I made it to Waikiki beach without much trouble. There were no bus-stop missteps. No side-trips to the middle of nowhere. Just me and my trusty backpack (Ryan's trusty backpack) and a solid traveling party of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Ray Charles, and Robert Earl Keen (this may sound like an odd traveling party, but throw them on the ipod and tell me you can't listen to those three all day). Side note on backpacks: They are great! I kinda wish I had a need to carry a backpack with me, but I really can't justify it.
I make it to the beach and decide to take a walk up the beach to get the lay of the land and figure out where to plant myself for the afternoon. I start by walking past two sand volleyball courts, and realize despite how lousy I am at volleyball by Texas standards, in Hawaii I would be a laughing stock. There were little kids that would have mopped the floor (beach?) with me. Not little kids like 16-year olds nearing manhood, I mean little 11 year-olds would have kicked sand in my face (metaphorically, not actually cuz they were nice and I'm still big). These would be the only formal volleyball courts I would run across in Waikiki.
On my little stroll down Waikiki beach, I learned a few things. Not all food is better in paradise. Tourists will buy anything on an island, if you add a little umbrella to it. To me, saying "aloha" doesn't feel as natural as "howdy". Shaved ice is not the same thing as a snow cone. The Hawaiian people, and sometimes the visitors, have an incredibly high threshold for shame. Most rules have an exception, as long as the general principal behind the rule is not violated. Alpha girls exist everywhere. Don't kick the tires of a bike/ paddle boat, unless you want to incur the wrath of Mu-nu.
I have to introduce Mu-nu (not to be confused with Ru-nu which is Ryan after I've had 4 lava flows). Early on in my stroll, I see something I've never seen before. It's a paddle boat that looks like Nerf made a bicycle that floats. It was lime green and on the shore stood taller than me. I was obviously curious, so I start snooping around and give the large floating ball portion a little kick. That's when I first met Mu-nu. He quickly informed me, that I wasn't supposed to kick his s#&@! I explained to my new island friend that I was only curious, and I don't think I hurt this one member of his bicycle-paddle-boat fleet, by nudging it with my bare foot. I was told (and I'm censoring this cuz kids could be reading), that I needed to take my "self" outta here bra, unless you got "loving" money to "mother loving" rent this "salsa". I never felt in danger or that the authorities would be called (what authorities, there is no law on the island). His tone never got loud or overly violent, just more controlling than those I had encountered in my time on the island.
So, I went on my way and tried to come up with a proper nickname for this overly protective, unnecessary-boundary-setting, end-all-be-all of the beach floating rental market. Being in a World War II mode from my visit to Pearl Harbor, my nickname thoughts drifted to WWII infamous bad guys: Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Hirohito. Again calling on my limited knowledge of Hawaiian language, which is limited to the Chuck/Kunu character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I went through the possible Hawaiian names of these notorious badmen. I chuckled to myself over the idea of referring to someone as Stu-nu, Hi-nu, or Hiro-hunu! (and briefly considered the Nurse Ratched character from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but then his nickname would be Nurse Runu which would be uncool since my good buddy's fake Hawaiian name is Ru-nu) I decided on Mu-nu (Mussolini in my fake Hawaiian). We'll see him again.
I enjoyed a decent burger at the Hula Grill with a view of the beach. The food, Longboard beer, and service were all ok, but it was not the kind of place I could hunker down for a few hours, so I didn't linger too long. I did see a group of "business men" on their lunch break enjoying some cocktails with little umbrellas in them (the drinks not the men). Bankers wear aloha shirts in Hawaii. No ties, just Hawaiian shirts that could double as a waitstaff uniform at Senor Frogs. Anyway, I think my lack of wardrobe aptitude would be acceptable if I worked in this place.
On the walk back to the spot I'd picked out, I grabbed a shave ice. Being a veteran of the ice with flavoring industry, I figured me and the shaved-ice-cart proprietor were paisans. We were not. He corrected me when I asked for a snow cone. He insisted I pay in cash. He was over me being there rather quickly, so I vacated his little portion of sidewalk. I quickly ran into another shaved ice guy who looked much more friendly, and I wondered if there was some sort of shave ice turf war I'd stumbled into.
Who wants to learn about shave ice?
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| After 5 beers, I realized nobody cared if I had a cup or not. |
With my afternoon well planned, I returned to the chair rental place to find out where my chair was being placed on the beach. And to my surprise, who is at my service, moving my chair wherever I choose? Mu-nu the Terrible! His face turned a new shade of "sorry bra"-red, when he saw me. I didn't pull an Abe Froman on him or anything, but it was still pretty fun to feel him stew-ing in his own skin. He tells me as he's carrying my chair that he has a great spot for me, and plops me down mere feet from a group of 6 young, attractive Hispanic women. At first I'm thinking well done Mu-nu, then he unnecessarily presses my chair over his head a few times to show just how buff he is. Yeah, he can handle a 15 pound piece of plastic. Bad bull Mu-nu.
*This story is way longer than I thought, so I'm going to split it into two parts. Part 2: Coming soon.*
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