Kua Bay, Hawaii
Some of my best childhood memories are of camping on the beach. When I was growing up, many of the beaches on the Big Island were inaccessible without a four-wheel-drive. Getting to your camping destination was as much of an adventure as being there.
We'd never be alone either- camping was always a team effort. Our friends and family would come together, and everyone got involved. Sometimes I'd invite my friends from school one week and go camping with their families next. Still, the rules were always the same. Those of us old enough to help pack, load, unload, clean, cook (whatever it may be) got off our butts and helped!! And we always left the campsite a bit better than we found it. If there was trash on the ground, regardless of where it came from or who threw it, we picked it up.
The rewards for our good behavior were priceless. Hours of laughing in the crystal clear water and lounging in the sand. Every day better than the last. Surfing, fishing, diving, snorkeling, eating, napping, sand crab catching--FUN!!!
Kua Bay has changed a lot since then. The old lava rock roads are replaced with pavement, and people flock in for their fair share of photos and sunburn. Once upon a time, I could run down the shore and see only my footprints left behind. Alas, all I have left are memories, captured in poems and prose...
The Road to Kua Bay
was nothing more
than jagged pillars
eroded by consistent winds of change.
No one else on earth, only Dad,
could make the drive smooth-
easy like a paper airplane.
Although my head bumped
the camper’s roof until I was sore
We reached waters
the shade of happiness,
a hue not found on the palette of Picasso.
Beneath our feet, soft granules of processed coral-
silky, surreal splendor.
A beach built upon an eternity
of miniature pearls.
a few brave jewels transcended our world
to dance with the stars of celestial heaven.
And, when the melodies froze,
Each tumbled back to shore
carrying our wishes upon glittery streaks of white.
we sang the wrong lyrics
and snuggled into zippered wombs
until the horizon’s eye of day
allowed our fire to sizzle and swell
with dreams of breakfast bacon.
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