Chapter 22
Guess where I’m off to? You’ll never guess. Hawaii!! Sending a pic…
I snap a quick selfie and fire it off to Pam. Me at the gate in uniform, in front of the widescreen that says, Flight 99, Maui.
On my way down the jet-bridge she responds:
Aloha! Look at you—I’m so proud, I could I bust. When you coming to see me?
At least she’s not trying to meet up with me still. After days of blowing her off, she finally got the hint and stopped asking. Till now.
Soon. I’ll get back to you with the date.
It’s another flake move, but I really don’t know when. I don’t know if I can lie to her face. She can’t know about the scandal I’m wrapped up in. Not ever.
* * *
Working the flight to Hawaii is like no other line I’ve worked. Everyone’s on vacation. Some travel alone for business or connections, but in general, a laidback bliss fills the air. People want to be here. And I do too.
I may not be headed to Europe, but working a 787 wide-body luxury Dreamliner is in fact just that—a dream. One that includes four extra-large lavatories with dry shower stalls, an upper deck lounge with a separate section for elite suites, as well as a lower first-class cabin, an economy cabin with no middle seats, and an extra-large central lounge. Its three galleys are also wider than any other aircraft, and there’s an actual crew bunker for rest periods that look like human cryo-chambers, complete with memory-foam mattresses.
The purser assigns me coach with five other attendants. I’m designated an hour duty in the lounge, which stays busy for all of cruising altitude since everyone’s in vacation mode. It isn’t until mid-flight that I get to head upstairs for a look-see at the upper deck and the unparalleled view.
Skylights in the dome ceiling, as well as over the nose of the aircraft where ceiling meets floor, and a full picture window fortified with thick metal framing. The sky panorama here is like something out of a virtual reality visor.
Thrills dance over my skin. Staring out at the endless lapis-blue air-space, I have to wonder, is this what the sea captains of old felt like, standing at the bough of their ship, peering out at perpetual possibility with a heading in mind, a compass in hand?
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” a heavily accented voice asks.
A middle-aged, silver-haired man in a white leisure suit nods steps up beside me, gazing out the window and raising his glass tumbler briefly.
“Yes,” I answer. “My first time over the Pacific.”
“Wait till ze islands appear on ze horizon.” The words roll off his tongue like cream, rich and silky in a perfect French accent. “For a brief moment, you will enjoy a view zat makes you feel like Peter Pan soaring into Neverland.”
Goosebumps erupt over my arms. After a polite exchange I learn he’s originally from Montreal and owns a small resort on Maui called The Leilani Palace. He invites me to visit for a Friday night luau and offers me his card.
“Wow, thanks.” I skim over the card. “I’ve never been to a luau before. What do I bring?”
He chuckles. “It’s Hawaii, you need only a swimsuit on your body, flip-flops on your feet, and a smile on your face. No, I am telling you because you are young, beautiful, and should be having ze time of your life with an Aloha spirit. There will be plenty of food, drinks, music. Stay as long as you like.”
The crew chimes sound over the speakers with a bing-bong, which means I need to get back to my cabin. I slip the card in my uniform pocket. “Gotta get back to work. Nice meeting you.”
“And you,” he says. “Adieu.”
* * *
By Friday morning’s arrival back into OGG (Maui’s Kahului Airport), I’m itching to explore more of the island. With the time change being so tricky, I haven’t gotten out of the Kahului area. I’ve left and returned without seeing much more than the hotel beds and crew rest pods, and a little beach and pool time in between. Today’s my day to explore. Finally.
After hotel check-in, I skip my usual nap and hire a Lyft to show me the island of Maui. Because of the Future-Star bump to my paycheck, I hire Bo for the day, an older native Hawaiian with a trim goatee and plump belly. He agrees to let me take his picture and share it on social media before I get into his car—a safety trick Val taught me during our excursions together, to keep strangers accountable.
We cruise the coastal highways of the island and once we reach the twists and turns of the Hana Highway, my shoulders, neck and back have all but melted into the back of my seat.
This is Swamp Girl bowing to Pele: I’m not worthy.
The fact I’m here, in the most isolated island chain in the world, should be enough, yet I find myself considering the price of paradise—how it took me three steamy encounters with strangers to get here. Were they just the pineapple garnish to my mai-tai?
Along the highway, we make a few picturesque pitstops so I can snap photos of waterfalls, seashores, and new mountain views, then we settle in for the cross-island drive to Kihei.
It’s almost sunset when we arrive at Leilani Palace, but Bo insists I shouldn’t worry about the hour since everyone operates on island time. Occupational habits make it hard not to become a clock-watcher. Adapting to the island time mentality takes some adjusting to, especially since my body refuses to drop Eastern Standard Time. Back on the bayou’s Central Time Zone, I could tell what time of day it was just by the light through the window, but now… sometimes I don’t even know the day of the week without consulting the calendar.
At the hotel counter a hostess in a long floral muu-muu sets a fuchsia plumeria lei around my neck. She leads me out a set of opened doors onto a beach the color of peanut butter, warm, thick, and grainy. The mild breezy air is sweet with plumeria, and I decide it must be why everyone here is so laidback. Some kind of secret narcotic is in the flora and fauna maybe. Everyone here is literally high.
All by myself, I ease into the luau scene. In fact, all the easy-going celebration happens to remind me of home, of clam-bake nights and food festivals, scrumptious smells and gleeful sounds. Minus the blaring humidity of course.
I wonder, had my sex life not been a factor, would I have enjoyed life more at home, like Mama? I admit, at first I enjoyed the sexual freedom in the air, of Val’s haute-culture. Maybe that’s why I fell for it. Because my sexuality is a mirror reflection of hers, and she’d figured out a way to use it to her advantage. Could it be that some women just have a bigger appetite for sex, for variety, for adventure? Maybe that’s what helps us determine what we want, through process of elimination. And uniting together gives us the courage to be ourselves.
“Drink for the lady?” a smiling waiter offers me a coconut with a straw.
“Sure.” I take a sip and stop to watch a couple of fire dancers twirl their torches.
Sweet coconut rum goes right to my head, while the undertow of jet lag tries to pull me down in waves of fatigue. Mama would love it here. All those years she planned to meet Pam in Hawaii one day, but never did. I used to wonder if she just said stuff like that to sound interesting. After Nana got sick, she couldn’t go nowhere. She settled for living vicariously through Pam’s stories and pictures—we both did. Maybe now that I can see it more clearly, I can admit I was angry with her for a long time.
Angry because she made me stay.