Where it all starts and where it ends is a gauzy web of chiaroscuro. Suffice it to say the hitchhiking trip from the Pacific Ocean to Las Vegas and back on a lark lit the fire.
I was stuck in Suburbia with plaza panic and only thin drywalls separating us from the freedom from the Matrix vs. the chaos of manicured medians and yogurtlands.
I had just turned 18 and was working at Macys in the mall selling Men's Rockport shoes, Bass Weejuns, Cowboy boots and Dorfman slippers. It was only a seasonal Christmas job for extra cash supplementing my gas station job at the Phillips 66 down by the old Mission Drive-in in San Juan Capistrano. Upstairs Macy's by the customer service department where we picked up our paychecks were travel brochures with Hawaiian Hula Girls and other exotic pamphlets. Hula girls. What could be better?
My friend Paul and I were planning to ride our enduro motorcycles to South America via the Darrian Gap north of Columbia. Lofty dreams for two eighteen year olds. Paul always knew he could count on an adventure with me ever since I showed up at his house in my Moms car to ditch school and go skiing for the day up in the Mountains, 3 hours away. We were 15 years old without drivers licenses. Now we were 18 and camping in the tropical rain was a mystery to us both and those brochures of Hula Girls made everything seem accessible. We could go camp in Hawaii for two weeks and learn how to deal with the Tropics.
We arrived in Honolulu on Continental airlines. It was 1982. There were young girls holding fresh flower leis in grass skirts waiting for us at the bottom of the stairwell as we got off the plane. We each got a kiss and a lei with a welcoming "Aloha". The fresh humid air wrapped itself around us like a warm wet blanket. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. It submerged my body in the heaven that was to be and it was soon after that I realized that there weren't any girls in grass skirts waiting at the bottom of the stairs to kiss us or give us leis.
We found our way to the Airport bus stop and with our paper guides rode out to the beaches on the south shore to a place called Makapu'u and Waimanalo. It was windy and dry and it looked like a rough part of town. A backdrop of steep cliffs gave us the feeling of being backed up against the wall. As a youth in a foreign place for a short time that was not far fetched. We set up a tent on the beach. Not far from the camping area was a small store and that was where we went to buy some beer. The drinking age was 18 and I bought a six pack of Primo. Cheers...we had made it.
On the other side of our tent was a body surf break called Sandy Beach and I soon went down for a quick body surf session. This however was not like the water and waves of South Laguna. This water moved with a whip like the tail of a tiger and the venom of a serpent. As it whirled me about I had never got so exhausted in 5 minutes and I couldn't get out. It had me and wouldn't let go. I would try to get washed up on the shore and the waves would drag me back in, playing with me like the cat who lets go of the mouse only so he can catch it again. The mouse thinks he has a chance. The mouses mind is blurred by the moment. I finally escaped the waters clutches and sat on the beach trying to catch my breath.
Adrenaline was a constant. We were young and in over our heads. What more could you ask for? We needed to find the jungle paradise that was promised in the brochures back in Macy's. We needed to find the Hula Girls in grass skirts. The next day we hopped on the bus headed to the east side of the island to a camp called "Malekahana".
That night, as promised, the rain came. And more came. We were now wet even in our tent. We were far from any shelter other than the public restroom where we ended up taking respite. Strange large larvaiac bugs sludged along the concrete fortification of the restroom no doubt cleaning the walls surfaces of unwanted bacteria. Forever took place and then the sun rose at last. It was still hard to tell through the pouring rain. We had to get out of here for at least the shelter of the bus. We left our camp and rode on the city bus to the famed North Shore, Mecca for great surfing. And while it was pouring rain back on the east side at our camp, It wasnt over here on the North Shore.
We arrived at world famous Waimea bay. On this side of the island the sun was brilliant and the water blue and charming. Up on the cliff side of the bay along the road was a house where young people were having a good time drinking beers and enjoying their long messy beach blonded hair and loud music. I was enchanted. I wanted to be a part of this world as my toes dug deep in the sand for a foundation. I knew I was staying in this place. It was too much to resist. It was pulling me in to its life force. It was a world away from deadening suburbia. Here the walls were uneven and covered with cheap paint. Driveways were dirt and the only expectations was that of white sand, blue water, sunny days and a friendly smile. Here was life.
I told Paul of my plans. He was not on board and thought I was crazy. "What about College? There are things you are supposed to do in life and running away to some island is not one of them!" He may have convinced himself of this but he did not convince me. My mind was set. This was what I was supposed to do. We went up to the grocery store and looked at the "For Rent" and "Help Wanted" cards on the bulletin board. I jotted down some numbers and rode the bus back to Camp Deluge at Malekahana.
It started raining on the bus ride back and never let up. Once again we found ourselves in the restroom. Who sleeps in a restroom? They had concrete benches and now I imagined there are probably lots of us that had shared these accommodations on occasion. Names were knifed in the wood of the walls by other POW's marking their days imprisoned in this Bowel Movement Bunker. Eventually we left and made our way back to the damp tent and the Water Planet.
The next day Paul and I went our separate ways. He was done. Over it. He took the bus to Waikiki and myself back to the North Shore. I called one of the numbers on the bulletin board and a guy named Brett chirped up on the other end of the phone. "Yeah man come check out the room. Walk on down past Pipeline and we are the first house alongside the Ehukai park". When I got there it was a brilliant array of 80's day glo striped surfboards and bikini madness. Waves were crashing and the salt air was a buzz with surf culture extravaganzas taking place before my eyes. Brett had a great A-frame house right on the beach at Ehukai next to the heralded Banzai Pipeline. Brett was Mr. Cool. Too cool for me and I could tell I wasn't the right fit for his hip happening surf soiree. Also I didnt have a job or anyway to pay for a room. He wasnt going to rent a room to some kid without a job but he did offer me a job. Dishwashing at the place where he worked over by my campsite. It was the start I needed.
I made it back to camp just in time for the rainstorm and enjoyed a damp evening summoning strength for the days to come knowing that dry days were ahead. It couldnt rain forever.
the Paniolo Cafe! 
