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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
In Her image
>> 20,000 feet
It wouldn't be long now. Anticipating the moment, Star-Bulletin columnist Cruz MacKenzie folded the two newspaper clips, put them back in the pocket of his silk aloha shirt and glanced out the window.
But he couldn't see Mauna Loa through the vog as the plane flew past Moloka'i, Lanai, Kahoolawe, Molokini and Maui. He flipped distractedly through the in-flight magazine, pausing briefly to skim a story about a new spa therapy -- poi facials, poi massages, even a poi-filled Jacuzzi.
Finally, halfway across the 'Alenuihaha Channel between Maui and the Big Island, the unmistakable form of Mauna Loa came dimly into view -- massive, strong, standing tall and proud, and utterly feminine. No wonder the first Polynesian explorers 2,000 years ago saw traces of a woman in its silhouette, much as those been-lonely-too-long French explorers saw mountains in Wyoming and called them Grand Tetons.
Surely, Pele made a mountain in Her own image, just as the Judeo-Christeo God created humans in His image. Like people, the mountain began perfect. But the moment that the creative process ends, erosion -- degradation and degeneration -- begins.
The first time Cruz saw the silhouette of Mauna Loa and its sister peak Mauna Kea, and now again as the plane swung low across the channel, he saw the supine form of Pele's wonderfully formed breasts. Half a million years old, but she is holding up nicely.
Funny, though, ironic kind of funny, a freak storm had given the top of volcanic peaks a dusting of snow and ice. Like Sonya. Silicone Sonya, cold as snow, unfeeling as lava rock, but perfect of form, was a miracle of modern medicine. Was it Pele's mountains or Sonya's memory that stirred something like longing ... and lust ... and loss?
Cruz had promised himself he'd ignore the usual urge for an in-flight I'm-going-to-Kona! cocktail and that he wouldn't drink until his column was filed. He'd even declined Hawaiian Airline's earlier offer of a serious beverage, opting instead for a gratis POG.
By now, the stewardesses, er, flight attendants, to be politically correct, although each was a young female, were already starting to pick up empty cups. Fortunately, he supposed, he knew one of them, the daughter of an old golf buddy.
"Jasmine, could you slip me one of those Johnny Walkers?"
A tall, statuesque Hawaiian-Portuguese-Chinese woman in her mid-20s with delicate equine features and a suitably long black mane, she quickly glanced around to check on her colleagues. Like the restrooms, they were occupied.
She placed her right hand on her hip, fingers down, feigned a pout. "I shouldn't, but sure, Cruz."
"In that case, dear, make it two."
Cruz? What's this Cruz stuff? She'd never called him that before. It had always been Uncle Cruz.
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