garage and held an old wetsuit up to his burgeoning adolescent body as if I were dressing a mannequin. "This'll do."

A warm smile defined his enthusiasm.

We repaired to our respective rooms to pull the skin-tight neoprene suits over our bodies. A task that would have Houdini hyperventilating. 

Air temperature hovered at 46-degrees F., water 52, with a nippy offshore breeze sweeping off the land as we carried our longboards down to the surf, the soles of our bare feet protected from the asphalt and concrete by rubber slippers. The younger brother had wisely opted to sleep in.

"None but the brave are out at this hour," I said as we trotted across the cold crunchy sand, the only souls on the beach. The offshore breeze was producing a bumpy texture on the water's surface. A few small rollers washed in, assuring me that this would primarily be a paddling session.

I indicated a point in the distance to give us a target, a goal for our paddle. "We'll paddle out as far as the point where you see the cypress trees," I said. 

We entered the water and rested our stomachs on our boards. We had gone over this earlier in the week, his first lesson on a surfboard. 

The prone position, in which we dip our arms into the water to paddle, begs the essential question about riding a surfboard standing up: How do you get from your stomach to your feet in a split second? You "pop up."

The surf schools promote a method that involves a middle position on one knee. Being instinctively unorthodox, I have always jumped to my feet in one motion.

I demonstrated my pop-up move to my 13-year-old student and said simply: "If you catch a wave, get to your feet as fast as you can."

I doubted the issue would come up, since waves were not breaking. But you want to be ready.

As we paddled farther and farther out waves came humping in, but not breaking, mounds of water created by currents beneath the surface. The chilly water was also rising on the incoming tide.

We rode the humps on our stomach and during lulls between sets we sat on our boards while the sun rose above the eastern horizon. We scanned the landsape from our position in the water. The boy had kept pace on his first lengthy paddle.

"This is the best way to start a day," I said, acknowledging the orange glow in the eastern sky.

I pointed to a fishing boat chugging out to sea. "Salmon season opens this weekend."

The boy just smiled and I wondered what he was thinking. He builds things, has the mind of a scientist not a poet.

The sets began to increase in number and the humps grew in size. We were alone, our hands and feet numbed. The beach where we had parked our slippers on the sand seemed miles away. Water sloshed around us. A black scoter duck landed, dove beneath the surface with a plop. The special smell of the sea wafted about us. 

"This is so much fun, Papa," he said. 

"Yes, Samson, I love it," I said. And I smiled.

Paddling back, we rode the humps that were increasing in number and size. Would they start breaking? We neared the shore and they rose higher. An hour ago before the tidal change, these humps surely would have broken, pitching tons of foamy water.

We waited for a lull before making our final approach to the beach.

The wind had shifted. An onshore breeze from the ocean had blown in low clouds that blocked out the sunshine. The air temperature had dropped. We couldn't find our slippers. The boy searched up and down the empty beach. I began to shiver in my soaking wetsuit.

Who would take our slippers? The boy also left a shirt that had disappeared. Was this an April fools joke? 

We walked across the sand to the pavement carrying our boards and shivering from time spent searching the beach. Our fingers and toes stung with numbness. We faced an uphill barefoot walk carrying our longboards. 

I don't remember feeling so cold or so content.

"When are we going surfing again, Papa?" he said.