Pearl Harbor, Hanamua Bay, Hawaii Journal, 7/5/91

Early this morning we snorkeled in Hanamua Bay, in order to recover from the Fourth of July. Waikiki was jammed. Fireworks like I’ve never seen before, so many people all in one place. The sunset was a maroon fire. Fireworks against the backdrop were spectacular, if short lived.

Later in the afternoon we head out to Pearl Harbor, we’re waiting for the tour boat. I never thought I’d come to this place, but I am desperate for some alone time to write. I am semi-brooding, incubating material, but there’s so little time to write. I’m trying not to get frustrated with time issues.

Traveling with someone is always a compromise. I feel like I’m being railroaded. For example, the day we rented the car, I wanted to go back and get my camera since we were going around the island. But she didn’t want to. Yesterday, after Hanamua Bay, I wanted to stop at the blowhole, since I had a camera on me. She didn’t want to. I still haven’t had my Waikiki shopping fix because Marilyn didn’t want to go. Anyway other than that, it’s going well, in spite of it all.

I found a lei while waiting for the tour to the USS Arizona. A World War II survivor describes how the ship burned for 2 1/2 days, and there are 105 unmarked graves. A few years ago, I refused to go to the memorial because I am so anti-war. Now, I am ready to visit this place, though I dislike anything that commemorates war. It’s my job as a writer to record everything—both good and bad.

Pikaki and magenta carnations on my lei, the heady scent of the islands. There are few Japanese tourists visiting Pearl Harbor. Marilyn says it is similar to the Germans not visiting Auschwitz. Yesterday’s headlines, revolution in Slovenia. It was quiet for so long, revolution and war erupting in the Eastern Bloc countries. What will come of it other than more senseless death?

The World War II survivor rolls off a litany of ships damaged during the war, beginning with the ships named after states. They are always she. The USS Missouri, Mighty Mo. My namesake. Then he adds those ships named after cities, mythical creatures, and extinct Indian tribes: Phoenix, Oglala. They say you can still see the fuel rising to the surface from the USS Arizona even after all these years. Rainbows on the water. God’s promise of peace.

Yesterday, while I was snorkeling on the outer reef, a large moray eel followed me, lazily swimming unafraid in the open water. I had to keep reminding myself that he was only opening and closing his jaws like that in order to force oxygen into his gills. But it was alarming to see all those teeth up close. Fish have altered their behavior due to so much hand-feeding. One young parrot fish nipped my finger. Peas make them hyper aggressive, a naturalist says. All that sugar.

Finally they’re trying to save Hanamua Bay, now that they know that the coral is really dead. Too much human love, people standing on the coral reef, not understanding that it is a living entity. And sunscreen leaves oil slicks on the surface of the water. The bay is dying. I am appalled by its demise. Requiem for a bay.

Still, on the outside reef, I saw many more fish, a school of manini grazing on the reef. As the surging waves tumbled above us, the fish tumbled and turned, their mouths attached to the reef like stems of golden leaves in a windy sea. Something about the coming fall, golden birch trees—manini means leaves Hawaiian, I once read somewhere.

I am haunted by the thought of all those men entombed beneath the bay, their bones like bleached coral. Japanese doves circle at my feet. This place of pearls. What was it like before the military destroyed this shallow bay? A tiny Japanese girl chases the doves, shrieking in proverbial delight. Did the dying men even have time to scream I wonder? I want to cry, disliking these tears of pity, of sorrow, and distrusting the sentiment behind it.

My body is approaching 40, and I am uneasy with my reflective surface, feeling the loss of a mate, I’m lonely, having little to show for my life except for obscure deeds done. Bone tired, I no longer know how to slow down, even now. Death approaches in sleep, occluding the day.

The beauty of tropical fish, rare birds of the sea, as they swarm around me, is almost timeless. I am mesmerized, and never want to return to land. A man who pointed out a fish to me earlier underwater, recognizes me at the Save Hanamua Bay table. Smiles in recognition. It must be because I am the only one diving in a T-shirt and purple leggings. No sunburn here. I like his smile, but his face is indistinguishable from the others.

The other night walking along the beach at sunset, another dark-haired man smiled at me. I smiled back, smiling only because he smiled at me. It was expected of me to smile back. I acknowledge you without having to speak. Nothing else was implied. No pick up motions. I get so hostile when this happens, not that it does much anymore I thought to myself—then I was busy correcting that statement. Never did happen much to begin with—not because I’m old, or ugly, but because I make myself unavailable to most people. It’s a self protection mechanism.

I feel particularly unflattering right now. I could lose a few pounds but MarIlyn likes to eat all of her meals—like Oleg—and my will is weak. I need more control over my diet, I need more exercise, but my calves hurt from the Waikiki shuffle. I fell asleep at noon yesterday. I never fall asleep during the day. I am continually tired. The tropics drains it out of you. Mynah birds, twice the size of sparrows, and redheaded cardinals at my feet like Christmas ornaments.

The World War II veteran drones on, his voice drops an octave as he tells a story of a Japanese man who came here, with tears in his eyes, saying, I am so sorry this happened. Auschwitz is ensconced in a white glass bottom boat over the USS Arizona, and its name is Pearl Harbor. The only pearls left are the teeth of the dead. Even the palm trees wear yellow ribbons. We are all weeping for the dead. On the memorial wall I find my last name in black and wonder if we were related.

Overweight American women sprout sequins flags on their ample bosoms. I am an anti-sentimental American. An Asian kid wears a shirt saying, Proud to be American, is indistinguishable from the Japanese tourists swarming in indiscriminate formations, like pulsing flocks of starlings into the sky. It is all group mind.

At Hanamua Bay I was surrounded by Japanese tourists who have little sense of American body space. I do something considered to be rude. I push back. My ticket says number 17, with a message, Aloha. Take pride in America. Can I take pride without liking the hyperbole associated with patriotism?

The guide tells us, At 7:55 AM on December 7th, 1941, the USS Arizona sank in less than nine minutes—on a Sunday morning. What prayers were offered up?