Postcard: Waikiki, 7am

Two guys are opening their surf shack. One of them is digging perfectly spaced holes in the sand, the other is dropping bright yellow umbrellas into the holes and popping them open. A man sits on the stone wall facing the surf, barefoot, a cell phone glued to his head, a deep frown marking his face. How can he be so unhappy, I wonder, we are in Waikiki, it is a balmy 78 degrees and there’s a light breeze coming off the ocean. Scattered leftovers from the day before line the beach, an abandoned yellow inner tube, still fully inflated, a surf worn beach mat, one flip flop. There are surfers beyond the breakwater, floating, riding the waves to the shore.

I leave my things on the wall next to the unhappy man on the phone and head into the surf. There’s a Filipino woman (I’m guessing), maybe 60 years old, in the water up to her collar bones. She’s wearing a poofy shower cap. She’s performing some kind of calisthenics, she’s vigorously waving her arms back and forth and striding about in the swells. And as I get closer to her I can hear her, she’s singing, belting it out really, some kind of tune, at the top of her lungs. When I float on my back, I hear only the surf, then, when I stand and balance in the ever moving water, her voice fills the air. Inspired, I lie on my back in the salt water, and, held up by the waves, facing the sky, I sing too, loud enough to hear my own voice echoing in the ocean.