Can't we all just get a longboard?

Despite all of man’s flaws there are but two types of people: Those who enjoy soccer, and those who do not. I am common American: I don't understand the fantastic admiration of soccer, the game, the players, the hype. Actually, the same divide or separation criterion exists elsewhere of course. For instance, people who don’t enjoy Frank Zappa or Thelonlious Monk. Or Salvador Dali. And of course: The Surfer and Non Surfer—souls who have never ridden a single fin or never enjoyed an evening session waiting for one last wave before the sun lazily slumbers into the pillowy horizon.
Then there’s the soccer fan. Although the soccer fan is crazy. He is not completely crazy. That distinction is reserved for Los Angeles Lakers’ fans who, when in the NBA finals,  attach purple and gold flags to their cars and then burn their cars when their team wins.

Mark Twain got the Stoke!

Twain was 30 years old and virtually unknown when he arrived on Kona in 1866. As a $20-an-article travel correspondent for the Sacramento Union newspaper, a brief story of surfing took up just one paragraph in one dispatch. Twain's portrayal of the sport was deft and funny. Sadly during that era, surfing was looked down upon by visiting missionaries to Hawaii, like Hiram Brigham, who presented surfing as 'being in opposition to the strict tenets of Calvinism and against the laws of god'.

Twain didn't think so, and went so far to give the stoke a try himself.

In one place we came upon a large company of naked natives, of both sexes and all ages, amusing themselves with the national pastime of surf- bathing. Each heathen would paddle three or four hundred yards out to sea (taking a short board with him), then face the shore and wait for a particularly prodigious billow to come along; at the right moment he would fling his board upon its foamy crest and himself upon the board, and here he would come whizzing by like a bombshell! It did not seem that a lightning express-train could shoot along at a more hair-lifting speed. I tried surf-bathing once, subsequently, but made a failure of it. I got the board placed right, and at the right moment, too; but missed the connection myself. The board struck the shore in three-quarters of a second, without any cargo, and I struck the bottom about the same time, with a couple of barrels of water in me. None but natives ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly.

Surfing seems to date as far back as 3000 BC, but surfing as it exits today is a Polynesian invention. Stand up surfing was deeply integrated into Hawaiian culture since around 1000 AD. I was told that there are more breech births in the Polynesians than in other groups: Hawaiian babies are ejected from the confines of the womb and land feet first right onto a surf board. Surfing spans across all sections of society in Hawaii: Commoners and politicians, young and old, men, women, and children.

A sense of history was most likely lost upon Brigham who, I imagine experienced a horrific wipe out and took a defeatist point of view:Now that would be against the laws of god?

So, fireworks are serious here. Illegal Class B fireworks are something all Hawaiian dudes/dudettes (brahs, sisters) prize to possess. There have been thunderous booms occasionally in my 'hood in preparation for New year's eve. They shake you right out of bed, even when exploded several blocks away. I nearly soiled myself during the first few 'surprise' attacks,

Sanders is a typical Hawaiian brah. We work together. To Sanders, most everyone is a 'dude': nurses, patients, families, doctors, administrators. "Dude, I think the patient is crashing, dude!". Sanders invited us to his family's home in Pearl City, which is adjacent to Pearl Harbor. Driving to the neighborhood, first on the H1 Highway, there are fire works blasting off in all directions of vision. When most of the population has class B fireworks, the 'professional' firework displays of Waikiki beach are diluted in the aerial mix. Driving through the Pearl City neighborhood ( the houses are packed together, typical for any populated island, most of them several generations in multi-family houses) on any other day is a quiet clean decent working class neighborhood. But from sunset December 31st, is near chaos if one did not know better. Spent cartridges and explosive remnants litter the street, and fire-powder smoke hangs semi-translucent in the air. Am I driving through the streets of 1995 Sarajevo?

Sander's family's house is quite large, and sits facing the Pearl Harbor Lake- House, street, Lake(at one time the x-band radar), Pearl Harbor, Pacific ocean, in that order: Pulled pork, Korean-type BBQ, hawaiian/chinese noodles, and on and on. Beer, vodka etc. And the nearly bottomless arsenal of fireworks was non stop. I was privileged to have launched a few mortars (ground to air missiles) with some trepidation and reservation. I like my 2 hands and 10 fingers with which to use to hold chop sticks and beers. They go up, fine. Everyone is vigilant to watch for the one rogue mortar that fails to ascend. The explosion is deafening.....A misdirected mortar could cause a life altering situation. I think it could possibly call one into religion, should they survive the chaotic mess. Next year, your neighborhood might benefit from a Hawaiian brah with dakine choke fireworks.The drive back, Honolulu seemed to have a fine mist and fog in the air, however the odor of spent gun powder permeating the air reminds you that there is rarely fog in Oahu.


I could be wrong, though. Maybe you grew up with terrorist-grade fireworks, and I am just blowing smoke up your skirt, dude.