matter, because Hawaii was stronger and more beautiful than any of the devastation she experienced by any of those who tried to conquer her. She would remain beautiful as the old Hawaiian women were. Their hips would rumble under their bright muumuus. Their full lips would be painted bright fuchsia or red.
Thomas’ relatives were sailors—perhaps pirates, misfits or young men looking for adventure in the Florida Everglades—blown off course from the Caribbean or Cuba. They could have been couples fleeing the big cities of the north or the children and grandchildren of spring breakers, snowbirds, vagabonds, or people just wanting to get as far south in the United States as they could go.
Jason always heard the chanting when he watched the sunsets on Kauai. He didn’t hear the ukulele music or the slide electric guitars commonly piped in many of the hotel lobbies, airports, and shopping centers.
He heard the drums and the chanting. His family roots ran deep.
His grandfather said they could trace their ancestors back over four hundred years. When asked, his mother wouldn’t tell him if this was true. “They were legendary fisherman, canoe-builders, and engineers who liked to use the powers of the ocean to harness speed and balance.”
His grandfather found employment after the Second World War, being unable to serve himself. He liked to show off to the American GIs who were stationed there by climbing coconut trees in his bare feet without any equipment.
Thomas had told him about how everyone came out at sunset. He called it sacred time, and Jason agreed. It was a time to reflect on the day, the dying day, and let the fantasy of the future run wild in the waves and travel between stars at night. It was the celebration of the unknown, as one day collapsed into the arms of the night and then the night fell into the arms of the next morning. It was the cycle and circle of life repeated over and over again, like the lapping of the ocean in its most liquid form, eroding the hardness of the rock and sand on the shore.
He inhaled. The early evening mist on his face felt good. The older couples strolled north and south along the water’s edge. The children squeezed out that last bit of play before they had to come inside, running east and west before slipping into well-lit homes for dinner.
Three older gentlemen in flip-flops and swim trunks with pot bellies and well-tanned skin, one sporting a white ponytail, blasted passed him on their balloon tire motorized bicycles. They were easily in their retirement years and yet looked extremely healthy and happy.
Life as it should be.
He came upon a young woman seated on the sand, a blanket pulled around her body. She wore a large floppy straw hat that covered her almost to her shoulders. Most of her face was obscured in the shadow of the wide brim, and her oversized Jackie Onassis sunglasses covered up whatever was left of her face. He knew she was young, because she wore pink frosted lipstick.
As he walked past, he looked down on her. She immediately turned her head to face the other direction. Jason continued his walk.
A few yards later, he felt like running, so placed the canister beneath his arm and assumed a gentle jog. He traveled about twenty minutes, and although he wasn’t winded, it was awkward running with a big blue jar in his armpit, so he slowed to a walk.
He examined the row of little bungalows and beach shacks that lined up beyond sand dunes rising up to the right. The windows were no longer bathed in orange, and warm yellow-glowing lights brightly twinkled within the walls. Some houses had fire pits in the yard, where family and friends gathered.
He did an about-face and turned back in the opposite direction, jogging again. When he encountered the young woman with the hat, he slowed and then walked several paces past her. Maybe it was his superstition, the way he’d been trained, or was really a skill he had, but he could feel her eyes on his back.
He sat to fully appreciate the darkness descending all around him. One by one, everyone had disappeared from the beach.
Except the girl in the floppy hat.
Headlights from a beach park vehicle downwind shone on her briefly—just enough so he could see the hat shaking. Even her upper torso, in that one flash of a second or two, was vibrating. Her hands moved to her face under