William Marshall, �Yellowthread Street�
This is part twenty four of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Part ten is here. Part fifteen is here. And part twenty is here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
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We collect our stuff early the next morning and returned to our campsite, pitching our tent in the exact same spot we were in before, despite the fact that there are much fewer people here now that Labor Day has ended. After we set up, we stop for a quick bite to eat, and Stumpy returns, hoping for more food.
We supply him with plenty. Eventually, a larger, tougher bird tries to horn in on Stumpy�s free food action. The Girlfriend jumps up and chases the newcomer away with such viciousness, that neither of us thinks he�ll bother us again.
The little gimp bastard has been waiting for us to return? What the hell is he going to do when we leave? Well, how hard can it be to smuggle a bird through the airlines? Oh, right � 9/11. It would probably be very hard.
When you can�t stuff birds with two toes missing in your check-on luggage, then the terrorists have won.
We go to sleep early, determined to wake with the sunrise for a snorkel session where there should be more fish feeding and fewer fat fucking tourists swimming everywhere. We�ve already had some near-misses by people who would plow through the water at top speed, nearly plowing into us.
We manage to get up fairly early, and grab a quick bite before heading out to the ocean. Stumpy joins us yet again. As we�re walking, The Girlfriend points out toward the ocean.
At first I don�t see what she�s pointing at. Then finally, I see the water spray and the bodies of dolphins cresting the surface.
I freak the fuck out. I�ve been in the ocean next to turtles, barracuda, and manta rays. But I�ve never been in the water near dolphins. I drop our mat and rush to pull our snorkel gear out of our bags.
Getting snorkel gear ready, despite that there isn�t that much gear to prepare, takes longer than you would think. By the time that we�re suited up and ready to go, the dolphins have moved far past the point where we could ever hope to reach.
Fuck.
But we remembered the cameras this time, and since we�re out so early, there are amazing numbers of fucking incredible looking fish surrounding us. Two angelfish have decided they like us and follow us closely for a good twenty minutes, practically posing for pictures. Finally realizing that they were monopolizing our camera time, I shot out both middle fingers, hoping that would give them the hint to move on.
The two fish swarmed for my fingertips, thinking they were offerings of food.
Never, ever, flip off anything in the ocean.
There�s amazing photogenic events going on all around us, and we�re both being snap-happy. Then I finally notice that I only have eight shots left. I decide I�m not going to take any more pictures until I see either another turtle, this time within picture taking range, or some fucking dolphins.
And then we come across a school of fish that are so stunning, I have to break my just-made rule. I now have six shots left.
I resist taking any more pictures, though I want to every time I turn my head. I teach Arlette how to remain motionless, so the schools of fish stop avoiding us. Pretty soon, we�re fucking surrounded by aquatic life, some of them getting so close that we have to start moving again � there are few things that are as gross as having a fish slide against your body.
I�ll spare you the details of what these grosser things are. You�re welcome.
Then I look off to the left, and there�s a turtle. He�s small and cute, about as big as Bettie Paige�s midsection. But that�s big enough, especially after two hours of turtle-less swimming. But the little guy is also shy, and decides he�s rather be by himself. The Girlfriend and I stay a respectful distance away, but still follow him to get pictures. We both snap away like crazy.
And as soon as we�re both out of film, a turtle that�s about 1/3 of the size of us swims right up to our faces.
�Hello,� he seems to suggest with his withered, crinkled eyes, �would you like a photograph of my majestic enormous form?�
If it were possible to slap your forehead underwater, I would have done so.
We�re both out of film, so we concentrate on remaining still as he eventually turns and starts foraging for food in the coral. As he shoves his head into the rocks, fins moving rapidly to keep him in the same spot, we see the other two turtles, also feeding, that are just as, or even bigger, than this one is.
This time I do slap my forehead.
It�s obvious that we�re all going to be here for a while. But it�s also getting later and tourists are starting to fill the beaches. The Girlfriend sees some people splashing wildly as they tear through the water at top speed and suggests that I head them off at the pass.
I swim over, and motion for the newcomers to surface. They look scared, like I may be a part of that underwater mugging gang that Fox News has reported. But as I won�t let them pass, they surface. I remove my mask.
�Hi,� I say as they watch me suspiciously. �Look there�s a group of turtles nearby that are feeding, and if you like, I�ll lead you to them. But I want you to move slowly, concentrating on not splashing, otherwise you�ll scare them off.�
The group looks shocked, but they quickly agree. �Thank you!� one of them says, hardly able to contain his disbelief that other people could be nice enough to help them like this.
I lead and they follow, and soon there are five of us watching these three huge turtles feed. But they stay for a surprisingly short amount of time. The Girlfriend and I can�t understand this � are these people so pressed for time that they have a list? �Okay, we�ve seen a turtle, now let�s go visit a waterfall.�
Still, it�s fine by us. We�re still fascinated in watching the turtle�s fight to keep their ground against the currents while they eat, shoving their heads into coral while paddling frantically to stay in the same spot. But it doesn�t take long before more people come barreling through the ocean, which forces one of us to head them off at the pass, before they scare the fuck out of everything in the ocean.
We�ve become fucking Sea World tour guides. Some people even start asking us questions about their feeding habits. I�m surprised nobody asks us what their names are.
We stay there for quite a while, long enough for two turtles to get their fill and swim off toward the open ocean. Meanwhile, the currents and tides have gotten stronger, and I�m fucking starving. I suggest we go back to shore.
When we do get back, I realize how tired I am. I ask Arlette to drive. Even if I can�t sleep, this is our last day on the island, and I still have a book and a half to finish.
We head off to get something to eat. She hits a pothole hard, hard enough to make a shitload of rust fall from the ceiling. She�s made fun of my driving enough during this trip, so I laugh at her.
�Fuck off!� she says. �That wasn�t that bad!�
As she finishes her sentence, she hits another pothole � hard. More rust falls from the roof.
�Jesus Christ!� I yell. �What the hell are you doing?� And then I hear that telltale whump-whump sound.
She pulls over and I jump out of the car. We have a flat.
We pull all our possessions out of the trunk to look for emergency supplies. There is a spare, one of those donuts that looks like it should be fitted for a dirt bike, rather than a car. There isn�t, however, a jack or a lug wrench.
We�re so fucked.
We�re also parked on the edge of a grass embankment, where it�s too uneven to try and jack the car up anyway. There are signs everywhere saying �no parking.� We write a quick note saying that we have a flat, we�re working on the problem, and we�re sorry, please don�t ticket or tow us.
We walk back to the camp and call the rent-a-wreck shop. �Uh, we have a problem,� I say, explaining the situation.
The owner isn�t helpful. �Weren�t you supposed to bring the car back yesterday?� he says.
�Uh, no, we�re not leaving until tomorrow,� I say.
�Well, I have the rental agreement right here, it says that you�re supposed to bring it back on the seventh. That�s yesterday.�
Jesus, my father fucked up on the rental!
�Well, I can�t bring it anywhere, �cause we have a flat.�
He finally realizes the situation that we�re in, but he�s still not helpful especially since we�re at the northern tip of the island, cut off from all civilization. He says that the trunk ought to have a jack and a lug wrench, so we should dig for it. If it�s not there, we should pester the locals for some help.
I used to live in Hawaii. My most vivid recollection of help from the locals is watching my 15 year-old sister get punched in the face by a guy who was at least 25. The two of us tourist crackers asking for help doesn�t seem like the best idea.
We march back to the car stopping to ask various tourists if they can help us. The answers are all the same � gee, they�d like to help us, but they have a rental, and don�t know where the jack would be. They also don�t bother to look. Obviously they were too busy fulfilling their checklist: �Okay, we�ve seen some people who are stranded, now we have an hour to go snorkel and look at a turtle, then we�re off to see a waterfall.�
Somebody want to explain the meaning of karma again to me? Because we spent the last four hours helping these fucks, and now nobody will help us.
We get back to the car and dig through the trunk. We find the equipment, buried underneath some random garbage and an ant bivouac. But the jack is so rusted and crappy looking, it seems like it wouldn�t hoist me without snapping in half. In addition, the lug nut wrench is so rusted that instead of its original silver sheen, it�s now a burnt orange.
And there�s still the problem of solid ground. There�s a driveway up ahead that looks solid enough. An old Hawaiian lady has been tinkering around outside, shooting us nervous glances, so we decide to ask for permission to use her driveway to attempt a tire change. But she�s disappeared, and we can�t find her. We decide to do it anyway.
We pull the car forward, driving on the rim, and turn into the driveway. We shut the car off and start working the jack. The old lady suddenly reappears, yelling at us for blocking her driveway. We�re incredibly apologetic, trying to explain the situation, but she�s too furious to listen to us. I�m so frustrated, I can barely keep from screaming at her. Fortunately, she leaves, still yelling about how we�re rude and inconsiderate, and trespassing besides.
So much for help from the locals.
The lug nuts won�t budge. There�s so much rust on them that we can�t get them to move at all. We lower the jack and bring the car back to its original position, resting on the rim. We again drive on the rim, return to our original parking spot on the side of the road next to the no parking sign, and head back to the payphone at the parking spot.
The guy is still not helpful. He suggests that we try standing on the lug wrench while it is attached to the lug nuts.
Okay, my dear sister, you win. If I ever come here again, I will get the nice convertible rental. It�s obvious that this guy is not going to come out here to help us. It makes sense, after all � the money it would cost him in gas to get to us is more than the car is worth.
But we have a flight back to the mainland early tomorrow morning. I start calling auto repair shops, seeing what it would cost to have them come help us. The lowest price quote I get is a hundred and twenty dollars � no credit cards. I don�t have a hundred and twenty dollars.
We�re so fucked.
But I remember that I pay extra on my insurance on the mainland to get roadside assistance. My insurance company doesn�t have a station here, but fuck, that isn�t my fault. I call the 800 number for some seriously needed roadside assistance.
And the number won�t go through.
For some reason, I get the idea that it�s not going through because of the payphone. Arlette makes the third trek back to the car to get her cell phone, while I hunker down next to the payphone, waiting for the rent-a-wreck guy to call me back.
Nearly an hour later, she pulls up in our duct-taped carriage, honking the horn excitedly. Like I learned as an underage drinker and doing the shoulder tap shuffle, guys are much more willing to help a lone female. Two guys, after hearing her explain the situation, attached the lug wrench to our tire and literally kicked at it until the bolts came loose.
But we�re fucking mobile again. There is such a thing as karma after all.
