People who live in Hawaii have something they tell each other about their good fortune to live in what Mark Twain once called “the loveliest fleet of islands anchored in any ocean.”  They say lucky you live Hawaii.  What if you are born there and then move away as a child, however?  Do you still have any residual luck coming?  Can you go back and claim your birthright at some point, let them know that there has been some mix-up, that you were meant to live in paradise?  I have tried to make that happen many times.  Though it’s never come close to working, I seem destined to keep trying.

I first went back with my German girlfriend, Suzy, in 1996, on a package tour to Waikiki.  It rained from the moment we arrived to the moment we left, so hard that it was almost impossible to see the ground. 

The second time I went, in 2001, was for two weeks.  I traveled to five of the islands, Oahu, the Big Island, Maui, Kauai, and Molokai, seeing the best nature the islands have to offer while sleeping in a string of rental cars.  It does not take that long to drive around any of the islands and there are not many places where you can just pull over and get off the beaten track.  It was a long two weeks of ducking and hiding, never really getting comfortable anywhere, doing a lot of sitting around.

In 2008, I went back again and started off sleeping in a rental car, until I discovered a hostel by the zoo and another on the North Shore that I spent most of the week at.  It was during the US Open and one of the cameramen for the event heard me playing a song I’d just written and said he wanted to film me and then mix the performance in with some footage of the surfers. 

That was nothing more than an impulsive idea he was throwing out there, as after the contest was over, he didn’t show up to meet me in the parking lot.  It had at least given me two hours of false hope, however, much more than I’d gotten at any other time on the trip.  Hawaii is a tough nut to crack.

The fourth time I went back to Hawaii, in 2012, was the time I stayed the longest, working at a hostel in Waikiki.  It started off when my parents were invited to house-sit for some of their old friends from back-in-the-day.  I was planning on going over anyway, and this seemed like an incredible opportunity to connect with people and solicit some ideas for getting my foot in the door. 

My father’s friend was now head pastor of a small Lutheran church in Waikiki that had been my father’s first call after getting out of seminary.  That was right before my parents had dropped out of society to join the counterculture, becoming Jesus People, living like hippies and latter-day apostles from the New Testament.  That’s how I’d lived out my early childhood, going from commune to commune, home to apartment to house, like Jesus himself, who’d wandered from town to town with his followers. 

Now we were going back to house-sit in Hawaii Kai.  The idea was that my father would preach for his friend while they were away on the mainland visiting some relatives.  The house in Hawaii Kai was far from any attractions and as hot as a brick oven.  The dog that we were watching almost died of depression and old age.  My father now seemed to be more obsessed with finding a Walmart than trying to recapture his glory days.  I was supposed to be making connections.  Instead, all anyone told me was that it’s expensive to live in Hawaii.

The day my parents left, I tracked down a hostel on Lemon Road, that seemed more like a homeless shelter than anything.  It was fifty dollars a night for a bunk bed.  The bedding was stained, and I shared the room with two convicts who partied like we were living in a dorm.   When I came down in the morning, the manager asked me if I wanted a job, not working for money, but for my bed.  They had me working the graveyard shift at another slum property, where most of my clients ended up being hookers bringing their johns. 

The rest of the time I drank and played music in a garage with a few Samoans and a tribe of other outsiders who lived on the next property.  By the time I got a job in the Middle East, I had twenty dollars left in the bank.

Of all the places I’d been to in Hawaii, the only one that seemed even remotely like a place where I could make it was Hilo on the rainy side of the Big Island.  I’d been there in 2017, then again in 2020, right before the pandemic, for a further assessment.  It seemed the right size, a college town, with interesting old buildings downtown and a few places to play music.  Even that was expensive, however, and the rental rooms I’d looked into had been far from the center.

Now I was trying Hawaii again, this time with a new twist on an old plan.  During the pandemic I’d gone through a huge bin of family correspondence and found envelopes with the addresses of all the places we’d lived at during our scattered Hawaii years.  With the miracle of Google Maps, I’d be able to track the places down, just as I’d recently found all the places on the mainland that my family and extended family had ever lived.  I was also taking a book on Hawaiian Mythology that I wanted to learn about, and my father’s old ukelele, which I planned on loading up with mana energy.

With that plan in my mind, I found a round-trip ticket to Honolulu, booked a room in a hostel, and set off to Hawaii one more time to see what I could find.

I chose to travel on February 8^th, what would’ve been my father’s 78^th birthday if he hadn’t passed away six years earlier.  Even though it was too large to fit into my suitcase, I was taking the ukelele he’d given me, one he’d brought back from a trip to Oahu on his sixtieth birthday.  Prior to that, I’d been a guitar player for twenty years, but ukelele was the first instrument I’d ever played, at Kaimuki Christian school in third grade, and once I picked it up again found that my guitar style fit it perfectly.  I never looked back.

The flight to Honolulu was from LAX, and I had to call for an Uber at five in the morning to make it to the airport on time.  All night long I’d been lying there wide awake in dread and terror, mostly because I was heading off to Hawaii without enough money to do anything but plunge to the bottom of the barrel, renting a bunk bed at a hostel on Lemon Road, the site of some of the most demoralizing, isolated episodes of my life. 

I had addresses of some of the places we’d lived at in the seventies, when hippies could still get by, but that had been fifty years ago.  I was always looking for that magic moment, the one that only exists in comic books and films.  Meanwhile, life had been indifferent to my dreams.  I’d had to hack them out of reality like trying to cut stars out of canvas with a bread knife.  All of my shining moments had been achieved in wild desperation and the price for them was still being paid.

The flight was only half full.  I was too nervous to concentrate on watching a movie.  When we landed, I took a breath and moved forward.  I’d been given a wrist band to prove that I’d passed the COVID protocol before getting on the flight.  One of the requirements had been proof of a return flight, so I’d booked one a month from the day, back to Los Angeles.  I basically had thirty days to get my foot in the door.  If that didn’t happen, the backup plan was to fly to Central America and find someplace cheap to try to regroup.  I’d been down that road before.

From the airport, I booked a shuttle to Waikiki.  The driver was doing his best to entertain the passengers along the way, pointing out famous sites and naming celebrities, like former president, Barrack Obama, who had a history with the island.  I was the last one to be dropped off, at the Waikiki Beach Club on Lemon Road, right across from Kapiolani Park and the zoo.  Eight years earlier when I’d been working at the Family Hostel, the strip had been something of a drug-infested ghetto, with nightly police raids.  Now it had been cleaned up a little, but the mood upon arrival was still grim.

It was too early to check into my room, so I stashed my bags in the storage room and walked across Kapahulu to get to the park.  The banyan tree in front of the zoo had been a sacred playground of my youth, swinging from the branches like a monkey in the jungle.  Now the benches around it had been tagged by graffiti and the very soul of it seemed stunted by displacement and neglect. 

In 2012 there’d been armies of homeless people squatting in the park all day, lying down to sleep on the sidewalks lining Kalakaua Avenue every night, taking up every inch of pavement, a living land mine that was blowing the limbs off the tourism industry.  Now I’d been told that a new law had been passed prohibiting anyone from sitting or lying on the ground.  It seemed to be working.  There were still a lot of homeless around but nothing like the hordes when I’d been working at the hostel.

Maybe they’d stashed them on a desert island like they’d done to the lepers, sending them to Molokai, beginning in 1866.  If so, I hoped they’d send me there too.  I was tired of looking for somewhere to live, tired of hoping that someday things would turn around for me, when the evidence seemed to suggest that they’d only get worse.  It wasn’t just me.  There were a lot of us in bad shape, a lot of us who’d slipped between the cracks.  If you need to have winners, then you’re going to have losers as well.  That’s just the way it works.

I walked past the zoo and then over to the bandstand, where a statue of a dragonfly hovered over an artificial stream.  There, I sat on a bench with a clear view of Diamond Head and watched a man struggling to pedal a bike across the park.  He looked like he was being pursued by hell-hounds, and at one point he crashed, tumbling head over heels.  He leapt to his feet and staggered toward the bathrooms, leaving his bike just lying there in a pile. 

A few minutes later, a guy stopped his pickup on Kalakaua, got out, and threw the bike into the back of the truck.  It was nice to be back in paradise.  Good thing I’d shown up with real low expectations.

When I got back to the Waikiki Beach Club, the woman at the desk let me check into my room early.  It was a giant dorm, with four beds in one room and four beds in the other.  In between, was a passageway with lockers and a sink.  Fortunately, there was a lower bunk open, right across from the bathroom.  That kind of bed assignment is golden, and I rushed down right away to see if I could extend my stay for another week, but they were all booked up. 

The room looked like a bunch of teenagers had been crashing in it, suitcases wide open and spilling out all over, wet towels hanging from the top bunks, as much sand on the floor as there was on the beach.  I did my best to spread a sheet over the formless mattress, then unpacked my small bag and left evidence strewn around to let others know that the bed was taken.  All moved in, I changed into a pair of swim trunks and headed back out to explore.

My first stop was the Family Hostel, which had once occupied one end of the block, one of the shadiest, most ramshackle lodgings I’d ever stumbled across on any of my travels.  Most of the guests had been on disability, spending a bulk of their check to pay for a month in a bunk and a party that rarely lasted longer than a weekend.  After that it was all scraping up change for a tallboy of PBR and scrounging through the ashtray for cigarette butts. 

While I’d been working there someone had died in one of the private rooms and no one even knew until the stink gave it away.  The guy had been collecting urine specimens in gallon jugs for the past few months.  The poor soul who went into to clean up the mess stumbled out with his tongue hanging to his knees, his frail body racked with sobs.

I’d become friends with two Samoans who lived in the midblock extension of the Family Hostel, now the only property that remained.  They were big guys who worked construction and could pound pipes through concrete with their bare hands, yet they loved to play music and sang in high falsetto voices, never making it through a single song without busting out laughing in pure joy.  They’d been my protectors during the few months I’d spent at the hostel and a whole network of seedy alliances and homeless folk attended our nightly luaus in the parking garage, beer, weed, and sirloin steak, which the two brothers always spent all of their construction wages on.

Now the Family Hostel looked more than ever like a homeless shelter.  Any joy that had ever happened there had long ago been snuffed out.  The Samoans were gone.  A few shadowy figures flitted around.  There were cars parked in the garage and a lock on the gate, but I didn’t want to go in.  I was lucky just to have survived the season.

The establishment at the end of the block, which had once been the headquarters of the Family Hostel, now rented scooters and bikes.  I went down and asked about renting a bike for a day, thinking I could probably get to all the places we’d ever lived during my childhood in one afternoon.  I’d do a search for the addresses on Google and try to make some kind of a plan for that in the next few days.

The shady nightspot that I’d worked graveyard shift at ten years earlier, the Love Hut, was all the way down Kalakaua Avenue, at the juncture of Ala Moana Boulevard, a distance of nearly two miles.  To get there I passed the whole of Waikiki Beach, one of the most mythical strips in America and the stomping grounds of my youth.  On my way I passed along Kuhio Beach, around the bandstand where they used to put on nightly hula shows before COVID, the Duke Kahanamoku statue, his outstretched arms draped with leis, the Moana Surfrider, and the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. 

On the other side of the street was the Saks Fifth Avenue version of the International Market Place, once full of exotic characters and colorful souvenir stands.  There was the Waikiki Shopping Plaza, the Royal Hawaiian Center, a California Pizza Kitchen, Kate Spade outlet, and Tiffany Jewelers, right across from the Harley-Davidson Boutique. 

When I was born in Honolulu there was only one skyscraper downtown.  It housed a nursing center and the church that my father preached at was on one of the top floors.  Back then you could look down from one of the balconies and see all of Waikiki.  Now, I felt trapped in a commercial maze that could’ve been any big city.

When I passed Fort de Russy and turned left on Ala Moana, the Love Hut was gone, along with Island Getaway, the scooter rental shop that shared the same office.  What remained was just apartment buildings.  Working there had been a low ebb of my existence, slinking up right before midnight, relieving the swing shift dude, checking the receipts, knowing that after two o’clock if no hooker showed up with a last-minute catch, I had the next six hours to hide behind a paper and doze.

In the morning, after being relieved of duty, I’d go sit under a banyan tree in Kapiolani Park and watch the homeless come to life, rising from the ground like a tribe of modern Lazaruses, pouring from the woodlands and ravines, filling up the park, occupying most of the picnic tables, causing me to fret and write the most haunted songs to ever come out of a ukelele.

One time I’d been sitting in the park in the morning and a missionary group of kids had presented me with a bag of groceries, assuming I was homeless.  I was at the point of turning them down when I happened to look inside and see that it was full of candy bars and ramen noodles.  When I took it back to the Family Hostel my roommates tore into it, almost like wild beasts, except wild beasts don’t know any better.  My roommates knew better, they just didn’t care. 

Now I had a week to reacquaint myself with Waikiki.  Since I couldn’t extend my stay at the hostel, I’d probably move onto Hilo.  That is if I could find a room there.  Wherever I was going next had to be cheap.  Those are the wrong words to say in Hawaii, but it was true.  With my book on Hawaiian mythology and ukelele, I could find ways to keep busy.  As long as the ABC store didn’t run out of spam musubi and hot dogs anytime soon I could probably survive another month.