I looked down.
Saw a snout. Membrane-hooded eyes. Cold. Primordial.
The shark stretched its jaws, revealing razor-sharp teeth.
I awoke, damp with perspiration, nails digging little crescents into my palms.
The sky was gray. A moisture-laden breeze wafted in from the window.
I checked the clock. Six forty-five.
The house was quiet.
I rolled onto my side. Pulled the quilt to my chin.
Much as I willed it, sleep would not return.
I tried every relaxation trick I knew, but my mind focused only on the dream.
My nighttime fantasies are typically not Freudian puzzlers.
Bareback on the horse? OK. Most of us know that one.
Katy? Fine. I was worried about her.
The gold blaze? The kelp? The shark?
At eight I gave up and went down to the kitchen.
Ryan had already cranked up the espresso machine. Good. The thing scared the crap out of me.
“Perry closed that beach.” Ryan pointed to the local section of the
Only if you’re sighting down a penis. This time I didn’t say it.
I skimmed the article. It reported that Halona Cove was closed to swimmers until further notice, but offered no explanation.
Sipping coffee and crunching toast, Ryan and I formulated a plan.
First, we’d visit the Punchbowl. The girls might not be thrilled. Tough. It was Ryan’s pick. And a good one. I’d been there.
The Punchbowl is an extinct volcanic tuff cone located smack in the city of Honolulu. The crater was formed when hot lava blasted through cracks in coral reefs extending to the foot of the Koolau Range.
Hot lava?
Relax. That eruption was 100,000 years ago.
There are various interpretations of the Punchbowl’s Hawaiian name, Puowaina. Most translate it as something like Hill of Sacrifice. Supposedly, native Hawaiians used the place for human sacrifice to the gods. Legend has it taboo violators were also executed there. Later, Kamehameha the Great had cannons mounted at the crater’s rim to salute distinguished arrivals and to kick off important celebrations.
In the 1930s, the Hawaii National Guard used the Punchbowl as a rifle range. Toward the end of World War II, tunnels were dug through the crater’s rim to construct batteries to guard the island’s harbors, Honolulu and Pearl.
In the late forties, needing a final resting place for World War II troops lying in temporary graves on the island of Guam, the U.S. Congress voted funds to establish the national cemetery. Eight hundred unknowns from the Korean War followed. In the mideighties, Vietnam casualties joined the mix.
Ernie Pyle is buried at the Punchbowl. So is Hawaii’s first astronaut, Ellison Onizuka, killed on the
After the Punchbowl, we’d drive up to the north shore, hit the beach, and try some of Hawaii’s famous shave ice.
Finally, hours of camaraderie under their belts, Lily and Katy would stay home, together, and the grown-ups would enjoy a night on the town. We needed it.
Though our little band would not have been mistaken for the Brady Bunch, the day went reasonably well.
The adult night out proved pivotal.
RYAN CHOSE THE RESTAURANT. HIS CRITERIA? PROXIMITY TO Waikiki was the only thing I could come up with.
We ate at the Ha’aha’a Seafood and Steakhouse, the Hawaiian Walmart of dining establishments. My first misgivings came with the table.
We were seated in a dark corner, inches from a band whose repertoire was probably fixed right out of Moanalua High. I placed the graduation year at circa 1965.
My second clue came with the menu. Six of nine pages were devoted to drinks, most with names formed from incredibly bad puns. Son of a Beach Daiquiris. I Lava Party Bacardis. O’Lei Margaritas.
Ryan ordered a Kona beer and jerk mahimahi. I went with a virgin colada and cilantro shrimp.
The drink wasn’t bad. Hard to mess up pineapple juice and coconut cream.
