Near The End

Three things can cause a writer to stop writing: there is nothing else to express, there is so much to write about the writer can’t find the beginning or in my case, the writer's scared.

Technically, there is no such thing as a catch-up blog, a capsule of events for the past four weeks. Blogs were intended to be “hey world, this is what I did today.” Everyone and every cause has a blog because there is an innate need to assume some importance, if not to someone you know at least to some unknown individual who accidentally stumbles across the ramblings while surfing the web for something important, and while doing so found you. Even that obscure connection can make you and your daily activities seem important.

So for the sake of not catching up on the events since December 8th I’ll say that when dad said the snow felt good under his feet as we walked Broadway in Saratoga Springs, I let it pass. But fifteen minutes later when he said it again I had to pause in my pace and tell him I thought white warm sand on a beach would feel even better. Yeah, the snow felt fine.

I am depressed.

Red Ball Express

The 30th Division of the First Army swept across France. The young infantry soldier had been separated from his division after being hospitalized. When he was ready to return to his unit he was accidentally reassigned to the wrong division. In the confusion of war during a time when an infantryman’s life expectancy was a matter of days, if he was damn lucky, the soldier had trouble catching up to his proper unit. The circumstances most likely saved his life, but also gave him an opportunity to go to Paris on the Red Ball Express, “a mostly colored unit moving supplies to the front.” That was 1944.

From the 10026 foot summit of Haleakalā after watching the sun rise over a low cloud bank, Dad met two young men from southern California who had just climbed to the volcano from sea level. They congratulated themselves on their accent—a bush whack of sorts using nothing but a map and compass. Looking at the relief map in the Visitor’s Center, the two planned their next route with high fives and “Dude, it is a straight line from here.” referring to their destination, a trek across the crater and descent into Kaupo.

Dad and I looked at each other. When I was in my early twenties I hike the crater trail and came out the far side near Hana. That took two days, and I had not climbed the mountain the day before. A few years later, Dad and Mom also hiked it and took three days.

On the drive back down the mountain, Dad reflected on the duo’s adventure. “They were foolish to climb that mountain like that.”

“Dad, when you went to Paris, you were foolish. These two kids are not at any risk of getting shot by a sniper or end up AWOL.” Dad laughed in agreement. That was today.

1177

One thousand one hundred and seventy-seven souls rest beneath the clear waters of Pearl Harbor. Sixty-five years ago, they perished onboard the Arizona which lies below the Memorial. I stared into the water at the outline of the battleship corrosion slowly melting the thick haul. Two tropical fish idly searched for food. It was the event that changed my father’s life as it did every single person in the United States on that day December 7, 1941.

In the darkened theater we watched a brief video of the attack. It was impossible to keep tears from falling. Few spoke on the boat ride to the white building that seemed to hover above the blue waters. I could not comprehend the brave, heroic acts of many young men in the midst of chaos and confusion spawned by the surprise attack that Sunday morning. How could I ever thank the men who paid for my freedom with their lives? By paying silent respect to their resting place. By remembering, never forgetting. I wondered how we can so easily place 9/11 in a distant place, the event removed from our present threat.

I spotted a young man who wore a ball cap with the campaign of Iraq. I asked him if he served in Iraq. He said yes. I shook his hand and thanked him for his service. Freedom is not free and the greatest achievements of our nation occurred because young men went to war to fight.

At lunch we shared a table with a gentleman from San Francisco who had toured the Missouri that morning. He suggested we take the guided tour, as he had an excellent guide who had served as the steward for the captain. I don’t think we had any intention of taking a guided tour, but when I was asked at the gate if we liked to have a guide I said, “Only if our guide is the gentleman who served onboard.” Turned out that gentleman happened to be standing there. Of course they wanted to know how we knew of Toby.

Toby greeted Dad as a special guest once he learned that Dad had been a World War II prisoner of war. Dad’s celebrity status got us into a couple of places that only few get to see (Dad got to sit on the captain's bed.) Since Dad knows someone who served onboard the Missouri when Japan surrendered, Toby gave Dad his card since Dad's friend has some Missouri memorabilia.

Toby was full of stories about being onboard the great battleship. If you ever get to Honolulu and decide to take a tour of the Missouri, ask for Toby. It will be a memorable expereince.

Antibiotics

One of the worst things that can happen to you before going on vacation is catching a cold. Despite downing enough Airborne to ward invading cold bugs picked up somewhere between Houston, TX and Worcester, MA (but not in either one of those places) the germs managed to latch on me after first attacking on Dad.

It wasn’t a bad cold. It did not turn into one of those scratchy, itchy, sneezy, runny messes. But it did manifest itself into a sinus infection that left the right side of my face feeling like I got clobbered by a baseball bat. It hurt to smile, to chew, or sleep. After one long painful night in Maui, I decided to seek medical attention.

The antibiotic side-effect is that skin becomes sun-sensitive. The good thing is that this will guarantee a beautiful sunny day in a tropical paradise. Sure enough on the far side of Maui at the foot of Haleakalā in Hana the sun lit up the blue surf that crashed against the black lava shore.

I did not die of exposure and my face feels so much better.

Dad, reluctant to go swimming for the first week in Hawaii due to his cold, finally took a dip in the `Ohe`o Gulch, formally known as The Seven Sacred Pools.

Soggy

I have got to get another blog entry posted. After all, I have been in Hawaii for seven days and not written a thing. (That's a bad habit for a writer.) This afternoon I am on the road to Hana and will spend two nights there. I doubt I will have an internet connection at the cabins so posting won’t happen until I return. I should have some good snaps and stories.

So that you don’t envy me too much…I was given a Jeep Wrangler to drive from Alamo. It only took getting into the vehicle decide that I would return it the next day. The drive to my aunt and uncle’s place in Lahiana, confirmed I would return it, because I didn’t feel safe driving it. My field of view was blocked by the side mirrors—being too short. If I needed to be convinced further, the next day after a torrential rain, there was an inch of water in the passenger foot well in the front and back seat. Dad had to sit in the back seat behind me with his feet up. Don’t think I have seen that much water in a car since I left the top down on my MG Midget twenty years ago. Alamo exchanged the Jeep for an Impala.

I expected rain for the entire trip. It is that time of year in Hawaii. But it is warm.

Returning from Kahului the sky looked as if a frustrated painter couldn't decide on either the texture or the shade of blue.