Finish Line
Let It Snow, Mahalo
GETTING OUT OF A SKI RACING RUT WITH
CHRISTMAS IN HAWAII BY BILL MCCOLLOM
It’s so easy to get stuck in our respective ruts. We can see all the
possible alternative courses of action when we peer, Schmoo-like,
over the edge of our ruts, but it’s just so much easier to keep plod-
ding along with no resistance and no thought required. What makes
matters worse is that the longer we travel in the same groove, the
deeper it gets, and the more effort it takes to clamber out of it. Pretty
soon we can’t see over the edges, and we become totally oblivious
of just how stuck we’ve become.
Sometimes, it takes a seismic jolt to break out of one’s comfort
zone and do something totally different, something out of character,
something like going to Hawaii for Christmas. You’d think that a trip
to Hawaii would be a no-brainer, regardless of the circumstances
at home. Palm trees, flowers, birds singing and warm tropical air
versus cold, sterile, gray Vermont with limited skiing at the moment.
As an added incentive, my wife’s family is all from Hawaii, so we
have nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles to share in the holiday
spirit.
But still, as an example of how stuck we had become, we fretted
about who was going to take care of the animals; the expense of air-
fare; and claustrophobia attacks at the thought of 12 hours of travel
in a tube with wailing babies and fellow sufferers hacking up germs.
And most significantly, we felt paralyzed by the two most tradition-
bound holidays on the calendar, Christmas and New Year’s.
We ALWAYS open our stockings over breakfast, then go skiing,
then have the family over to open all the real presents, and then
enjoy dinner. On the days following Christmas we ALWAYS go ski-
ing or snowshoeing, see friends, and then on New Year’s Eve, we
ALWAYS go out with friends. It’s what we do, and this year we have
the added pull of an 18-month-old grandson, who calls all candles
“happy bee-days.”
Regardless of the gravitational forces of the holidays, we went
through our Christmas routines a few days early. We quickly packed
up toothbrushes, T-shirts, shorts and a turtleneck (it’s impossible to
travel from a cold environment without one, even to tropical Ha-
waii), and stuffed ourselves into the plane for the long journey to
somewhere else.
The first morning after our arrival, it became apparent that we were
not in Vermont anymore, and not just in terms of geography. Still
sleep-deprived and adjusting to the 80-degree temperatures and
the sound of the surf, I was walking along the road to my favorite
beach for an early-morning swim. Coming down the side of the road
was a procession of three Hawaiians dragging an enormous cross
that had roller-skate wheels affixed to one end. I initially thought
this was an odd hallucination, but after walking with them for a bit, I
discovered it was their way of honoring the birth of Jesus. I thought
that a star might be a more appropriate symbol for the birth, but
since they were happily committed to their 20-mile jaunt up the
coast, I let it go.
Actually, Christmas in Hawaii is much like the celebrations that
take place anywhere on the mainland, with a few notable excep-
tions. The radio stations crank out the traditional cheesy Christmas
songs, but I had to laugh hearing “Let it snow, let it snow, let it
snow,” with a reggae rhythm, sung with a Hawaiian falsetto and
accompanied by a ukulele. Extravagant displays of lights strung
on houses and palm trees light up the neighborhoods, along with
inflated Santas, reindeer, and all the elves. And more importantly,
the spirit of giving and receiving and good cheer is as pervasive as
the ceaseless trade winds.
All my fears about missing my Christmas routines were quickly
put to rest. Being avid Christmas celebrants, my wife’s family set
us up with a tree, and we joined a massive family sing-a-long on
Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, presents were piled around a
real tree, which we opened while listening to the Hawaiian version
of “White Christmas.” We then Skyped our grandson back at home
where he proudly showed off his favorite Christmas gift — a plastic
hand saw.
After a few days of establishing our new routines of walking and
biking in the valley above our house, swimming, and my personal
passion of surf-kayaking, Vermont was rapidly becoming a distant
memory.
On one of my final days on the Island I happened to haul my kayak
out to the beach. It was late in the afternoon and a bit cold and
windy. It would have been easy to go back to the house and sample
a new batch of Mai Tais, but I launched the boat and paddled out
into the surf. Soon, other local surfers came out to join me just as
the sun was disappearing behind the jagged peak, Pu’u Ohulehule.
Suddenly, the clouds turned pink and shafts of light radiated from
behind the knife-edged cliffs. We all paused for a moment in silence
before looking over our shoulders for the next big swell.
I couldn’t help but wonder: What is this place called Vermont? Re-
mind me again, what’s the point of snow? Naw, I don’t think the high
school ski team would miss me, and maybe I can write for a local
surfing magazine.
Of course I did return home, and after a few days I slided back into
my routine so quickly that it seemed like I never left. But I can now
see over the edges of that rut as I find myself humming Christmas
tunes to a reggae beat and pausing an extra second to admire the
evening alpine-glow.
