A Cold Day In Paradise

Another excerpt from a book I am working on. All based on true facts.

It was a cold December day in Hawaii. Who would have thought? A cold day in the tropics seemed to be an oxymoron of tropical life but it was the truth. The temperature dropped to an unusual, unseasonable, unprecedented and unreasonable fifty five degree Fahrenheit. It stayed that way for a week as a cold front stalled and then passed through the Hawaiian chain. It was a sight to behold to see so many Hawaiian locals wearing parkas while the touristos on Waikiki tried as they might to stay warm. They failed. They couldn’t keep warm and none of the hotels had central heating.

Waikiki was deserted. Kalakaua Avenue was deserted. Kapiolani Beach Park was deserted, Ala Moana outdoor shopping mall was deserted. Everything was deserted. Quiet, silent desertion. The relatively new Hilton Hawaiian Village complex was shuttered: awaiting the tropical blizzard that was sure to come with this cold snap perhaps. This was not a problem for me as I was used to this: fifty five degree Fahrenheit was nothing but a cool early spring temperature. It was the first day to wear shorts up in the great white north – even though this was December in Waikiki.

I had been here for almost six months. Acclimatized, I was becoming used to a very nice routine. I did have a job for a time at the Waikikian Reef Hotel as a bus boy. I decided shortly after our first sail to Kauai that I needed to sustain this lifestyle. I did have enough bucks in traveler’s cheques but for me that was not enough. Being frugal – not cheap – frugal, I was determined to support myself throughout this adventure and not to depend or lean on anyone. Unlike Keith, who after many, many months still hadn’t found work. His wife Peggy and Katie their daughter were still slugging it out at the clubhouse kitchen all the while that Keith held his own court on the upper deck. By this time I had many friends and acquaintances so I avoided Keith like a tropical storm.

Having a job here did not come without risks. I was Canadian after all. I did not have a green card or landed immigrant status. If I was caught out working here illegally I could be deported. That would not be good considering the adventure I was about to embark upon. Nevertheless I did my best. The Canadian social insurance number was nine digits long, similar to the US’ except the order. Canada’s was 123-456-789 whereas the American social security number was 123-45-6789. All I had to do was use my own number and change the order as in 123-45-6789. Coupled that with an American home address that I took from a recent relationship I had had with a gal from Boston and voila. Before you could say Johnny Paycheck I had a job.

All was right with my world. I had a job and was making money supporting myself. I had made a few friends – some Aussies, some Kiwis, some Americans – and had an on again off again relationship with an Aussie girl named Pauline. I still missed Nina. Nigel continued to avoid me as if I was Pele’s husband Ku.[1] He kept to himself or kept company with his Brit friends. To my surprise, he took a job in September delivering a large yacht to Vancouver. He linked up with the Dutch owner who was not comfortable returning to Vancouver without an experienced mariner. Lucky for me Nigel fit the bill.

“I should be back the end of November.” He announced one day. “While I am gone try to paint the Akaru-Hime’s hull.” and that was it. Goodbye and good riddance.

The tropical lifestyle catering to the tourists was exciting. Washing dishes and clearing tables was not but hey, I was young fellow without responsibilities. I was living on a sailboat berthed at the affluent Ala Moana Yacht Club. My living room was Waikiki and my backyard was the never-ending, limitless expanse of the Pacific Ocean and the other Hawaiian Islands. Life was indeed good and fruitful. I was living the dream.

“Thank you Lord for thinking about me…” I prayed from time to time. I was forever grateful and never let Him think otherwise…every single day that I lived there.

The restaurant work was interesting, especially the afternoon shift until two in the morning. That was when all of the action and fun took place. There was a lounge adjacent to the restaurant’s kitchen. Along with the restaurant I had to service that lounge as well as an underground beach bar named Davey Jones’ Locker – hauling ice and clean dishes and condiments to and from the kitchen and dishwashing area to these outstations. I liked to think of my working space as my culinary “Headquarters.” I became familiar with most of the staff – mainly women servers and hookers who frequented the place. One of them, named Cindy, took a shine to me but in a plutonic manner. She was at least fifteen years my senior. She would often tease me playfully accusing me of being an imposter.

“If you’re from Boston Jimmy then I am an Eskimo.” She would say to me.

An Eskimo Pie I thought.

“You don’t have the accent, the drawl honey. C’mon, where ya from Jimmy? Canada I think…eh?

She laughed.

“Boston Cindy. Really, I am. I have a refined accent. The Queen’s English don’t ya know.”

She was right of course.

“Yeah right.” she would tease, raise her right eyebrow then throw a kiss my way.

I loved Cindy.

Davey Jones’s Locker was situated next to and below the hotel’s beach pool. There, behind the bar in the dark, musty and very smoky underworld lounge that was decked out in nautical piratical décor, was a large magnified window that stretched the entire breadth of the bar. Here the patrons could watch as the bathers frolicked around in the water of the swimming pool above the bar. Those swimmers that were in the know, especially the woman, would swim down and underwater to the pool side of the window and present themselves as playful teasers to the bar’s patrons. It was good exotic fun.

I had one weird moment while working there. An older man, a Hawaiian, came up to me one evening while I was having my break in the restaurant. He was a large man, as most Hawaiian men are. His face was weathered, his hands calloused and huge. He had a full head of black curly hair that was streaked with gray that bespoke of his age. His features reflected a friendly disposition in a face that was almost cherubic but characterized by years of hard living.

“I have been watching you young man.” He said to me out of the blue.

“Oh?” Was all I could say to him. Why? I thought to myself.

“Yes…yes. I see a great deal of pain through your eyes, as if you have experienced many dark things that you should not have had to witness…at this stage of your life. Yes, many bad things.” He shook his head. “Your facial lines and features tell me many things. You appear much older and much wiser than you would seem to be for a man of your age.

“You do?… I do?… Really? I said.

“I only wish you good things…very good things”

“But I’m only twenty two.” I said.

Not hearing me, he smiled, and then continued. “Soon you will meet Kanaloa, and He’e and other water dwellers. He and they will bring you good luck and help you navigate and cross the great water. But first you must see Kane, and test yourself through him. You will prevail as I see you embraced with Amakua who will wipe away your tears”

Whaaat the Fuuuck? I thought.

He left as abruptly as he showed himself to me.

I shook the vision of him off of my brain cells. That…he…was creepy. Who was Kanaloa? Amakua? And He’..he’..he…eh? I chuckled to myself as then a cold, tingling shiver went up and down my spine. I shuddered…uncontrollably. I will have to ask Cindy

“Pay him no heed Jimmy. He comes in here often and is often drunk. His name is  Kukani but we call him Koo-Koo. He is harmless.”

“But who or what is a Kanaloa, an Amakua, or a Kane Cindy?”

“Beats me Jimmy. Hawaiian folklore perhaps…don’t worry about it.”

But I did. I could not dismiss what he said to me. His visitation left an uneasy feeling in me. Thankfully…in time, I forgot the incident and carried on with my Hawaiian life.

[1] The warrior god and husband of Pele goddess of fire and brimstone.

Check out my other books by clicking on the links at the top of the page.

A very big Hawaiian with a beautiful voice. He died too young.

SJ…Out

Fauci Simon Says

Dr Fauci says:

The vaccine may be effective, maybe not;

That masks are effective, maybe not;

That lockdowns may be effective, maybe not;

That when fully vaccinated, protection may be temporary, maybe not;

That the India Covid variant may be deadly, maybe not;

That Covid could still be prevalent in many US cities. Then again, maybe not;

That only doctors like him can say the virus has gone, maybe not;

That we may need a booster shot in the future, erm, then again, maybe not;

That after being fully vaccinated you can go mask free. Then again, maybe not;

That there will be no new surge of Covid in the US. Then again maybe not.

 

“Got to keep the populace on their toes, you know.” Dr Fauci says. “Keep everyone’s anxiety levels up. Don’t ya know.”

And here I thought that only politicians were able to speak out of both sides of their mouths. Like this guy:

See the source image

“If elected I will get rid of the hated GST (VAT) tax.”

Of course he was speaking out of the left side of his mouth.

Elected…yay

See the source image

“Show me da proof of when and where I said dat about the GST.”

Canada versions of a great philosopher as witnessed by this profundity:

“A proof is a proof. What kind of a proof? It’s a proof. A proof is a proof. And when you have a good proof, it’s because it’s proven.”

“If my mother had four wheels she would be a truck…and I have da proof of dat.”

Unfortunately the above is not a parody. It is the absolute sad proof of Canadian leadership within our Prime Ministerial ranks. Like this guy:

See the source image

Our current Prime Minister:

Sad state of affairs in Canada. We are doomed.

Tell my why….Part 2

Great solo guitar work here:

SJ…Out

Zeros

It works so ignore it. What? Ivermectim, a very cheap anti-parasitic drug that is working extremely well to bring down India’s Covid cases in dramatic fashion.

WHO’s response? Who? The World Health Organization stupid.

Doesn’t work so ignore it.

Can’t wait. Covid pushback is coming: Last night, Pennsylvanians voted to reject Democrat Gov. Tom Wolf’s overreach of executive powers after his failed COVID response — a clear sign of accountability coming in 2022,” Republican National Committee chair Ronna McDaniel tweeted Wednesday.

Remember this guy?

See the source image                                        Shoulda used Ivermectin.

Oh really?

Mostly Republican Ballots Fail to Scan in Pennsylvania County Election, Stoking Concerns.

The new math: Banks caught off-guard and did not see this coming:

Emergency / Crisis +  Need Mo money  +  Print Mo Money = Runaway inflation.

Who woulda thunk it. WHO? The World Health Organization stupid.

IMF? No, I Am Fooked. No, WE are fooked. So go and Fauc yourself, so says Dr Fauci.

I can’t believe this is news:

A Texas man is suing Gwyneth Paltrow’s company Goop after buying a ‘vagina-scented’ candle that he claimed ‘exploded’ upon use.

Colby Watson, according to court documents, alleged that he had burned the candle at both ends, named ‘This Smells Like My Vagina’ for three hours, before it ‘exploded’ and was ‘vaginated in high flames’, the Guardian reported.

He was told by Goop to “Suck it Up.”

Quote of the week.  “I bought an old Trans AM and was deemed a homophobe.”

Greta Crestfallen After ‘World’s Largest Iceberg’ Turns Out To Be Part Of Normal Cycle. No matter Greata said. “So when does science have anything to do with it? Just follow my narrative.”

Shame, SHAME on you.

While the asymptomatic-transmission risk is small compared to if I were unvaccinated, it is still present  and a gamble I am not comfortable making. Therefore I am going to wear a mask forever – same for my kids.

Update – woman and kids who stated publicly that they will continue to wear a mask after being fully vaccinated from Covid – due to an unrealistic fear that a 95% vaccine efficacy rate wasn’t good enough, were killed when struck by lightening after seeking shelter under a tree during a thunderstorm.

And we elected these people?

The so-called (Biden’s) “Interim Final Recommendations” document is some 91 pages long, and every page contains something more extreme, more preposterous, and more destructive than even the page before. The short version is that all compromise positions and half-way measures are to be rejected. Only wind and solar power are acceptable, and the only route to get there is direct government order and/or spending. And then don’t forget the most important part: it has to be done this way because any other alternatives are racist.

Racist? Fossil Fools? Racist?

We are dealing here with completely crazed zealots, bent on a moral crusade to save the world. With a complete absence of adult supervision in the Biden (and Trudeau) Administration, these people have taken over and are running the show. At this point, the best we can hope for is that they will actually implement some of this nonsense, and it will then fail spectacularly. Of course we will suffer greatly for their stupidity.

Oxy-moron of the week: In violent St. Louis, Mayor Wants To Empty Prisons And Defund The Police.

Fooked up priorities: Fentanyl overdoses surpass Covid deaths by a large margin in many US and Canadian cities. No response from our leaders.

It does have consequences. “Those nations who support my people I will bless. Those nations who disparage my chosen people will be doomed.” (John something or other).

It is not just that they fear that “The Squad,” Black Lives Matter, the shock troops of antifa, and woke institutions such as academia and the media are now unapologetically anti-Israel. They are also terrified that anti-Israelism is becoming synonymous with rank anti-Semitism. And soon, the Democratic Party will end up as disdained as the British Labor Party under Jeremy Corbyn.

Can’t wait.

Hey William. Is that a comb-over?

Prince Harry, Prince William, Duke of Cambridge standing next to a person in a suit and tie: Prince Harry and Prince William

Have they learned nothing these Hillary clones:

MSNBC Host Joe Scarborough Tells Trump Loyalists to ‘Get the Hell Out’ of U.S.: ‘Unworthy’

That’s it for today. Have a great weekend.

Remember the new math: 1 + 1 = zero.

SJ…Out

Another Excerpt

Another excerpt from my new story:

The tidal flat stunk to high heaven or low hell at low tide, which was right around now. It would be some years before they filled that in. The broad tidal flat lay off to my left from the stone seawall out to about two hundred yards. The flat meandered to the left and right as the tide line went in and out as far as you could see from my vantage point. Almost all the way along the train tracks to Long Woods and beyond, possibly all the way up to Totnes. The tideline was broken by the creek to the east, which seemed to be but a trickle to the Dart’s tidal flat at low tide only to be replenished again and again at the high water mark. As I walked along the high street. I could see a few souls out there working on their banked boats, caulking or cleaning or scraping the unwanted smelly sea growth. They could only do one side at a time, only changing the hulls aspect as the next tide came in to refloat the boats. This part of town was of great fascination to me.

Kingswear was not immune to the war. German warplanes bombed the Phillip and Noss shipyard 18 September 1942. Over 17 men were killed, 40 wounded and yet, to the credit of the old English “do no less, stiff upper lip” spirit, the shipyard never lost its beat remaining operational throughout the raid. There were other bombings on Kingswear and Dartmouth including the Royal Navy’s Britannia and the Naval College. But none were as catastrophic as the shipyard.

I found the local grocer, went in and purchased a few item for my father. The grocer lady always had a smile for me and gave me a few sweets. I think she felt sorry for me as she would shake her head in a solemn way as I exited her shop. Then on to the Inn to buy some scotch eggs, some cheeze and some cold mutton. For me, I would wait and grab a fish and chips from the fish monger later in the day.

I hurried home. I could sense trouble inside by the noise coming from the drawing room, the larder and the pantry: glass smashing, and the accompanying thud, thud thump of furniture falling. I opened the door and snuck into the drawing room, then the pantry. Just then I could feel my father’s cold calloused hand grace my neck from the collar of my duffel jacket. He turned me around sharply to face him. His breathing was heavy. His breath was laced with spittle and drool…and alcohol.

“Do you think you are better than me Nigel? Hmmm? Well do you?

I could only shake my head…no., no I thought to myself.

“No Father.”

He stumbled around. His dirty grey flannel pants were coming down at the back as he tried to maintain some semblance of balance. His dirty white and yellow stained undershirt – a wife beater – as they called those things – hung loosely. It was dirty and stained in yellowish orange tobacco hues.

He lunged at me. I stepped out of his way. He lunged again. He missed and almost fell. He was inebriated and violent.

“Where are my foods you little blimey turd?”

I ran into the larder and grabbed the scotch eggs and placed them on the table to his left. He saw them, picked one up and took a bite. Without swallowing the portion it he spit it out, as the juices from the egg spilled down his jowls and on to his stained undershirt.

“You little piece of fucking shit tard,” with that he threw the egg hard against the wall, where it splattered and stained the plaster with the sound of a splat. He grabbed the other one that I brought for him and threw it at me. It just missed my face. I was terrified but I couldn’t get out of the pantry. I shriveled in the corner of the room and held my hands up to cover my face. I was shaking uncontrollably. I was terrified.

“Why, oh why, did my sweet, sweet Jenny have to die. Why couldn’t it have been you? You…you useless, mindless urchin of a boy?” He yelled at the ceiling…at the walls…then grabbed his bottle and took a swig, or a swirl as half of it spilled all over his red blushed face. He then turned toward me, snarled at what he saw…

“Please daddy, please don’t hurt me.” I cried.

…me.”

He came closer. I could smell his breath, decayed from alcohol.

No daddy, please no…” and he whacked me with the back of my hand. It stung, physically and emotionally. I began to wail.

“Cry…cry…cry my little shyte boy Nigel. Cry…cry…cry you little fuckin retard shit of a boy.” He hit me again, and again. It was only the duffel coat and his wavering balance that softened the blows.

Finally he fell and passed out. I snuck out and ran up into my room. I locked my door, undressed and found solace comfort and safety beneath the sheet, all but darkened from the cruel existence of my home.

“MOMMY!” I cried out…over and over again. “Mommy” and I cried myself to sleep.

I awoke a few hours later. It was late afternoon. I wiped the dry tears from my eyes. Not a sound was forthcoming from the drawing room. The rays of an unexpected late afternoon sun graced and warmed my room. I got up, shook the sleep from my being, grabbed my things and quietly left my room. Slowly I went downstairs, trying not to make a sound. Luckily for me I could see the legs of my father sprawled out and lifeless from the pantry. I took a glance. He was comatose from the liquor. He was lying belly down. Fortunately for him, unfortunately for me, he had not choked on the vomit that lay in a yellowish brown paste beside him. I grabbed my coat and left.

SJ…Out

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