Blue Hawaii
I am floating in crystal waters under a powder blue sky, salt on my tongue from the ocean spray mixing nicely with my dirty martini. The golden sunlight above the Pacific keeps me nicely toasted—or maybe that's the martini.
Either way, I feel good. Except for the constant itch in my right shoulder where I was stabbed by a crazed serial killer who first framed me for murder and then tried to kill me. Fortunately, she missed my neck, which is where she was aiming. Were it not for that, I'd have thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
But this place isn't heaven. It's Hawaii.
On a perfect day like today, eighty and sunny, with barely a cloud in the sky, a man can be forgiven for mistaking one for the other. Especially when I hear an angel whisper in my ear. "Surf's up, Eddie. Let's go."
I open my eyes and see not an angel, but Mia, my surfing instructor.
One could be forgiven for thinking Mia Endecott is an angel. She's as beautiful as one. Almond-brown eyes and smooth tan skin. Long, black hair tied back in a braid that hangs down to the middle of her back. A tattoo sleeve runs up her right arm disappearing beneath her black, wet-suit vest. The significance of the tattoos is a mystery to me, though I'm curious about them, as I am about many things having to do with Mia since meeting her a week ago at my first lesson.
I decided to take up surfing on the recommendation of my friend, Zoey Smith, a badass Hollywood stuntwoman. That's what I do. I'm a stuntman. When I'm not floating in the Pacific sipping martinis and taking surf lessons.
Zoey and I met several years back working together on the stunt team working for a post-apocalyptic tv series called Edge of Collapse. She figured if I could flip cars and jump off buildings, I might as well learn to ride the waves.
"How long have you lived in California? Ten years? And you never learned to surf?" Zoey asked in her thick Australian accent the day she came to visit me in my hospital room. "You jump off buildings, flip cars, and skydive, but you don't surf. It's a glaring oversight in your résumé as a stuntman, Eddie," she'd said.
I agreed and asked, "You want to teach me?"
"If a goofy footer like you is going to learn to surf, there's only one person to teach you, and that's my friend, Mia."
Which is how I ended up in Hawaii, taking my sixth surfing lesson in as many days. Well, that and the knife wound in my shoulder from which I'm still recuperating.
Hawaii is part of my rehabilitation. Some R&R in paradise. Swim in the ocean. Eat fresh food. Lie low. Take it easy.
But 'lying low' and 'taking it easy' are not concepts I adapt to well. I like to keep moving. That's how I recuperate, regardless of doctor's orders (or how much my injured shoulder protests).
Zoey knows this about me, so she suggested I take up surfing, and she also suggested I learn from her friend, Mia. "She's as juicy as a perfect set," Zoey said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You'll like her."
Maybe it was the euphoric haze from the painkillers I was on, or maybe I just wanted to meet this Mia woman, but I booked my trip to Hawaii that day. I emailed Mia explaining I was a friend of Zoey's and asked if she could give me some lessons. Turned out Zoey had already mentioned me to Mia. I booked a week of private lessons.
Two days later I checked out of Cedar Sinai hospital, and a day after that I checked into the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki. For the first week, I did nothing but float in the pool or the ocean, day drink, and order room service. Rehabilitation at its finest. But after a week of lazing around, the day finally came for my first surf lesson.
Mia was not what I was expecting.
Thirty-one years old, born in Hawaii, though she is not Hawaiian. Her mother is Colombian and her father is Australian. There is something undeniably magnetic about her—an aura of confidence mixed with an edge of riskiness. She's beautiful, yes, but it's more than that. She's the kind of beautiful that lingers in your mind long after she's gone. Not only that, she is wicked talented on a surf board.
Surfing, for all of its big-wave-riding reputation, is a sport with a lot of downtime. Time spent out on the water waiting for the right set, leaving lots of time to talk, which Mia and I did. It turns out she is also a very insightful. I often felt like she understood more about me in six days than some people do who I’ve known my whole life. It turns out Zoey was right—I like surfing. I also like Mia.
We're about an hour into my lesson when I notice the candle floating on the water. It’s surrounded by yellow flower petals. I see another one. And another. A line of floating candles that stretches back to the shore.
"What's that?" I ask.
Mia sits up on her surfboard for a better look. She shields her eyes from the sun and follows the line of floating candles back to the beach where a crowd is gathered. "Could be a spiritual ceremony. Or a dedication. There's always stuff like this going on in the islands."
I look and see that two women and two men are standing waist-deep in the water, setting more lit candles adrift. Then the foursome walks back up the beach where a larger group of about forty people are gathered in front of a pink hotel that looks to be partially under construction. Most of the crowd is dressed in the standard Hawaiian uniform of shorts, shirt, and flip-flops.
"I think they're protesting the hotel," Mia says, echoing my thoughts. "I heard they found some bones when they were digging."
"Bones?"
"It happens," she says. "It explains the flowers and candles."
"How so?"
"Well, flowers and candles suggest some kind of a spiritual connection."
"Meaning what?" I ask.
"I'm not sure," Mia says. "But I do know that Hawaii is like Rome, only more tropical."
"How's that?" I ask.
"You know, like how in Rome they're always digging up ancient artifacts and remnants of old villages that have been covered up by the city for hundreds of years until one day—poof—they appear. Hawaii is like that too. Only our artifacts turn up under the sand or in the jungle. Have you been up to Waimea yet?"
I shake my head.
"You need to go. The snorkeling around the coral reef is beautiful. But there's also a short path through the valley that leads to a waterfall that empties into a swimming hole. Along the path, you pass these Hawaiian villages built where remnants of original Polynesian villages were found."
"That's pretty cool," I say. "I love history." It's true. Up in my hotel room is a copy of James A Michener's novel Hawaii, and he goes through a lot of the history to which Mia is referring.
Mia says, "You've got to understand, Hawaiians don't consider themselves part of the United States. They consider themselves part of Hawaii. We have a great regard for the land and for the history of the people who were here on these islands before us."
"You think that's what the protest is about? The hotel dug up something?"
She shrugs. "Could be. That, or it's an endangered species whose habitat is on the cove where they're building. Or maybe it's just straight-up environmental concerns. Who knows?"
"Everyone has a cause these days," I say. "What hotel is that?" I ask pointing at the pink hotel where the group has gathered.
"That's the Regal Hawaiian Hotel," Mia says. "It's one of the original hotels in Waikiki."
The hotel's façade is a distinct pink stucco, which Mia tells me is its signature feature. The main building is seven stories tall done in Spanish-Moorish architectural style, with ornate detailing and arched doors and windows. Every room has a white railing balcony with the ocean-front suites overlooking a large patio extending out from the back of the hotel, where I can see there is a restaurant and a pool. Lush greenery and palm trees surround the hotel, creating a tropical ambiance. Despite its serene elegance, the hotel looks a little outdated, a weather-worn dowager that has seen better days.
Next to it stands a new, twenty-story tower featuring the same famous pink stucco but with more modern touches, like tinted windows and balconies that are considerably larger than those on the main building.
To the left of the tower, there is new construction underway. A partially framed structure built into the mossy rock that borders the cove where the Regal Hawaiian Hotel sits, it looks to be a new addition to the western flank of the hotel.
A bulldozer and an excavator sit idly on the sand. It appears this new addition is what has the protestors on the beach so upset.
"Who owns the hotel?"
"It used to be locally owned. But a few years back it was sold to Linson Hotels."
I recognize the name. Linson Hotels. They're big. Like Hilton or Marriot. They have properties all across the United States. I've worked on movies that put their cast and crews up in Linson Hotels. "Ever stay there?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, but I've been inside. I occasionally give surf lessons to guests. The hotel is old, but a classic."
"Looks like they're modernizing and expanding," I say.
"We'll see," Mia says. I sense a note of disappointment in her voice.
Over the past week, some of what Mia has told me is about how Hawaii has changed over the years. More people, more traffic, brand-name stores, and chain restaurants. "All forcing out the locals who've lived here all their lives."
Another candle floats past us. I watch it drift by, headed out to sea where the sun is sinking lower in the sky, its golden light showing the first shimmers of fiery-oranges and reds, as it casts long shadows across the sand.
Mia points to a decent-sized wave rolling toward us. "You ready?"
I nod and lie down on my board. So does Mia. When she gives me the signal, I paddle hard, wait for the right moment, then pop up on my board, with Mia right beside me, and ride the wave.
We catch three more sets. I ride a few good waves, then wipe out hard. The ocean grabs me, rolls me under, and pounds me into the sand before finally spitting me out. When I surface, gasping for air, I decide I've had enough for one day.
Mia and I paddle in, boards tucked under our arms. I collapse on the beach, muscles aching with a satisfying kind of pain, like I've earned it.
"I thought surfing was supposed to be all zen and relaxing," I say, still trying to catch my breath.
"Zen comes from the effort," Mia says. "Nobody said it was easy."
I peel my wetsuit down to my waist and shake my head like a wet dog, spraying sand with salty water.
Mia doesn't even look winded. The sun, the water—it replenishes her, giving her a reservoir of energy. Meanwhile, my shoulder is aching, but at the same time I feel that Hawaiian power, the mana, they call it, fueling me too. There is something magical about the islands. No wonder people get upset about hotels desecrating this place. "I think I'll take a walk down the beach, see what's going on with those protesters."
"I'll come with you," Mia says. We ditch the boards. Mia assures me nobody would dare steal them, not hers, and not mine since I'm with her.
I'm with her. I like the sound of that.
"We only have a couple of lessons left," Mia says as we walk down the beach, a touch of something wistful in her voice.
"You sound like you're going to miss me when I'm gone."
"I just might. When do you leave?" she asks.
"I haven't booked my return flight yet. I have an open-ended ticket. The truth is, I'm not sure I'm ready to go back."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated. But I guess it boils down to not being entirely sure what I'm going back for."
“Why not?”
I take a deep breath and say, “I guess you could say I’m at a crossroads in my life.”
“Follow Robert Frost’s advice.”
“Take the road less traveled?”
She nods.
“I’m trying to figure out which road that is.”
Mia looks at me like she wants to hear more, but I leave it at that, preferring to enjoy the view and the company. Walking beside Mia, feeling the sand between my toes, the cool air lightly rustling my hair as the sun sets behind the mountains and darkness begins to fall, I can't help but feel that the setting feels perfectly cinematic.
Sometimes the movies get it right, I think.
The ocean glistens with the last light of the day, and as I stare out over the water, I spot the trail of candles and petals floating on the tide, leading back to the beach where the Regal Hawaiian Hotel sits in its picturesque, semi-secluded cove down the beach from the other Waikiki hotels. The flames on the water create an ethereal glow, like a funeral procession.
A low thud echoes as we round the bend, the hotel coming into view along with the source of the thudding. Drums. Banged on by the protestors. The ones that don’t have drums are pumping their fists in the air or waving signs, their chants directed at the Regal Hawaiian.
I've seen plenty of protests, but this is different.
Besides the people setting adrift the lit candles on the water, at the center of the protest, there is a smaller group of twenty people dressed in a kind of warrior Hawaiian garb: feathered cloaks and helmets, beaded necklaces, and bracelets. Their faces are ashen, caked with some kind of gray clay or paint. Some carry spears made of bamboo, fitted with stone blades of all shapes and sharpness. Others carry torches. They're doing a kind of dance, moving in a circle around a large bonfire they’ve built on the beach, moving in formation to the beat of drums, shaking their heads, waving their arms, and stomping their feet in the sand.
My mind flashes to the scene in King Kong when the crew of the S.S. Venture gets to Skull Island and they see the natives performing their sacrificial dance. Like that famous scene, this one is unsettling, a strange ritual with an ominous air.
"What's with them?" I ask Mia.
"They’re dressed as Night Marchers."
"Night Marchers? What're those?"
"They're a Hawaiian ghost story," Mia tells me.
"Oh yeah? I love a good ghost story."
Mia's scrunches up her face, a seriousness settling over her. "I'm not sure the Night Marchers are what you would call 'good,'" she says quietly.
That catches my attention. "No?" I ask, my curiosity piqued. "So, what are they then?"
Her eyes linger on the horizon, where the ocean meets the sky, her voice dropping a little lower. "Vengeance."
The word hangs in the air between us. "Vengeance for what?" I ask.
Mia's gaze turns back to the protestors who move in eerie silence under the glow of their torches. "Legend says the Night Marchers—known as Huaka’i Pō—are the spirits of fierce ancient Hawaiian warriors who roamed these islands centuries ago. They march at night, protecting sacred lands and escorting high chiefs to the afterlife. They're said to be invisible until you hear the drums… then you know they're close.”
I watch the ritual on the beach with new eyes. "You believe that?" I ask, glancing at her.
She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she stares out at the flickering candles floating on the waves. When she speaks, her voice is softer and more reflective. "I grew up hearing stories about the Night Marchers. My mother used to tell me that if you ever hear the drums, you have to lie face down in the dirt, no matter where you are. Show respect, or they'll take you."
She shudders slightly, as though the memory brings back something she'd rather leave buried. "So, do I believe in them? I don't know," she admits, her voice a bit quieter now. "But I believe in what they stand for—respect for the land, for the people who came before us. And that's something you don't mess with."
I look from the protestors to a line of serious-looking hotel security guards forming a barrier around the perimeter of the Regal Hawaiian. "Intruders like the hotel?" I ask.
Mia shrugs. "Maybe. But I don't think it's that. The Regal Hawaiian has been here for a long time. And it's far from the only hotel in Waikiki. I think it probably has to do with whatever the hotel is building." She indicates the western wing of the hotel that's under construction.
Suddenly, a voice from the crowd of onlookers who've gathered on the beach to watch the protest.
"Mia!"
Mia looks around and spots the person calling her name. She waves. "DeeDee, hey!" Mia's hand grips mine, and she leads me over to the group of onlookers, all of whom seem as transfixed by the spectacle of the protest as I am.
We approach a redheaded surfer girl in board shorts and a blue bikini top, standing next to a shirtless, blond guy with a flock-of-seagulls haircut. They each lean against surfboards planted nose down in the sand. DeeDee's is a sleek red while the blond surfer dude's board is white with blue Hawaiian symbols on it.
"Eddie, this is my friend, DeeDee. We grew up together. Dee, this is Eddie. He's from Hollywood."
I smile sheepishly and say, "Venice Beach."
"You don't sound like you're from California."
"I'm not. I'm from New York. But I've lived in LA for a decade now so I guess that makes me a Californian."
The blond surfer dude says, "We get a lot of those here."
"Californians?" I ask.
He nods.
"This is Kyle," DeeDee says introducing her friend. We exchange subtle nods, alpha-males feeling one another out.
"Eddie works in Hollywood," Mia says. "He's a movie stuntman."
"Cool," DeeDee sounding impressed. Her friend, Kyle, tries to appear like he's not.
DeeDee asks, "Are you here filming a movie?"
I shake my head. "Nope, strictly here on vacation."
Mia chimes in. "I'm teaching him to surf. We saw the candles out on the water and came to see what's going on."
Kyle says, "The hotel is expanding, putting in a new wing, and they found some bones while digging."
Mia looks at me like, see, what did I tell you?
I nod to Mia, then ask, "Human bones?"
"That's right, man," Kyle the surfer says.
DeeDee adds, "I heard it's like an ancient burial ground. The hotel is not letting anyone up there. Protesters want them to stop. Sacred ground, you know?"
"What's the hotel doing about it?" Mia asks.
"Well, they stopped their construction when the bones were found. But that was a few weeks ago and the hotel wants to start digging again. They say they're losing money."
Kyle chortles at this. "Capitalist pigs," he says derisively. "Next it'll be Disneyland Hawaii, man."
DeeDee quotes Joni Mitchell. "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."
"Is that why they’re here?" I ask, nodding to the protestors dressed as, what was it Mia called them? Night Marchers.
"Yeah man, they’ve come to get revenge on the howlies for destroying the land."
I can't help but notice Kyle is looking my way when he says that. I ask, "What's a howlie?"
Smirking, Kyle, still looking my way, says, "It's a white person."
I can't help but notice that Kyle is a whiter shade of pale than many of the people I've seen during my two weeks in Hawaii, which I mention to him.
"A foreigner, man," he says, flashing me an accusatory look. "An island interloper. The Night Marchers guard our sacred lands from intruders. They're the spirits of ancient Hawaiian warriors, man." Kyle says.
They may be, but Kyle has the spirit of a blowhard. But, being that I have no dog in this fight, I simply grin and say, "I'm a platinum member. It's the Gold Members who are the howlies."
This gets a laugh from Mia and DeeDee. Kyle doesn't seem to have a sense of humor. He says, "You shouldn't joke about the Night Marchers. You gotta show respect. Disrespecting Night Marchers brings grave consequences. The hotel hasn't shown respect which is what brings them here."
As if on cue, the hotel security guards step off the back patio and onto the sandy beach, aiming straight for the protesters.
"Things are about to get gnarly," DeeDee says.
"We should bounce," Mia tells me, once again taking my hand.
Mia kisses DeeDee and says, "Be careful, Dee. I don't want you to get hurt."
DeeDee says, "I hope nobody gets hurt. See you on the waves, Mia."
Judging from the looks on the security guards' faces wading into the crowd, I'm not so sure DeeDee's 'hope' is going to cut it. The guards look pissed. The protestors look resilient. The two groups face off on the sand, toe-to-toe, eyeball-to-eyeball, tension crackling.
Guards shout at protesters to move. Protesters shake signs, shout back. Someone brings out a bullhorn. Hawaiian music blares, normally soothing but now a shrieking mess. The scene hardly feels like what you expect to see in paradise. Very un-Hawaiian if you ask me.
The Night Marchers keep marching, spears thrust high, pace matching the protest's intensity.
Mia touches my arm. "Let's go." My feet shuffle backward, but my eyes stay on the hardcore protesters, mixing it up with security guards, who seem ready to oblige.
Then it happens.
A protester, who looks like he weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, pokes a guard in the chest. The guard moves like lightning, grabs the protester's hand, wrenches it back, throws him off balance, and then throws a mean right hook that crashes into the protester's cheek.
And just like that, the peaceful protest turns into a vicious brawl.
