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Under the Sun Cynthia Oi |
Left with the spoils
and ruin of a day
at the beachBY LATE evening, the weekend throngs at Ala Moana beach usually thin to a scattering of people. The sun's slip toward the blue-gray line of the ocean mellows the day's heat. Hibachis burn low as leftover pieces of chicken and teri beef send still-seductive aromas along air currents shifting between land and sea. Children worn out by hours of carousing become subdued, their thin, high voices plaintively seeking permission for just one more dip in the water.
Not last Sunday, though. Perhaps the memory of muggy weekdays previous lingered or a sense that summer's intense fever lay in wait stalled the exodus. Or maybe it was reluctance to let go of leisure as the reach of work and school drew closer.
Whatever the reason, the park was packed despite the fast-darkening sky.
Ala Moana is what I call the "town beach," easily accessible to urban Honolulu. No need for a long drive -- "long" in island terms meaning more than 20 minutes. Parking is close to picnic sites, so it isn't much of a chore for beachgoers to haul in many comforts of home. And haul they do.
Padded chairs, tarp-and-pole rigs to stave off the rays, tents where infants and the inebriated can sleep it off, tables, plastic bins of tableware and cooking utensils, 50-gallon coolers crammed with ice and all manner of foods and drink, gas-powered Webers, pots, pans, towels, extra clothes, blankets, carpet remnants, mats, fly swatters and scented candles transform a piece of park into temporary beachside abode.
Some set up boom boxes for background music. Others crank up car stereos, unleashing bass-heavy vibes through open doors for all to enjoy -- or not.
The din competed with motorized burrs and chucks from generators powering compressors to pump air into huge plastic castles and dinosaurs where children, joined by an occasional adult, bounced in delight.
My guess is that some people rent the contraptions without realizing how much racket they make. One group had the generator cords stretched out as far from their berth as possible, much to the annoyance of a neighboring party.
I watched as a woman squabbled with another woman and a teenage boy, demanding they turn off "the damn thing."
"We've been listening to that all day," shouted the woman before she stalked away. Her group huddled for a moment, then began chanting "shut 'em off, shut 'em off" until the teenager finally relented, averting what could have become a brawl.
The quarrel must have put a damper on festivities. When I looped back to the area about 20 minutes later, the teenager was coiling up the orange electric lines while a young boy wailed, "Uncle Trey, make it fat, make it fat," his cries trailing away as a girl led him into a van.
After that, it seemed that almost everyone decided to call it a day. The menfolk packed up bins and shoved tarps into car trunks. Mothers swatted sand from damp okoles and shook out beach towels before wrapping them around shivering kids. Boogie boards, fins and snorkels, shovels and buckets were collected, cleansing the shoreline of their garish colors.
That's about all that was purged of the day's occupation. Scummy foam pooled below beachside showers, loosed plastic bags fluttered from shrubs or tumbled into the open sea, chip bags drifted into drainage canals, trampled wrappers and napkins peeked from blades of grass. Plastic forks, scorched sheets of aluminum foil, paper plates and even a soggy roll of toilet paper fouled the grounds. Thousands of cans and bottles overflowed trash cans while countless others were strewn across grass, road and walkways.
Some people managed to pick up after themselves, but as a girl chased a plastic cup rolling toward the sand, a man called to her to "leave it."
"That's not ours," he said.
Nightfall, calm and a shameful wreck of human debris settled over the park.
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Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.