13 may 2003
I've lapsed. I said it again. I said yes to a crew position, this time aboard
a 39' Island Packet out of Seattle. The owner, a mathematician & astronomer,
plans to circumnavigate the planet over the next four years and has invited
me to crew the first leg (Seattle - Hilo, Hawaii). The trip takes roughly three
weeks. God help us, but only I have blue water experience and will be the lead
crew person.
01:51 mon 23 june ~ off of Slip Point, Strait of San Juan de Fuca
I sponged half a bucket of water from the bilge. There is a light in the bilge
so we can see the tiniest accumulation water. It is sponged up daily by me.
Joe is on deck. I am his support crew. I pass him a hot chocolate. We are bundled in hats, fleece and sea boots. The worst of the weather passed at sunset last night. 29 knots and our stomachs went up & down, round and round. To keep mine from expelling dinner, I concentrated on one thought over and over, "finally, I find myself at sea (smile)." The summer sausage and cheese crackers we had for lunch weren't so bad, but the canned beef stew left a poor impression. I choked both mine and Paul's down before going to bed only because I hate to see waste.
This evening we are hailed by a submarine, surfacing astern. We exchange course info and motor on towards Neah bay, our final stop before the coconut-encrusted daiquiri glasses that await us in Hilo Hawaii.
The moon rose on the horizon like a wedge of embers. So many ships passing
through the straits. We hugged the south shore, watching for familiar lights,
out of the way of most of the traffic.
05:43 tues 24 june
My watch is almost over. The sun is just above a long arch of clouds. The cottontails
in the west line up like endless garden rows. The light is pale but sure, with
knots of clouds and thin gray curtains.
The light is just now reaching the page and the whole sky is bluing.
16:00 tues 24 june
Swedish meatballs for dinner. As usual, tiny portions. Covering just 1/4 of
the bottom of our bowls. Everything here, whether out of a can or straight from
the freezer, is warmed slowly over a sterno can. We have no frying pan, no wooden
spoon, or cutting knife. We have no oil and no butter. We do not plan to cook
anything, anytime. Joe has plans to concentrate on sailing. I wish to say to
him, "sailing IS cooking, Joe! And cooking IS sailing." You cannot
divorce the two. Food is part of life at sea. But this is not my cruise. This
is not my boat. I will continue to eat my quarter portions and lick my bowl
and dream of better meals to come.
20:24 weds 2 july ~ n 33°55' w136°35'
We are 12 days out and just over 60 nautical miles from our halfway mark. So
far it has been a mellow, methodical voyage. No great events or tragedies, no
upsets. All cautious, conservative acts, from the changing of sails to the coiling
of ropes. If I let it, it would bother me. Cautious is not my style. I like
to move fast. Too fast for Joe. Joe plods and thinks and scratches his head.
He thinks of reasons & outcomes, he makes decisions based on quantitative
data. I have not let this bother me. I have given my energies to reading &
writing. If Joe's method were lorded over me, which I fear at some point they
may be, if I were corrected, goaded or watched, if things were to change, I
would complain. So far, though, I have had enough space, enough mental room.
90% of my time at the NAV station is spent writing. 90% of my time at the helm is spent reading or memorizing.
Fri 4 july ~ n 31°45' w 138° 46'
All day we passed through squalls, long storm systems that appear on radar as
mile-wide bands, ink blots, wounds, fuzzy green islands.
Last night there were stars in the eastern sky. We have not seen stars in over a week. I borrowed Owen's book & searched the sky. Finally, they began to return, Scorpio, massive & unmistakable. The Teapot, after much struggling, came clear and stayed with me through my shift. Then the great triangle of Deneb, Lira and Arctura. I saw all of Lyre and Aquila the eagle.
It did not rain on me. I hand-steered for an hour and, to better see the stars, steered backwards once, facing the stern. The captain was sleeping.
At sea, one has, almost nightly, exceptionally vivid dreams. Last night, in my dream, I was sailing alone at night in the middle of the ocean when I came upon a city of ocean dwellers. The city rose up out of the dark ocean, one piling at a time. There were no lights. The pilings, crooked and broken, were laid out in long lines with narrow passages between them. I came to be sailing in one of these passageways not knowing how or when it would end.
06:00 fri 4 july
Going through a squall at least six miles deep and six miles wide. Twenty eight
hours until Oakie territory. I can almost smell the chicken. My rain pants and
jacket are drenched. Got a bucketful over the gunwale. The gingersnaps I'd put
in my pocket were mush when I reached in to get them. My tea was salty.
08:00 fri 4 july
It is raining horizontally. There is 100% cloud cover. My hands are pruned.
The sleeves and left side of my wool sweater beneath my rain jacket are wet.
My boatyard calluses are broken, peeling, pink. My knuckles and finger pads
are pale like rabbit's skin. They say the entire radar screen is covered with
squall.
Owen, my backup crew, checks, periodically, for ships and more squalls. It could be worse. We could be sitting in a high with no wind. We could be attacked by killer squid. We could run out of summer sausage…
The sea is very black, a mood, no doubt created by the sky.
Last night Owen reported winds to 30kn. They pulled in the genoa, set the stays'l, and double reefed the main. Tiny squid, 3-5" long wash up on our decks each day. I'm not sure how long they survive, but I round up their bodies and toss them overboard. They are maroon and white with skinny tendrils.
We pass flotsam every shift, from plastic bottles to paper bits and pieces of line and fishing gear. I have noticed a substantial amount of floating debris, much more than my last voyage. Why? Is it the time of year? The currents? The weather conditions?
08:51 sat 5 july ~ n 29°11' w 141°19'
It has been dry for over six hours though the sky is still covered with clouds.
The seas are on our beam quarter, rocking us like a cradle. Every so often a
big swell gets beneath us and the boat heels to starboard 30° and rocks
back and forth until we stabilize. What will we do when we see fair weather?
Chances are it is fair in Seattle. We prefer not to know.
The moon is back to a quarter. The clouds open dark windows with scattered stars. The big dipper was visible once to the northwest and I saw Lyra and the head of Scorpio. It wasn't worth getting the book. They were quickly covered over.
No one was enthusiastic about showers today, it being cool and wet with lively seas. We put off another day. When idling the engine to warm the water for showers we can use the microwave to cook frozen meals like lasagna. We put off lasagna too.
Joe is about to relieve me at the helm. I look forward to crawling into bed but fear what we will see tomorrow in our search for Okie Maru.
05:00 sun 6 july ~ n 28°21' w 141°52'
As I write this, I am slid down on the NAC seat with my down vest behind my
head. My feet are propped across the salon on the edge of the starboard berth.
I am wearing blue ski socks. I have had these on for days untold, since 27 June?
That's 10 days! I have hospital scrubs on and a Gramicci tee which I have been
wearing for 6 days. My hair is dark with grease, in a ponytail.
18:39 sun 6 july
The red lights are on below decks, one in the kitchen, one in the head. The
stainless in the pantry is gleaming red. The 3 tidy faucets, one for fresh,
one for sea and one for filtered water. The edge of the 2-basin sink. The mound
of the teapot. Even the apples in the bowl by the microwave have a blackred
glaze.
03:00 mon 7 july ~ n 25°32' w 143°04'
We appear to be getting closer to our destination. I have no idea how. Each
day in the log we write in coordinates which are smaller in latitude and greater
in longitude. It is nothing we are doing. The space on the chart between Hawaii
and our penned-in position is simply decreasing. We wake & sleep, rise &
descend, wash & grow oily. It is nothing we are doing. Only a byproduct
somehow of all of our combined activities.
The boom goes slack as we rock over a wave and the sail fills and makes a taut low drum beat which shakes the rigging & rattles the cleavis pin on the man-overboard pole 3 times, 6 times, 10 times. Something like a marble in a tilting wood maze above the starboard salon setee, when I am sleeping, sounds like coffee percolating. I have given up coffee. Though we have a healthy supply of Folger's instant coffee bags, I have switched to tea. During my days in the v-berth, the forward cave, during the dehydration days, while the others were on four hour watches with suspended chores, I weaned myself off coffee and now I drink tea and tang, hot chocolate and chicken soup. And now I am good.
It is 79.5° Fahrenheit with a constant breeze out of the northeast and a big blue sky ordered up out of a catalog with banks of white clouds along the horizon. I napped in the cockpit after my shift and went to sleep again in the salon after lunch. I sit watch in bare feet now.
The stars are back in the evenings though the moon is paling them. I found Ursa Minor, Draco, Corona Borealis, Hercules, Sagitta, Delphinus, Bootes, Leo, Serpens Caput and Ophiuchus!
Tues 8 july
The days are passing and nothing remarkable yet, outside of the usual, most
remarkable universe, the heaving sea, the moon and galaxy of stars, the weather
and wind which never stop, the lack of things breaking on the boat, the way
we go without sleep and stay pleasant, and the graphic dreams.
18:45 tues 8 july
The sky is periwinkle & lavender & blue, broken up by soft gray clouds
above, and pink & white clouds below. The ocean ripples & waves with
occasional white curls & splashes. Calm. The swell catches us on our aft
starboard quarter. Hawaii is six days away! Because the ocean is moving, the
sky appears to be still, but when I study it, I see all the blues have changed,
the patterns rearranged. Every time I look, there is a new canvas.
Weds 9 july
We all just kind of shuffle around on this boat. When Owen comes off shift at
3am, he wakes me and I go to the NAV station which Paul has just left for the
helm. I sleep in the salon from 9 to12 am and in the v-berth from 12 to 3. Between
crew conversations, refrigerator door closings, and head flushings, the noise
in the salon makes sleeping difficult. The bow is better insulated.
During my shift at the helm today, the wind died completely and the windex atop the mast began spinning circles. Our boat speed decreased to 0.8kts and it began misting lightly. Then more dead air. It wasn't until the end of my watch that we started to get a light breeze.
Wednesday 9 july 2003
I am so dirty, I am itchy. The moon is ¾ full. For the first time in
20 days I listened to music. I borrowed Owen's cd player and listened to Moby
Play and Paul Simon and David Gray. What a world this, with music!
I stood my entire watch, letting autopilot keep our course at 200° magnetic. We were making +6 knots. A warm breeze out of the northeast. The moon created shadows on the cockpit. Holding onto the bimini or radar arch, I swayed to the ocean swells and danced. And thought of the friends I left behind, from long ago. I am warm in my scrubs, a tank top and linen shirt and bare feet. No more shoes. With under 500 nautical miles to Hawaii, we crossed the tropics of cancer today during dinner. Muddy sense of accomplishment.
I sense a general crew discontent with the stringent watch schedule and the strict systems aboard.
17:57 friday 11 july 2003, 20°50'n 149°14'w
We have added vowels to our names in anticipation of landfall in Hawaii.
Took showers today. Glorious! Some of the crew have stopped timing themselves and given into the more convenient method of common sense, shortest shower with best possible results. I had to borrow some hotel shampoo from Paul as my tiny bottle is gone.
Tuna for lunch. Swedish meatballs for dinner. We continue to complain.
Monday 14 july 2003, 18°53n 155°50w
We are running between Ka Lae (South Cape) and Kauna Point, having just rounded
the south end of the big island! Finally getting away from the massive swells
and gale force winds. What a night! During Joe's watch, 9-midnight, the wind
reached 40 knots with gigantic swells 15 to20 feet in height sloshing the boat
around and periodically breaking over the rail. Joe deployed the warps, (2 looped
lines attached to either jib sheet winch and dragged behind the boat to reduce
speed) and we doused the stays'l and sailed on the double-reefed main alone.
We were able to bring our speed down to the mid sixes.
Earlier, we saw the lava flowing off Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, a twinkling redness at four miles distance. We didn't see any of the buoys around the island, though the chart shows seven, all fda's, fl y 4s, priv (fishing aggregate devices, flashing yellow every 4 seconds, privately maintained).
Outside of the large vessel we saw at 05:00 which we guessed to be a cruise ship, we haven't seen any other boats. The coast guard local forecast is for a small craft advisory. They're not kidding!
The gale force winds continued through the night, but by the end of Owen's shift (02:30), he and Paul were hauling in the warps and unfurling the stays'l. The wind had died to 10-20 knots around the cape and from there we would move into the lee of the island and probably motor to Honokohau.
Monday 14 july 2003
Landfall, Honokohau Harbor, Kona, Hawaii
After a night of gales, after two hours of non-sleeping rest, after triplicate
annoyances and the lack of a shower (I decided to wait for harbor showers),
after the humidity, and after having to pay for my own lunch at the harbor house,
I washed my body in three stages and walked to Kailua-Kona alone. I washed the
upper half of my body in the sink at the harbor house, I washed my hair with
fresh water but no soap in a public harbor restroom, and my bottom half at the
shop-n-save in Kailua.
Saturday 08:00, 19 july 2003
Sitting on the porch in front of the charter desk at Honokohau Marina watching
the sports fishing boats fuel up and head out for the day. The charter desk
books clients for the commercial boats. The captain of Jaques Apito has a cleanly
shaven head, a groomed white goatee, an earring dangling from his left ear,
fitted khaki shorts with side pockets, a button down white shirt with a pleat
in back, and short white socks showing above clean white sneakers. Croakies
hang onto his dark shades. He backs Jaques Apito into the dock, his rear-end
leaning on the 2nd story console, maneuvering the boat with both hands behind
him, one on the gear shift, the other on the thrust, legs spread, in command,
prepared as if to shoot from the groin. As the others who dock for fuel, he
hits it dead-on the first time around, driving into the harbor as if in a car,
turning and stopping on a dime, without sacrificing speed.
He brings the mooring ball to the port stern corner. The deckhand clips the line, walks it forward, and cleats it on the bow. Meanwhile, the captain brings the stern to dock, keeping the boat perpendicular, correcting here and there while the hand comes around to secure the lines. A signal is given, the lines are made, the captain pulls the choke, adjusts a knob, and the engines shut down.
They are at the fuel dock for a maximum of 10 minutes. A client has bailed and another party is split up and divided between two boats. The captains retains his fare. Everyone is happy. One of the captains pats a client on the back, "You made the right choice. You're going to have a great time."
The clients are easy to spot among the fishermen. They are the awkward, pale skinny ones. The overweight ones. They are the ones encumbered with bags and children. Their shirts are tucked in. The soles of their shoes are black.
The charter desk manager and workers come onto the patio to smoke and hang over the iron rail or sit in the plastic lawn chairs. The teenage girl wears low-rider jeans which lace up the front. A tummy of baby fat hangs out beneath her charter desk t-shirt. She photographs the trophies, the grandmothers (20yr old female marlins, always +300lbs). 90 pictures yesterday. 90 marlins, dark dead unbeating bodies with straight long swords, pulled from the ocean, perhaps from a place called grandmother's kitchen.
She uses a hanging control box to slide the car and weighing device to where the marlin is lying, lowers the hook and hands it to the deckhand who places it around a rope tied to the tail. The dark body lifts until it is hanging and a weight is declared. The crew and captain congratulate one another. Tanned smiles, white teeth. First show of emotion, but a practiced one. Nothing under the skin. The charter desk girl runs for a marker and pens the date and weight and boat name on a sheet of paper. She presses it onto the side of the moist fish. The trophy winner poses and then the whole crew. Again, those smiles, that number. That frozen moment. Quick, quick. Release the fish. The dock lines are thrown and the boat churns away.
And what happens to the fish? Marlin are sold to the fish market at 15-20¢ lb. The captain takes 1/3, the boats takes 1/3, and the crew takes 1/3. The captain's take is roughly $15 on a big fish. The client gets a picture and the thrill of the catch. The price of marlin is low because fish are plentiful this year. The meat may not even be any good and may therefore be smoked. As a protest to the dealers' prices, some captains have released fish in attempt to drive up the prices, so far it is not working.
The commercial boats have artless names like terminator, challenger, and reel class. One captain yells to another, "want some marlin? I got 300lbs to get red of." The other shakes his head. "I'll take some Ahe..." The first shakes his head.
This captain is full of baby fat. I can see the cocktails in his hands, and pupus, the fried meals and rich desserts. His face and neck, his chest and girth, all baby fat. A bloated belly. A business man in the sun. Navy shorts, white tee, flipflops, visor, shades, croakie. A dark tan accentuates the bleached hair on his legs and arms. Light brown hair with rags of blond spin round his crown.
A marlin is pulled out of his hold. This one's been cut. Blood red stumps, a hook the size of a hairdryer in its side. Dark gray mottled body. White flaps of chest open over a gutted belly. There's the trophy paper still on its side. This is the marlin they caught yesterday, still unsold. The captain is unable to give it away. He's made two calls. No takers, none with trucks and time to pick it up today, right now. Time is money.
The captain's t-shirt has a logo on it that says, brag and tag, with two marlins curled in a circular design. He is cursing into the phone.
Sunday 20 july 2003
I have taken to sitting on the porch of the Kona Hotel. This is my 3rd visit.
I booked a night here for next week. I'd take 2 if she has it, just to sit on
this porch. The porch is rust red w/ rust colored benches and 3 plastic chairs
w/ cushions and, flanking the double doors, which stand open at all times, are
two wooden armchairs with sloping seats and fat cushions. From here you can
look out beyond the pink porch posts to the tiny white house set back on a cropped
lawn across the street. The yard is broken up by 3 island gardens w/ palms and
small plants. When the owners repainted, they forgot the triangle above the
door which is still dark red w/ cream trim while the rest of the house, the
front stairs, the porch, the lattice skirt under the raised porch, are bright
white with baby blue trim.
It is 3pm. The roosters between two homes are crowing back and forth with short breaks of silence. I can smell the rain now. Cool. Metal. Mineral. The sky was gray, light and dark gray, all afternoon. Now there are dark tendrils swaying over Holualoa and the air has cooled. I feel I am rising from beneath the ocean where I have been laboring all day.
I can smell it. It comes in cool waves to my nostrils. Rain would be good for my feet. I have been cruel to them. I subjected them to 6 miles in flipflops my first 2 days on land, and 2 days later to 11 miles in angry shoes and, 2 days after, to 11 miles in flipflops. They will either grow stronger or weaker. I am cruel. Rain would be kind.
The street, the grass, the trees, the air, the telephone lines, all have the look of rain.
I can see it now. A fine mist. Noiseless. Rich scent of macadam and roof. As I watch, it grows to a heavy mist. I hear distant patters on the roof next door. A steady stream pours off the eaves of ferrari coffee into the flower beds below.
4 yellow bulbs in the sockets above, under the pink porch. 2 bulbs are missing. Strands of large colored lights in scallops follow the porch roof. Tiny lights wrap twice around the horizontal sign that says -Kona Hotel- in mustard with white grooved letters.
21 july 2003
Woke up with a headache, sore and unwell. Washed a few body parts in the sink (face, hands, feet) then took two aspirin on an empty stomach. I'd have food soon. Took a vitamin too, to give the aspirin something to adhere to. Within a minute, I was sick to my stomach. I dragged myself to the head of the harbor for a coffee and bagel. While recuperating on the back porch, Andante, another island packet, this one 38', pulled in from San Diego. I took their lines and snugged them in.
A crossing crew, but still smiling, joking, going for beer. Remarkable! Andante had raced in the trans-pac (san diego - oahu) 2 yrs ago. They took 12 days and placed 4th in their division, then afterwards sailed home.
17 days for this voyage. They reported their war stories: 35 kt winds around south cape, a refrigerator that failed mid-voyage, requiring them to throw food overboard, and a 2-day calm during which they swam at sea. By now they were chugging beer. 10am.
My morning hideout has been adulterated. Not only did I fraternize with fuel patrons but the charter desk woman spoke to me. I'm done. I'll never write here again. I slipped away and cleaned all afternoon. Today I finish the interior. The boat is cleaner than when Joe bought it. The compartments, ceiling, walls, and floors have been wiped down. I vacuumed and scrubbed beneath the cabin sole. I spent one day on the kitchen and another on the head. Tomorrow, Joe says if I clean and wax, he will pay me extra.
Before sunset, I walked off in search of the bird sanctuary north of the harbor. After just 2 mins, I came to Kohol-Honokohau Beach National Park and 3 heieu (sacred sites) on the beach. A wooden structure like a lifeguard chair held together with string for offerings, a raised stage of rocks and, further along, an a-frame hut covered with grass. I reach down, the beach is coarse black and tan sand, a handful of dollhouse shells. The surf laps over rough shelves of lava which lobe in and out creating pools. And in these shallow pools, green sea turtles bask. In the first, the largest, there were 20! A group of children were petting and filming them. My instinct was to repeat the park posting: don't touch the turtles. But I paused. We should all be so curious.
I walked into the woods which line the narrow beach. A place of leafless shrubs
with gray branches that curl off and split and branch so often they create a
dense mesh of walls with low archways close to the trunks. You must bend to
walk through these tunnels. Everything from the beach up is the same. A place
to hunt and be hunted. A secret low hidden place. If you were followed here
you would have no option but to outrun your pursuer.
Back on the beach, I almost tripped on 2 large turtles (2' long) dug in the sand about 4' from the water's edge. I sat by them. The sun turned large and orange and dunked itself. The waves rushed over the low lava shelves, over the broken-up playground, partially submerged and smooth, like a pillow.
I moved close and lay my head in the sand. I could see her breathe, her head under his fin. They were nestled together. Every so often she sighed and he opened an eye. I moved closer. I was a foot away. The skin on her fins and head was a perfect inlay of dark flagstones. Their shells were dull, ½ covered in sand. After the sun left and the waves began to lap the face of a turtle further down the beach, I wiggled away and walked home.
Tuesday 22 july 2003
Too much sun today. We worked through noon, waxing the deckhouse. At 4, I called
it quits and walked to the charter dock. I hung my legs over the side. Here,
above the harbor floor, there was an aquarium of activity. Sea turtles eating
the flesh from a fish carcass, with just enough meat to hold the bones together.
Black spiky anemones scattered about. A puffer fish, olive with dark spots,
buzzes past, his caudal fin waving. 3 large eels move in near the carcass, but
worry at the turtle's waving fins. One turtle moves off and another moves in.
Angelfish, parrotfish, and butterfly fish. 4 trumpet fish, pale blue darts, move in. A spotted eagle ray, dark , serious, waves by. Near the wooden catamaran, the fry begin to jump. Something is after them. Instead of diving or turning or running, they jump. Not all at once like some schools, but over each other, as over hurtles, 20 or 30 coming at me, as if a tiny battalion on horseback, lunging, lunging, lunging. And then quiet.
Another puffer fish, this one deep violet with orange brows and specks down his back. They must make a sound like a race car under there. And the black crabs on the rocks above the water eating furiously, as if in a contest, left claw, right claw, left claw, right claw, left bite, right bite. And the turtles pulling flesh and the angelfish nibbling and the parrotfish biting down and the eels twisting in. What a feast!
After 11 of days of waiting and washing piecemeal, after 11 days of filth, I finally showered. I spoke with Dave and Kim of the SV Andante last night. Dave offered a lend of the shower key. While the public harbor has no shower, the boatyard, where they are docked, does. I ran to get my towel and shampoo and Dave walked me through the yard. There's the guard, Murphy. Swing around the fence when you're done. Pretend you're Kim.
I opened the door onto the most luxurious bath scene I can ever remember seeing. A navy tile floor, white tile walls, and a deep square sink, glistening. A fabric shade with a wood dowel weight covered the window, allowing a light breeze to pass. I turned on the water. Warm steady stream. Then made it cooler and got in.
A shower head can not produce a more perfect stream, more perfect pressure. Each jet, a fat soft squirt, massaging. A broad disk, a radius of warm soothing water, never ceasing, the eternal stream. I washed all the pieces together, lathering with liquid bathroom soap and dried off slowly.
After my shower, which I can not describe in detail because you would be jealous and wonder why a shower never meant so much to you, after my shower, I walked past Murphy and through the yard with a towel wrapped around my head, as Kim might. I returned the key and swung round the gate. The hairy hound on a nearby fishing boat opened an eye. Part wolf, Dave says.
That night I crawled into bed and the pillows did not feel greasy. The blanket did not feel waxy and the fan was not necessary. My legs were not itchy and my head not scratchy. I felt my calves and thighs and they were softer than I remember and smooth despite the hair. I am deep clean. Cleaner than I've been in ages. If I do not join the convent tonight, I might never join. I slept straight through the night and woke up clean.
Friday 25 july
2003
Hilo, Hilo Bay, Hawaii
The Hilo Bay Hostel is 7 blocks from the bus terminal and a block off the bayside
road. Formerly a hotel, it was recently renovated. The 5th step up at the entrance
has two oblong windows for keeping watch during prohibition. The wood stairs
are 15' wide and the ceiling in the sitting room 25' high. The windows above
the dorm rooms swing down. 2 doors lead to each room. The hostel just opened
in march and everything in it is clean and bright. The kitchen floor is black
and white tile and the bathroom antiseptic green.
I met up with Trudy and Rob (SV Tiniapa, Rangiroa) this morning and we went to bears cafe, a busy breakfast joint on Keawe St., for coffee and Belgian waffles. Trudy had just gotten off a 12 hr hospital shift and was due to go back for another this evening. We caught up on all the news and they told me about Hilo and their boat and Michael. After breakfast, Trudy dropped me at rainbow falls and I walked back into town.
I then had a controlled sushi experience (under $10) and walked to Mooheahe bus terminal with an ice-cream which I ate in the bandstand. The motley crew on the far side of the bandstand eventually migrated over to me, a few at a time. The 1st guy to arrive brought a drum and sang to me. The 2nd told me about Hilo's hidden delights, the 3rd, a woman, played hard-to-get. The 4th, Michael, talked about nothing, but with very seriously and at length. The 5th played Tahitian drums and smiled with 2 long, brown front teeth.
When I sit with a pen and paper, I seem to blend into the background. Life, as it is at the moment, begins to wrap around me. I have often wondered how a photographer gets his candid shots, the laughing, shy, stern faces, the impromptu gestures. I am beginning see, to become aware, of how to do this, what it is to be and not be in a place.
I took the bus back to Kona and walked the familiar road up to the Kona Hotel where I spent a glorious night on the porch watching the clouds roll by.
Friday 25 july 2003
I walked down the next day to the harbor. And spent a last night on the boat.
Joe and his ex-wife drove me to the airport in the morning and I flew back to
Seattle.