I first came to Hawaii when I was five years old. Because of his construction business, my father belonged to an organization that was known in those days as the Southern California Paving and Grading Association. I think that he once served as its president, and I think that it was the group that once sponsored a seminar on construction-site safety in Honolulu. The headliner on that junket was Dr. George M. Uhl, the chief health officer for Los Angeles at the time.
My parents generously brought me and my older brother along on the trip. I don’t recall any other kids in the group, but they insisted that we come. That’s the way they were. I was five years old.
I was the only little boy on that chartered airliner — a prop plane, believe it or not; if memory serves, it was a (Lockheed L-1049) Super Constellation — and, in that simpler and more innocent age, the pilots and the flight attendants singled me out for special attention. At one point, incredibly, I even sat on the co-pilot’s lap and was allowed to steer the plane — or, more precisely, to try to maintain a consistent altitude according to the instrument on the control panel before us. Within reason, of course: I clearly recall that I kept trying to put the craft into a modest dive. But the co-pilot always quickly and gently corrected my efforts. I’m sure that the passengers noticed nothing.
I remember, too, gazing out the window of the airliner (back with my parents) as we made our approach into Honolulu. The boats and buildings below seemed to me mere toy models. I couldn’t believe that they were real; I had never seen the world from such a height before. It took me a long time to overcome that very strong impression.
We visited Oahu and Kauai on that trip, and they were magical for me. We were draped with leis upon arrival. (I don’t think that’s ever happened to me again.) Among many other things, I fell in love with fresh pineapple. I’m not sure that I had ever tasted fresh pineapple before. On one occasion, going through a buffet line, I found that there were two types of pineapple, one of which was a slightly odd color. I loaded up two heaping helpings; to my disorienting shock, however, the new kind of pineapple was pickled (or something of that sort). I’ve never forgotten the incredibly unpleasant surprise.
I didn’t return to Hawaii again until I was seventeen years old — but for reasons quite unrelated to a deep fear of pickled pineapple. (Since then, though, I literally have no idea how many times I’ve been back.) I came with a group of high school students; I know that we visited Oahu and the Big Island of Hawaii. (On the latter island, our hotel was right across the street from a cemetery in Hilo where I was fascinated by the Asian Buddhist grave markers.) I don’t think that we visited Kauai on that trip.
But we definitely spent time in Lahaina, on Maui, staying in the Pioneer Inn. One day, I walked along the beach all the way to a place called Kaanapali. There were a few resorts in Kaanapali already, I think, but not much. Nothing remotely like the massive complexes that stand here now. I still remember looking up, as I walked, from the beach toward the rugged foothills of the West Volcano. They were covered with agricultural fields, green and shimmering in the heat. Those fields are covered with buildings in many places now.
I lost my wallet that day. I walked slowly back to Lahaina along the beach, looking for it. I never figured out how or where I lost it, and I never found it. (I lived on very little for the last several days of the trip!) Several months later, long after I had replaced my driver’s license, I received my wallet back in the mail. The money was gone, of course, and there was no name or return address on the envelope in which it arrived.
This current trip is my first visit to Maui since the terrible fires of August 2023, when approximately 80% of Lahaina was destroyed and 102 people were killed. There is a makeshift memorial off to the side of the main road up on the hillside; it features the photographs of many of the victims.
Lahaina was once fairly densely filled with buildings. Now, in some places, it’s almost difficult to see where it ever was. I keep thinking of places that I once knew in the town. The Pioneer Inn, for example, had thirty-four rooms, and was the oldest hotel in Lahaina and on the island of Maui altogether and the oldest in continuous operation in the state of Hawaii. It was a U.S. National Historic Landmark. It was also constructed of wood — and it was utterly consumed by the flames. But I think, too, of some of the little cafes and grills that we’ve enjoyed over the years, and the museum and the boat docks.
On the other hand, the destruction was random and, in some ways, spotty. For instance, the big Safeway complex seems unchanged. And, although I haven’t yet gotten close to it to be able to get a good look, one of the large churches — Maria Lanakila Catholic Church, perhaps? — appears to be basically intact. (For those who are interested: The two Latter-day Saint chapels in greater Lahaina were also spared by the fire, but for clearly geographical reasons. Several of our chapels on Maui were significantly used for relief and shelter at the time of the fire.)
Saturday evening, we watched Angelina Jolie as Maria Callas in the 2024 film Maria. It’s a deeply sad story. But the music is beautiful. And I had absolutely no idea that Angelina Jolie could sing. (She actually did some of the singing in the film, particularly at the end. Which strikes me as incredibly daring. Not only to sing in a film when you have no particular reputation as a singer, but to do so while portraying one of the greatest opera divas of all time. That takes nerves of steel, and I have to say that I was both surprised and impressed.)
Posted from Kāʻanapali, Maui, Hawaiʻi
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