|
My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
The honeymooners
>> Waikiki
When he picked her up, Jasmine Kekai wore tan walking shorts and a sleeveless burnt orange silk blouse, loose but not low at the neck, and carried a bamboo picnic basket.
"Oh," Cruz MacKenzie said, fingering the new necktie with a bird of paradise design that he bought at Macy's 30 minutes earlier. "I thought we might stop by this new place downtown and ..."
"I know, but if we go out to dinner, you'll know people and end up working. And I feel like having all of your attention. Besides, a break would be good for you. Do you mind?"
"Not a bit."
Cruz meant it, although he did feel something like pangs of work withdrawal as they drove to Waikiki and spread a blanket on the lawn at Queen's Beach. Jasmine brought fresh brie and crackers, ahi sashimi, kalbi ribs and pasta salad, red grapes and a bottle of Sonoma Riesling. They talked and ate and watched the canoe paddlers and surfers as the sun set pink, then orange, then golden. A low-level cloud system far out at sea dimmed the horizon and prevented them from seeing the Green Flash.
"I almost saw it. Maybe with a little more wine I could," Jasmine giggled.
"Later. Want to take a walk?"
The tide was low as they walked toward Waikiki in the gloaming. Their footprints in the wet sand told the story, two weaving tracks that sometimes swerved apart, then nearly touched, then swerved away again.
"Funny, isn't it?"
"What's funny?" she said.
"You think you know somebody, and you do, but then getting to know them in another way, in ways you couldn't imagine. It's funny."
"Funny weird? Funny ha-ha? Funny how?" She swerved close and their hands brushed and fingers reached and entwined.
"Funny nice."
As they strolled, palm fronds rustled in the breeze overhead. The sea turned dark with the sky and the lights of Waikiki's hotels twinkled across the small bay. A hundred yards out, a half-dozen surfers waited for the last wave of the day. The Royal Hawaiian Hotel's big pink catamaran, returning from a sunset booze sail, tooted its air horn and scattered dozens of swimmers splashing in the surf in front of the hotel.
"Omigod!" Cruz exclaimed and dropped Jasmine's hand and ran a few steps down the beach. "Do you see it, right behind that couple."
"Must be honeymooners." A couple kissed passionately in chest-deep water just 20 yards from shore, creating some white-water turbulence below.
"No, behind them -- it's a fin!"
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com
