I had a window seat next to a young girl of about 14 and her mom. As we waited to take off, I kept my shades on and bit my lip--my heart was pounding so fast and heavy, and the lump in my throat was threatening to explode out of my eye sockets at any moment. The two dudes behind me were yakking it up about their reasons for departure; one was a born-and-bred Maui boy heading to college, the other was a Bay Area businessman finishing one of his regular Hawaiian Islands sojourns to visit friends. And although it was still a balmy 80-something degrees outside, I unfurled the airline-sanctioned blanket over me, leaned my head against the tiny plexiglass window and shut my eyes.
Flight attendants, please prepare for departure...
Of course, my whole life on Maui flashed before my eyes. I tried to quiet my mind, tried to concentrate on my breathing and, crazy as it may make me sound (I'm sure you're quite used to that by now), tried to give myself the kind of pep talk I would give to a friend in a similar situation. This is great what you're doing. Change is always good. I'm so proud of you for wanting to better your life, to grow. Think of all the fun you'll have. And the adventures! But all I could think about was the perpetual moment before last, played out in my mind like the scenes in Memento--backwards, with every precursory scene illuminating the one played out before it, even though the events happened in opposite order.
I thought about how I laid in bed the night before at the Russo house, my mind racing, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of the violent Paukukalo waves crashing closeby. When the sun rose, cracking the darkness open like an egg, I heard Jen milling about in the kitchen, and little Betty beginning to cry. Jen tapped lightly on my door to see if I was serious about taking a morning swim at Baby Beach in Sprecklesville.
I was.
It was a particularly windy morning, and the skies had been somewhat gray all week long, which made this last chance to get in Maui's warm waters that much more final and depressing. Jen and I shivered next to each other in our sarongs, staring out at the choppy surface of the sea, while her rambunctious toy poodles Mojo and Chewy ran amuk and tried to start trouble with the larger dogs at the beach.
She got in first, tentative at waist high. I bum-rushed the water, yelling like a half-crazed ninja, until I was fully submersed--quieted, at last. And it always happens like that: once engulfed in the liquid womb of the ocean, my body makes peace with my mind. I floated around for awhile, looking out towards the horizon and up at the sky, over at the wide expanse of cream-colored sand, trying to lock into my memory the way the bottom felt, its silky silt oozing up between my toes, and the soothing warmth of the water and how it made me feel safe, and energized, and clearheaded, and like I wanted to cry.
And that's what I was thinking about as the plane started to take off. So I did cry. And then when I started to cry, I couldn't stop. And Sprecklesville, then Paia and Hookipa glided below me, shrinking in size, until I was straining my neck to see the cliffs of Huelo, and the seemingly endless greens and blues of the island where I'd spent the last 10 years of my life. The most important 10 years, some might say. Don't be so fucking dramatic, I said to myself.
And the numbness set in. My tears continued to form thick, warm tributaries of wetness on my face, the lump in my throat made like a dam for the butterflies in my stomach to knock against. My heart felt like a lead balloon and my head started to detach itself from my body. I still don't know where it is, really.
I leaned back and let Shrek the Third take over.
Flight attendants, please prepare for departure...
Of course, my whole life on Maui flashed before my eyes. I tried to quiet my mind, tried to concentrate on my breathing and, crazy as it may make me sound (I'm sure you're quite used to that by now), tried to give myself the kind of pep talk I would give to a friend in a similar situation. This is great what you're doing. Change is always good. I'm so proud of you for wanting to better your life, to grow. Think of all the fun you'll have. And the adventures! But all I could think about was the perpetual moment before last, played out in my mind like the scenes in Memento--backwards, with every precursory scene illuminating the one played out before it, even though the events happened in opposite order.
I thought about how I laid in bed the night before at the Russo house, my mind racing, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of the violent Paukukalo waves crashing closeby. When the sun rose, cracking the darkness open like an egg, I heard Jen milling about in the kitchen, and little Betty beginning to cry. Jen tapped lightly on my door to see if I was serious about taking a morning swim at Baby Beach in Sprecklesville.
I was.
It was a particularly windy morning, and the skies had been somewhat gray all week long, which made this last chance to get in Maui's warm waters that much more final and depressing. Jen and I shivered next to each other in our sarongs, staring out at the choppy surface of the sea, while her rambunctious toy poodles Mojo and Chewy ran amuk and tried to start trouble with the larger dogs at the beach.
She got in first, tentative at waist high. I bum-rushed the water, yelling like a half-crazed ninja, until I was fully submersed--quieted, at last. And it always happens like that: once engulfed in the liquid womb of the ocean, my body makes peace with my mind. I floated around for awhile, looking out towards the horizon and up at the sky, over at the wide expanse of cream-colored sand, trying to lock into my memory the way the bottom felt, its silky silt oozing up between my toes, and the soothing warmth of the water and how it made me feel safe, and energized, and clearheaded, and like I wanted to cry.
And that's what I was thinking about as the plane started to take off. So I did cry. And then when I started to cry, I couldn't stop. And Sprecklesville, then Paia and Hookipa glided below me, shrinking in size, until I was straining my neck to see the cliffs of Huelo, and the seemingly endless greens and blues of the island where I'd spent the last 10 years of my life. The most important 10 years, some might say. Don't be so fucking dramatic, I said to myself.
And the numbness set in. My tears continued to form thick, warm tributaries of wetness on my face, the lump in my throat made like a dam for the butterflies in my stomach to knock against. My heart felt like a lead balloon and my head started to detach itself from my body. I still don't know where it is, really.
I leaned back and let Shrek the Third take over.
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