It’s a bit odd to wake up on Christmas morning with the windows
wide open and a moist, warm breeze blowing gently through the
bedroom. The humid air is thick with the aroma of hibiscus, ginger
and everything green. Even with the sun just barely illuminating
the upper reaches of Pu’u Ohulehule, the peak at the head of
the valley, the birds are already chattering and whistling. Upon
hearing the surf breaking across the road, I’m filled with the same
sense of anticipation that I felt as a youngster whenever I sensed
the muffled silence of a fresh dumping of snow. A pile of brightly
wrapped presents awaits grandson Liam’s first Christmas, and
the sound of surf beckons a “Hawaiian powder day.”
Being somewhat of a traditionalist, I’ve always come to associate
Christmas with gifts (of course) and family, but also geography
— snow, cold, and skiing. In past years in faraway Vermont, our
Christmas tree has been packed with ornaments from several
generations and has filled most of the living room. Laurels of fragrant
pine boughs have hung over the windows. Our family routine from
when I was a child to current times has been to open presents
while feasting on a long and leisurely breakfast, and then don new
turtlenecks and long underwear and join a multitude of friends for
an afternoon of skiing at Suicide Six, our local ski area. We always
know at least 80 percent of everyone on the hill, so the afternoon
becomes a festive attempt to ski off several days of overeating.
This is not to say the Hawaiians don’t have their own Christmas
routines. Some are borrowed from colder climes, while others
have evolved independently. Truckloads of real Christmas trees
disappear from Honolulu lots within minutes of arrival, leaving a
trail of dried-out needles in their wake. Families and neighborhoods
have been known to bring in loads of shave-ice for the children to
make tiny snowmen and throw icy snowballs. Religious traditions
are somewhat blurred in the maze of Hawaiian racial and cultural
diversity, but in the old part of Honolulu, children marvel at the plastic
Santas, elves, and reindeer assembled at a downtown park. Local
communities host Christmas parades, and in Waikiki, Santa makes
his grand appearance in an outrigger canoe with bags of gifts for
eager children.
Getting up early is not a problem for our still jet-lagged family. My
wife and I are awake before sunrise to find our son, Eric; daughter-in-law, Kristie; and seven-month old, Liam, circling the pile of parcels
littered with needles under the tree. We stick to tradition, opening
presents over breakfast. Despite his inexperience with Christmas,
Liam enthusiastically rips open everyone’s presents and then does
his best to eat the wrapping paper. His favorite present becomes a
plastic rice spoon, which he waves around like a baton while lying
on his back chewing on his toes.
A family hike takes us through the herds of cattle grazing in the
Kaaawa Valley and over a shoulder of Pu’u Ohulehule into the
adjacent valley of Hakipu’u. With the rains that wash over the
islands in the winter season, the cliffs at the head of the valley are
spouting waterfalls, and the pastures are a lush, luminous green.
Liam, in a baby carrier, is content to snooze through the first part
of our journey, but then becomes our tour guide as we approach
home. He points out all the tropical flora and fauna with waving
arms while delivering a babbling, nonstop monologue.
Finally, when all are settled back in the house to play with new
presents, I hoist up my surf kayak and amble across the street to
the beach. The surf is breaking big on the far outside reef and then
building and breaking again and again over each coral reef under the
surface. There’s no question that today is special. The road along
the shore looks like the parking lot of Suicide Six and the various
lines of waves are filled with surfers of every conceivable variety
— young bucks, women, old guys, stand-up paddle surfers, and
those who just paddled out to float around and watch the action.
I quickly launch and paddle out through whatever lanes I can find
that are free of breaking waves, and soon join the group bobbing
outside the farthest break. There’s generally not a lot of chit-chat
going on among the local surfers out there looking for the “big one,”
and being somewhat of an oddity in the surf scene (old white guy
on a surf kayak), I generally am respectfully quiet.
But today is different. It’s loud, even boisterous, with everyone
wishing one another a “Merry Christmas.” The surfers even hang
back at one point to let me go solo on a particularly big wave. Maybe
they’re anticipating an enormous wreck, but they cheer when I
furiously paddle into the monster and then accelerate down the face,
bracing to keep the boat from being rolled. The wave shoots me
out into the wash and then reforms, building and building in height
behind me. Again, I pitch forward at a dizzying angle on the face of
the wave, which then breaks again and with a whoosh, ejects me
into the foam. I ride it nearly all the way to the beach before turning
back out to rejoin my new best Christmas friends.
I’m 6,000 miles from home and nearly that far from the nearest
snowflake, but I’m at ease. Liam is across the street dreaming of
consuming more Christmas wrappings, the family is contentedly
planning for dinner, and I’ve stumbled onto a “Hawaiian powder
day.” Yes, Christmas can transcend distance, geography, and
culture. It doesn’t get any better.
Mele Kalikimaka STUMBLING UPON A HAWAIIAN POWDER DAY BY BILL MCCOLLOM
Finish Line
