Hawai`i: Part One: A Swell Start

Telling people you spent two weeks in Hawai`i garners responses of mostly jealousy and excitement or more accurately, or a reaction somewhere between—Jealitement, if you will. That granted, I just spent two weeks in Hawai`i. A working vacation. An oxymoron, I know. 

I work summers for a branch of an L.A. youth sports camp that hosts a two-week Hawaiian adventure for boy campers aged nine to fifteen who have the last two weeks of June free and parents with substantial extra cash to pay for the trip.

I’d never been to the Hawaiian Islands before despite thinking I’d be trotting over there with the regularity of a trip to the convenience store when I moved to Los Angeles. Yes, Los Angeles is close to Hawai`i in respect to the rest of the United States, but it’s still a 5-hour flight from LAX to Honolulu. If the nearest 7-Eleven was five hours from my apartment, my current diet would seriously lack Blueberry Slushies, Trident gum, and Twix bars. 

I didn’t have many firm expectations of the islands other than vague ideas of paradise-like beaches and climate. My aunt Bev is from Hawai`i and one of my best friends growing up was her son, my cousin Tommy. Tommy’s family went over to Hawai`i often and I used to tease him with questions about the island. Do they only wear those colorful Hawaiian shirts? “Only fat tourists steering Jet Ski’s wear those!” Do they have paved roads? “Of course, Honolulu is a big city!” Can I play your ukulele? “No!”

So despite my Island prejudices being nixed at a young age by Cousin Tommy, I admit I still imagined being greeted at the airport by hula dancers, who upon my arrival would break into ceremonial dance and hang a flowered lei around my neck. Instead, I was welcomed by a large Hawaiian man with a badge who told me I couldn’t park in the loading zone. 

Ten boys made the trip along with two other counselors and me. Our personal luggage and the camping gear and coolers gave us a sixteen-piece luggage caravan to attend to.