trip in under two weeks if the winds are with us and we push ourselves.”
“Where in Hawaii does the race end?”
“The finish line is when you pass that huge old volcano, Diamond Head. We’ll dock at the Waikiki Yacht Club, and another guy on the crew, my friend Kurt, has booked our group into the Hale Koa, which is the military hotel right in the heart of Waikiki.”
“So you’re staying in Hawaii just a week,” I thought aloud. “That means you’ll be at sea longer than on land.”
“Yes, that’s the way it works. I wish I had more time to spend on land with you, Rei, but getting these three weeks together is kind of a miracle. I gave Len the full sob story, how Kurt survived three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and it was a dream for us all-Eric, Parker, Kurt and me-to sail together once again just like we did in Annapolis.”
“It’ll be a great bonding experience,” I said, trying not to be too jealous that most of Michael’s vacation would be with three men, and not me. “I hope you have a wonderful time out in the Pacific.”
“Well, it’s not like it’s going to be a two-week party,” Michael said. “It’s doubtful we’ll get more than four hours’ sleep per twenty-four period.”
Trying to sound casual, I said, “If you get a chance, call me from your cell when you’re pulling into port. I’d like to greet you.”
“I hope to be able to reach you using the boat’s satellite phone even earlier than that. I’d love you to meet my boat-it’s been a long time since anyone’s done that.” Michael’s voice was wistful, and I knew without asking who this must have been-Jennifer, Michael’s young wife who’d been killed in an airplane bombing in the late 1990s. Jennifer was the chief reason he still didn’t have a girlfriend-and also the reason I’d been sitting on my hands whenever we’d been together. Who could compete with a ghost?
Trying to shake my morbid mood, I asked, “So when does the race start?”
“Three weeks. We’ll actually be leaving before you.”
“That’s weird, isn’t it? That I might be passing over you, in the sky?”
“You’re flying Hawaiian Airlines, right, on the fifteenth?”
“Yes.” I’d sent him my itinerary, at his request.
“Great. That day, I’ll just keep my eye out for planes with purple tails, and I’ll toast each one that flies over me.”
3
WHEN I FLY for work with Michael’s group, OCI, it’s usually in business class. I’ve become accustomed to free drinks and semi-decent food and kind attentions from flight attendants. But this time the flight was economy, and the rear cabin where my father and I sat was freezing cold. I demanded extra blankets, but there was only one, so I gave it to my father. Not even the wine was free, so I asked for guava juice. My father took one as well.
“Just wait till we can make our own fresh guava juice in Hawaii,” I told my father. “Not to mention that passion fruit and mangoes are going to be in season.”
“I don’t believe you packed a juicer,” my father said.
He was right. I’d packed many things, but not the giant juicer that sat in state in our San Francisco kitchen. “The townhouse is supposed to be fully furnished, and that means kitchen utensils. If there isn’t a mechanical juicer, maybe I can buy a wooden hand tool.”
“I don’t need pampering,” my father said. “I hear that everything in Hawaii is expensive. Canned juice is fine.”
“But not as rich in fiber and anti-oxidants,” I pointed out.
“Are you going to talk about health the whole trip?” my father grumped at me. “If so, I want those headphones of yours. I see the flight magazine lists a channel for traditional Japanese music.”
“Here.” I handed over my noise-reducing headphones and showed him how to turn them on. After a few seconds, a look of wonder spread over his face.
“These are very nice.” My father sighed, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window.
The Bose headphones had been given to me by Michael, a gift before my last trip to Japan. I paid $5 to rent cheapies from the flight attendant and plugged into the same Japanese station that my father was listening to. Then I buried myself in a mystery set in 1940s Hawaii,
MY FATHER SURVIVED the flight without a second stroke, but I practically had my own upon arrival in Honolulu. I’d advised Uncle Hiroshi and my cousin Tom, who were scheduled to arrive four hours earlier, to get their baggage, have a snack, and meet us at our gate. But nobody was there, and my calls to Tom’s cell phone went unanswered. Had they made it after all? I finally learned that there was a separate terminal for flights to and from Japan. Adding to the confusion, all passengers-Japanese or not-collected baggage in a third terminal a shuttle-bus ride away.
“Uncle Hiroshi and Tom might never find us,” I fretted as my father and I sat sandwiched together in the steamy little bus. “I had no idea this airport had so many terminals! It wasn’t like this the last time I was here.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll hear from them.” My father seemed relaxed and happy as we shuffled off the hot bus and joined a massive wave going into a building, and then down an escalator to a series of baggage carousels. My father called out, waving, and then I too saw Uncle Hiroshi, short and solid like my father, in a green polo shirt and khakis, and my cousin Tom, taller and handsome in his crisp blue jeans and a yellow polo. Hanging from their necks were leis made of what looked like huge, shiny black nuts, plus red carnations and purple orchids. When my father, uncle and cousin met, all bowed-an underwhelming reaction for brothers who’d not been together for three years, but one that was completely in keeping with family tradition. Greetings were exchanged in Japanese, and I looked around for Edwin Shimura. He must have already met Hiroshi and Tom, since they were wearing leis, but where was he now?
“You must be very tired, waiting for us,” I said to my uncle in Japanese, because he wasn’t much of an English speaker.
“Not at all,” Hiroshi demurred. “We have been visiting with Edwin-san. He’s just gone off briefly to check on the rental car.”
“That’s nice of him,” I said. “By the way, does he speak Japanese?”
“Yes,” Tom replied. “But it’s a strange Japanese.”
“It’s a bit like the way peasants speak,” Hiroshi explained. “I mean inaka Japanese, from the nineteenth- century countryside. At times, I thought I was hearing a film.”
I laughed and said, “Well, the countryside is where most of the original Japanese emigrants to Hawaii have their roots. Perhaps the Japanese language in Hawaii has retained this bit of old Japan.”
Not Japanese personal style, though. Five minutes later, Edwin Shimura bustled into the terminal, two more leis outstretched toward us-a jumble of pink, red, purple and white flowers in one hand, yellow carnations and black seed pods in the other. Everything about him seemed as loud as the flowers, from his orange and red floral patterned aloha shirt to his shouted welcome.
“Aloha, irasshaimase! Welcome! So happy to meet you guys!” He plopped the lei over my head and then crushed me into a hug that smelled of orchids, perspiration and cologne. He bowed to my father, bestowed him with the lei, and said warmly, “At last. My cousin, I thrilled to meet you.”
Cousin Edwin was speaking the Hawaii-style English I remembered from my school trip. It was softer than mainland American English, with extended vowel sounds, and ds that sounded like soft ts, and plenty of dropped prepositions. I could understand him perfectly, but I wasn’t sure how the others were faring.
“How was the flight?” Edwin asked, grinning as if he anticipated a rapturous reply.
“It was fine,” I answered for both my father and myself. “Thank you for staying to meet us. I know you must have been waiting for a while.”
“No sweat,” said Edwin, whose forehead told me otherwise. “I chance going to the car rental and get a better
