Hawaii
My husband Jim and I honeymooned in Hawaii. It was magical for so many reasons. Not only because we arrived two days after our wedding, high from the excitement of having our closest friends all in the same room and feeling so loved and so celebrated, but because Hawaii feels like magic. The vibrant colors of the plants, fruits, and vegetables, the wildlife, the sounds of the ocean – the fact that, even though it is a very popular tourist destination, we found ourselves alone on beaches or volcanic trails more often than we could have imagined. There were many magical moments that I still think about 15 years after that trip. But one moment – one special moment, magical moment – I think about almost daily.
On our second week visiting the islands, we stayed near Mai Poina Beach Park in Maui in a quaint cabin, which was not as rustic and off-the-path as some of our other accommodations. Up until then, we had intentionally stayed away from larger resort areas, but now we were ready for the experiences of an all-inclusive lūʻau at the Hilton Grand Vacations a few miles down the street, and a snorkeling adventure to see dolphins and turtles off the coast in Maalaea Bay — the more typical excursions you might think of when honeymooning in Hawaii. I happen to love a good boat ride, and couldn’t wait to swim in deep ocean water, knowing I would be safe with the professional crew and with Jim close by.
Both of our outings were scheduled on the same day — the lūʻau in the evening and the boat ride in the morning. The boat was scheduled to leave the harbor by 6 a.m., and Jim and I were up by 4:30 a.m., drinking coffee in the dark on our patio before we made the drive to the docks. I didn’t think about eating anything that early in the day, which was typical morning behavior for me, and I assumed there would be some kind of breakfast on the boat, at least a banana or apple to hold us over until lunch. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the harbor and boarded the boat. I quickly looked around the deck and, without saying a word to Jim, headed straight for the bow to claim a spot on the mesh netting that was stretched across the front of the boat in place of a fiberglass floor. I bounced down onto the ground, crossing my legs and smiling, feeling confident that this was the best spot to view the ocean as we departed from land.
A few moments later, the boat slowly pulled away from the dock, accelerating speed as the captain made announcements over the loudspeaker. I tried to listen closely, being a devout follower of all rules and regulations, but I found myself distracted by a nausea that was rising in my stomach. I looked at Jim and said, “I don’t feel good. I think I am getting seasick.” With no hesitation, Jim grabbed me by my elbow and helped me to my feet, and we awkwardly walked toward the back of the boat, where hard benches under a canopy with no view of the view and no sunshine awaited us — the most unfavorable seats for the sea-gazing passengers, empty and sad. I sat down, realizing that it wasn’t just being at the front of the boat on the flexible tarp that had me feeling ill — it was the entire motion of the ocean. I lay down, pulling my hoodie tighter around my shoulders, curling my knees up to my chest. Jim went to look for provisions for me – fruit juice or white bread, a yellow cheese slice. He came back with all three, and I coldly shook my head, not even wanting to sit up to consume either. He sat next to me silently, rubbing my shoulder with one hand and eating the cheese with the other.
In what felt like an eternity later, but was probably only twenty minutes, we arrived at our destination. I couldn’t lift my head to look up at where we were without feeling dizzy, so stayed still as the boat became active with movement. The crew started to hand out life jackets and snorkeling gear to the passengers, and Jim reluctantly took the items as he looked at me with pity.
“Go, really, have fun. I will be fine. Don’t miss this,” I said, closing my eyes tightly.
Jim put on his flippers and mask, kissed me on the head, and waddled toward the line of passengers at the gate, waiting their turns to jump into the water below. I tried not to think about the rocking of the boat and how sick I felt as I listened to each of my boatmates splash-land into the ocean. I started to relax as I listened to distant sounds of laughter as they swam further away from the boat, cheerful background noise that was soothing and a welcome distraction. Then, suddenly, I heard a piercing scream from on the boat. My eyes popped open; my heart raced with fear. Something horrible is happening right now, I thought. Before I had any time to react to my terror, I saw a small brown-haired woman in a two-piece bathing suit dart across the deck holding a bouncing toddler on her hip, who was also in a tiny bathing suit.
“Dolphins! Dolphins! I see dolphins! I’m so happy! We’re so lucky!” she streaked as she ran.
She didn’t stop. From the sideways view of my head resting on the bench, I witnessed the woman plunge into the ocean holding her child, with no gear, no life jackets, no flippers, no masks, no floaties, no personal flotation device. I jumped up and ran to peer over the railing, terrified of what this woman had just done. Fifteen feet below, she was floating, still holding her daughter at her side, flapping her arms in the air, exclaiming, “We are so lucky! We are so lucky!” The small girl laughed and clapped with equal enthusiasm, splashing around in the clear blue sea.
I turned to make my way back to my sick bench, stunned at what I had just seen, and then realized before I sat down that I didn’t feel sick anymore. I felt fine. My sea sickness had been cured by panic. It was Hawaii magic. It was the magic of this woman and her love of dolphins. I picked up the bread Jim had left for me and took a bite, drank a sip of fruit juice, and made my way to a group of staff members huddled together around the remaining pile of flippers and masks, and asked for a set. I put on the gear, scooted over to the edge of the boat, and hoisted myself over the side, submerging into the cool water below. When I came up to the surface, I scanned the other swimmers until I saw Jim about 30 feet away, and I started to paddle in his direction, looking out for the dolphins that I had heard about with such joyful expression, and thought to myself, “We sure are lucky.”
