I was on the beach yesterday, enjoying a barbeque with the Sons of Kauai, the motorcycle group I meet up with every Sunday. I looked over this disparate assembly of bikers, weaving around a chewed and faded green picnic table, supporting too much food, almost all protein. Broccoli never shows its face at our outdoor feasts.
We were set up on a shaded, grassy section of Poipu Beach, butting up against the road. I looked over at the gathering, Pacific Ocean in the background and I felt a riveting connection to my beginning days on the island. It was like taking a very long inhalation, one that included my entire time on Kauai, from this barbecue to my first plane ride sighting of the island. It was all inside me now.
I arrived on Kauai about twelve years ago, several days before my birthday on May 29th. A few weeks earlier, I had driven all night from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, making sure I’d get to the dock on time. I was shipping my red Toyota truck to the island. It was a dark ride and a lonely one. I left behind a full life in New Mexico, but the time had come to move along. Riding the big cross-country highways, with nothing but flying semis for company, made me feel small and alone.
I had to spend one night in Los Angeles in order to take my one-way flight to Kauai. It was raining that night and I was in a less than stellar part of downtown. I have always had trouble being good to myself, so staying in a cheap dump on such an important night was normal for me. Once settled, my phone rang and it was my brother, Marty, with news that our mother had a massive stroke. Before the call, I was feeling incredibly isolated, in between homes, imprisoned in a dank hotel room with sealed windows.
My mother had become increasingly frail as she got older and I began to appreciate all she had sacrificed for my brother and I when we were little boys. There were no regrets about her choices because she lived for her two sons. I had grown to understand how she managed as a single, working Mom in the Fifties, when there was no precedent. She was all that separated me from being orphaned, frightening for a little boy. I remembered my darkened bedroom when news of my father’s death rolled up the stairs to the little corner sanctuary. I was only nine at the time. Here I was again, so much older, but never far from that child.
I decided that touching down on Kauai filled some primal need, grounding me for what lay ahead. I spent several days putting my place together, outfitting my bedroom/office in a shared living space. I mailed boxes here with minimal belongings, mostly clothes. I remember being driven around by my new roommate, feeling overwhelmed with the small details of establishing a life. After a few days, It was off to New York City to be with my mother and brother.
What followed was a remarkable several weeks with Ida, who showed pure grace as she left. Sitting at her bedside for hours at a time, I got to speak silently to her still body. Eyes closed, she would hold my hand and gently pat it, assuring me all would be fine. My mother died on May 22nd, twelve years ago. I came back to Kauai several days later, making sure to be here on my birthday.
Islands are like orphans in the sea and I now inhabited one and everything about it felt right, even the difficult timing. I bought my first motorcycle within months of getting here and met up with the Sons of Kauai shortly after that. Riding with these people has helped make me feel like I belong here. This Sunday, I got a chance to sit on the only Indian Motorcycle on Kauai, the bike I’ll be riding on my mainland bike ride in September.
May is a month marked with milestones, birth, death and moving to Kauai. I spend more time than usual whispering to myself about the meaning of my life, a useless exercise that has dogged me forever. Yes, I know there is no answer, but I have always felt challenged to keep trying. Anniversaries of all kinds serve as reminders for me to wipe the dipstick clean and take a fresh look.
May always feels like a celebration of my past and much of it stays with me, year to year. It’s like the true north on my spiritual compass, pointing me forward into tomorrow.
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