Working through the holidays...

It would start like any other task-driven day, and in 24 hours the Christmas rush would be through. Working at the firehouse on Christmas day is a juxtaposition of sorts; joyous season of carolers and gifts, happiness wished to all. One-hundred and eighty degrees opposite would be the alarms called for medical emergencies, auto accidents, fires. You do your job, and you are happy to do it. Merriment comes in odd forms in the house, you are bummed to be away from home, but the families usually flock to the feast cooked by a staff of 10 grumpy men, (women, too) and the Chiefs see fit to abate all drills and inspections, leaving the gang to while away the hours contemplating ways to call in sick without being too obvious.

Most holidays the families come by. The kids get to ogle the fire trucks, rampage the station, and create an atmosphere of “damn kids” with a touch of jealousy at youthful exuberance. We start cooking the dinner early, as you never know when the alarms will come, and when the grinds will get eaten. By the time lunch rolls around, dinner time is set for early afternoon. It is against the rules for the kids to slide down the pole, (punishable by 10 shifts suspension with out pay) so of course, we let them do it. With a relative air of safety surrounding them.

It’s a bit depressing at times, since you know in the realm of the odds, that someone out there in the public isn’t going to have too great a Christmas. You hope to go zero for alarms today of all days, since that would make your day a gift. Chances are none to good for that, as most days are multi-alarmed.

When the alarm sounded over the speakers for a auto-accident with persons pinned inside, all jocularity ceases, and action springs forth in multiple layers of speed. Coming upon the scene you adjust to the sight of downed powerlines, twisted metal and frantic by-standers. Safety for the crew first, you scan the area for tell tale signs of live powerlines, ejected passengers, secondary incidents caused from the crash. A car, twisted into the shape of the folds in the letter “A”, rests on side with powerlines draped over it. Sparks are jumping from the ripped edges of the higher lines, and cascading sparks and showers of electricity. Live lines are touching the vehicles remains.

The highest lines on the electrical poles are the ones flowing the most juice. These are from there. Bad situation has become much, much worse. Gathering equipment, fielding orders, launching into response mode. Approach of the scene reveals that first off, the driver is indeed, DOA. The passenger from sounds, is in agonizing pain. The Captain of the crew, realizing the potential of the lines injuring, or possibly killing his crew, orders them to cautiously approach the wreckage. Upon assessment, it is clear nothing can be done to extricate the victims until the power is off. The passenger continues to scream in pain. All you can do is from outside the radius of live charge is try to assess her injuries. And keep her from going into shock; with out patient contact. Not an easy task. A few minutes of time creep by at pace of ice-shelf movement. In asking questions through the shattered glass, it is apparent that leg injuries are of major problems for this young lady. Possible trauma to her chest area, and head as well. The power finally off, you spring into attack mode at freeing the person. It is obvious that multiple fractures of her femur are present. Ambulance unit sets a IV line and meds given. The courage of this young girl in the time past, is simply short of amazing. Freed of the vehicle, she is whisked away to treatment and hopefully recovery.

You return to the firehouse, reload, and take a look at the loved ones around you with a clearer, brighter light.

The families leave, you clean the station. Your day is closing out, sans excercise, as the day has been long enough for that to be aborted. Secure the station, turn out the lights. Shit, shower, shave and shine. Trudge the 3 stories up to the dorm, and pull out the well worn sheets and blanket. Read something, anything. Check out some surf magazines. Pull the plug on the reading light; head to the pillow. Hope to high heaven old Chongy doesnt have one of his frickin' snore fests tonight.

The drone of the air conditioning unit is broken by the audible screech of another alarm. "Co-response for a sick person" comes over the now irritating speakers, and for the 9,357th time, you head to the pole; sliding down to the rig, and squirming into the turn-outs yet again. It is 4AM. Red, yellow and strobe sensations of light blaze thru the night. Your mind is a mist of over eating, scene repeating, cautious wonder. The address is fairly close by, so you better get right quick. The call caould be anything from someone with a headache, to a full-blown cardiac arrest. Dont forget that a large percentage of the islands population are TB positive, Hep-C positive, and a array of other maladies that you have to protect yourself from.

Because the City doesnt, if you dont first.

Thats a bitch, cause you want to jump right into the foray of blood and mangled parts. Jump off the cliff into the materials oozing with toxic matter. Why? Because thats what you do best. You help people in need. In the world of lawyers, guns and money, (sorry Warren Zevon) Deep pockets wont open for avoidable injuries. So you relegate yourself to the knowledge that I will sacrifice my life for my fellow firefighting brother and sister, but damn if I end up with a virus that could have been avoided.

Your crew pulls up to the scene. It is a old, in various states of dis-repair, home. Someones home. It has what was once a gorgeous lanai (patio), steps, and over-grown garden. Kids played here, for sure. The home is dark. The only light appears to come from a back room, far to the rear of the property.

"Hello? Fire Department! Hello?" you call out. The front door is guarded by a screen ripped and blowing in the humid, (for winter, anyways) night. Peering in, you see a maze of cardboard boxes, stacked over-flowing with various amounts of trash, keepsakes and...stuff undetermined. It is truly a maze to walk through, carrying oxygen medical bag and your 90 pounds of turnout gear on your back. The opening for the "path" is less than 36 inches wide. More like 24. The aroma of urine, mold and rotting food is strong.

The light from a bedroom in the rear seeks your eyes from below the doors edge. Opening the door, a naked lady, perhaps 80 plus years old, shivers. "I just need a blanket or a sweater, dear" Empathy knows no maximum in this. Your mind tries as it may to comprehend how the situation came to this - Grandma, to someone, in a home alone, literally wasting away to dust. Minds of men and mankind are not built to fathom these sights. Not at 4 in the morning, on Christmas Day. You push all that into that box stashed deep in your brain marked "WTF? - DONT OPEN" and do your job. You ask her history, her allergies, her medicines. You take her blood pressure, her O2 readings. You get a pulse reading, and temperature. "I am sorry to make you come here so late" For crying out loud, can I just take you and hold you, and make this all go away? She is in amazingly good health. It is the mind that is failing.

She doesnt know the year, the day or the time. She thinks my Captain is her son. She asks where the dogs have gone, and if Lani is home from work. Answers we dont know.

We gently take her to the ambulance, as no gurney can fit these tight spaces. Holding her is easier than my children. She weighs nothing more than the thick air surrounding us. We load her into the ambulance, we adjust the rails of the gurney. Pulling another warmed blanket over her frailness, she whispers "Thank You, Mahalo for your help, eh?" "Take care, Aunty" is all that can be mouthed.

Paper work is traded, the ambulance departs. We secure her home, knowing with the deepest sadness, that she wont be returning. The powers that be, they will know she cant fend or defend herself. The protectors of our elderly will find a place safe for her.

It is 5 AM.

In the coming weeks, actions will take place at the address. Someone will clean up. Someone will sell. Someone will buy. The will more than likely tear that old home down. I'll pass by it more than likely quite often, not knowing exactly what to feel.

Witness to life; wondering why.

Aloha.

Closing the door on 2007

Here is a toast to 2008.

Blessings to you all.








Aloha.

Mele Kalikimaka All.

Best wishes out to the whole big blue marble we all reside on.

It is so damn busy and hectic I could just barf.

I'll leave that to Kaleo and crew.

From all of us in the middle of the sea to all of you out there -


Aloha.

Spitting Caves

Echoes, silence, patience & grace.

Weakend by the lack of a strong foundation the house splits amongst the weight.

When the time at hand never moves into the alarm clocks ringing zone, sleep is for naught.

It is funny, how when the inevitable lies in wait, the mind reposes itself to a snails exsistence.

Wonder, yes, wonderment can entice the being to levels of pleasure unknown to those who do not empathize.

It is a long way to one twenty three. I wonder if I will attend.

Dreams in your head, dreams in your mind, dreams of happiness, prosperity, and togetherness. Fodder by the wayside, as time, silence, and deriliction of duty encompass the day.

Aside the problems created, I cringe.

No warm touch, no loving gaze, no connections to be made. Best to leave that telephone disconnected; as the answering machine has adjourned to a remorseful fax.

Work.

Love made visible.

Kahil, you write, but they do not listen.

My ears are shut.

Me, too.

Sinfest toon.

Whispers that command attention

It isnt often that you come within inches of dying. The proverbial distance between ones index finger and thumb can well be miles apart; yet closer than nano-science. When time and space are obliterated in the infinity of the ocean, you can guess that the most relevant thing is air. Relevant perchance in a way only because of need, the organs may demand it, but you want it. There lies the lines drawn between needs and wants. When you start out in the journey of being a surfer, your first tenative steps into the malstorm that awaits you, are best taken in amazed awe. 'Cause that Mother Ocean demands some serious pay back. Watches and time pieces keep time. Seconds, moments, minutes, hours, days. Erased they are, in the clutches of a hold-down under the wet wilderness.

It would start out like any other situation, just another bad decision in a lifetime of ill-thought out moves. Not as noticible or reprehensible as some may have been. Just a mis-judgement. Missed. As in got away? Or just unrealized accomplishment? More so the latter, since every wave ridden gives impermanace a place of mass in ones archive of, well, stuff you done. You get to set the rewind button on when you like, and relish every turn, droplet of water, sea breeze.

Decisions. Yes, or No? Go or Not? In seconds time, you are playing the dance of a thousand songs, yet the band is waiting for your chord.

The mass of water that was heading in my direction was not the largest mass of liquid gold I had witnessed. Yet, it forbode its intent by giving me no chance to out run it, harness it, or avoid it. It just came. Like it was the cell door closing in a jail, or the final stamp of an "F" grade on a term paper. All your preperation for naught, young souljah. A mass of already broked foam; not ridable, as my selection of placement was revealed to be moronic. As with most deer frozen in the head-lights, I laid prone to the pummeling ahead.

Already not in the best of mind sets for really any surf-session, tempting the fate of a North Shore winter, with its unforgiving crowds, lunatics, and general skull duggery, I trudged off to the miracle that winter waves hold.

And was punished appropriately.

Dark, man it was so fucking dark. I knew that darkness was coming. Even through the blazing whiteness of the already broken foam, I knew what laid ahead. Already having murmurred to the self - "I gonna fucking die" but without the faith in the saying, since it has been said to the self a million times. The first part of dark was just grazing of grey, the second go round impacted the dark into my skull.

Clucthed onto, my body spun over, and tumbled without reason. The paws that enveloped my soul were not gentle wisps of graciousness, but unrelenting demonic paws.

You know not to panic. Because panic uses air, and air is a precious commodity at times of mornonic moves and ill-thought out decisions. When you have no idea which way is up, or which way is down. What the hell is sideways, anyhow? It became clear that the extent of this was not going to measured in liters of air consumed, but rather in the amount of time it would take the miniscule brain that i own to realize "hey, bro, you be screwed" . Infinty is a concept to insert here. Infinity times a few 10's. What part of the reef waited to caress (by tearing of flesh) me? Remember the first thought? The way you looked sitting on the corner in first grade? How dumb it was to drive Unk's car at 100MPH + in San Fran? The taste of love?

Where in the hell am I going? It is endless. Brush of sand. A tug of the leash and then release. The leash to your board has broken. Fuck. It will get dinged, and then you gotta fix...What the fuck am I worried about the damn board for? Not panic, fucking out right fear is rising up, directly up, from my fucking balls. It is traversing my spine, waxing up to my shoulders, crusing past my cerebellum, and planting its unwanted flag directly over my conquerd soul.

Fear, the last great enemy before sheer panic.

The gaping hole of my mouth quits its sewer door trap. Water begins to descend to my lungs, and the breech of the waters edge does nothing to stop the puke from ousting itself from my being.

Survival, or a mere quitters revenge?

I'll never know.



After the washing was done, and the panic alighted. I drained the gallonage from my sinus' and headed to work.

And wait for another day.

Mental Sumo

Social security records indicate that somehow the man provided for many on an income just hovering above poverty. The man made extra money working side jobs in construction. He took 2nd jobs. There are X number of days in a year. There are innumerable responsibilities in being. In just being. In X number of days those dependent on the man, had needs of time and attention; these need tending to, as does an open wound. If X days are what they are, and X days are needed to be allocated, what of the needs of the man? Open wounds need tending. There are only X number of days though, are there not?

X days turn into X years; and X years into X decades. You can multiply that by the length of ones manhood and still have zero.

Shuffle. Rewind. Accelerate. One can not imagine what one does not dream. In the grey matter of the mind, one accomplishes all things. Imagination can not be diluted. Reason is, once you are imaginative, you remain that way for life. You will cultivate that whether you want to or not. It is the DNA of your soul. The man will see faces in electrical outlets; letters in the building of walls; grace in the action of an athlete. Victory will equate greatness; losing commensurate with unprepared ness. Quitting, the death of the man itself.

By example, love is personified in the neglecting of self for others. Love of self, not a mental masturbation, but self ego building, can not exist in true love, can it? Sacrificial lamb? Perhaps. Stupid lemming? More likely. Love. Damn that’s some sweet drug shit, no? Common sense will never, ever hold a candle to Love. Get all those endorphins moving about like they are frying in a goddamn microwave, and fuckifiknow what may happen.

Gabba Gabba Hey; I wanna be sedated.

Thanks to The Ramones, that turn-stile saying will waltz the man’s cranium for ever. Take that, Wayne Newton.

It certainly would be fitting to explode in a cavalcade of wondrous anger. Fuck, that would feel so good. The accompanying stroke wouldn’t look so good on the mans permanent record, now would it? We all know how imperative it is to keep that permanent record clean, eh? Don’t want that shit to come back and bite you in the arse, do you?

Assuming of course, assuming you have an ass, and just aren’t one. Many associates or relatives of the man may feel bent on the term ‘Major Ass’ as an indication of the high ass standard he has obtained. High ass standards are not just handed out on the fly-by, no, they are hard earned endearments of ass-holery; not bestowed on the meek ass’ but only to Major Ass.

Ramble on, the time is now to sing my song.

Not only did Led Zeppelin steal the blues from the African Americans, and infuse it with rock, they stole major portions of the mans brain matter and high decibel listening capabilities. The song most certainly does NOT remain the same. It can not. See, the song must change, the song must evolve, because the man must. More DNA. Stop learning, stop growing, stop caring, you just as soon be gone. When you have the same tune playing over and over on the radio, you change the channel.

And you tune it in to a stronger, better station.

Those X days. The man never took off for want of self, not many times anyway. Those few forays into lazy days were better served by spending it in pursuit of youthful learning experience.

Ah, but the youth never sees that, do they?

As is just, the man must imagine so. Surly by repetition, the sacrifice will be enough to show what true love, what true manhood means. Truly? Then again, what does that man really, really know? When in question of self, of self motivation, it is perhaps with great sorrow that one must acknowledge that it was in self-interest. How better to be viewed then as a martyr? Yeah, them martyrs get all the chicks. I guess except if they are married or celibate. That’s the ticket. Where does the man sign up for crucifixion?

Is there a waiting list? Or does the man need to stand in line?

It isn’t a rant, it just a ramble.

Aloha.

March 7th, 1911 - November 11, 1985.

Aia a pa'i 'ia ka maka, ha'i 'ia kupuna nana 'oe.


E noho iho i ke opu weuweu, mai ho'oki 'eki 'e.


He lawai'a no ke kai papa 'u, he pokole ke aho; he lawai 'a no kekai hohonu he loa aho.


Assured I have shamed you, I love and miss you so.

Aloha.

For The Uncorked One...

I get my PSA done on time, all the time.


With A Touch Of Grey

My Doctor is female.

Moon river has a whole new meaning (think Chevy Chase here)

Aloha.

Just when you think it cant...

...get any worse, it does.

We ended up spending exactly 30 hours inn Las Vegas. My son fucked up our trip by being an asshole at home. So I had to purchase an emergency one way trip home for me and her. $910 bucks. Lady C got picked for the extra search after we boarded. More stress. Then a passenger got sick on the flight, needed a return to LAX. Our 6 hour flight home turned into a 11 and a half hour marathon.

I will not speak to my eldest son again.

I hold grudges.

I may be wrong in doing so, but right now, I dont fucking care.

A Royal Flush

I got a Royal Flush, worth a thousand.

And people were nice.

We went to the PinBall Hall Of Fame, wandered around, saw my HS graduating class for a moment or two.

Pinball Nostalgia

My cell phone is permanently a part of Bininons Casino's facade, as after I knew we had to go, I had had it with the bad news it always brings.

Was supposed to meet up with Little Kenny and his wife, but left. I am so sorry, K.

Was supposed to have 5 days ...

almost got 2.

Lady C

My grandkids and all are OK, and thats great. But I will be in a funk for sometime; knowing full well that I will probably never get to enjoy this life for sometime to come.

Back to 345 days of work.

Back to the grind.

Doubt I'll be back in the water soon, as I just cant do it.

Now it is just non-stop animosity between her and I, since ...I really dont know why.

Shit happens.


and thats how it goes.


Aloha.

A few more work days...

...and we are outta here for Vegas.

Whew.

Aloha.

Thank You, Neil.

Chrome Dreams II.

Neil Young's new album.

Thank you. Thank you very very much.

Spend 18 minutes and listen to "Ordinary People"

Well worth it.

Aloha.

A Morning Surf 4 Papa

Got up at the crack o' dawn and there was no wind. Having that inbred surf-meter beating beyween my ears, I tip-toed my ever sandy brain out the door.

Trying desperately not to awaken any or all that were resting.

(Hey! I'm thinking about all the beauty sleep you all are getting)

Loaded up the truck, (which I actually remember how to drive) an headed for the old default surf spot.










Ver glad I did. Nice and clean, and what a way to start my day; long as they are, nothing but nothing beats getting in the water for a surf to rejuvenate your stretched soul.

Aloha.

Of course, now I am working Da Pink.

The Surf Lesson.

So Mr. Surf Rat got his first surf lesson today.

Lucky me. 24 hours of Firecom yesterday just about murdered me.

And now, that ever-loving Pinkness.

Aloha.

Air Show

Team Kolohe went to the Blue Angels Air show in Kaneohe Marine Base.

Kaleo loves his airplanes.


Blue Speed
Amazing Grace
Mai, Kiana, and Mai's Friend
Grammy and Joe Cool
Chow Time
Akoni Bear and Joe
Formations
HFD Tank-top on Mr. Moto.

Of course I was working, so pffft, I couldnt go.
I am so beat/worn out/exhausted I could just shit.

Aloha.

Surf. and once more, surf.

A 2 day, 3 session, surf-a-rama.


Kekoa 'Keeks' Kahananui...

No worries, it was a great 2 day sessions, and now work, and more tomorrow....

Saltwater dreams.

Oh, but there are no saltwater dreams at the pink tonight. No sir. "warm comforting connections" - The managerial BS tag line - is out the freaking window tonight. Never in 25+ years have I seen such incompetence from the top. Amazing. Party of 28 - nothing but complaints. Understaffed, over burdened cooks. Oh man, its a cluster-fuck.

La do da do dey, baby!

Aloha.

50th & Hilo & Us Guys.

Dad, Mom, and Kaleo
Canopy
The Hiker/Biker
Trail Head
Waipio Valley
"I got some land here for youse"
Waimea Stop sign
Da house from Da Road
Big Doggie
Da Home
Welcoming commitee
"Here, Papa, Dis flight!"
Mr. Traveler-GQ



We made it, and made it special for 2 really cool people who hang-out together for 50 years.

And Stanford (Dads alma mater) just beat the evil empire that USC.......was.

Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Aloha.

Off to Hilo

Kaleo and I are off to Hilo, Big Island for Gram Gramps 50th wedding annivesary/house blessing.

See ya.

Aloha.

It isn't called "Aloha" for nothing...

No, it is not.

And sometimes you really need to dig very deep into your own soul to find some. Sometimes, you can not find it; even if you were born with it. At what point do you abandon Aloha/Love? At what point does Aloha mean good-bye? Does the arrival of its meaning of farewell gain use? Aloha means alot. Where is the line in the sand with ohana aloha? (famliy love) At which destination in lifes journey do you squander all that you have spoken, all that you have shown by example?

No matter if paradise, the Ua (rain) must fall.

How much can your Aloha withstand?

000,3 liab; grub, yrebbor.

Yeah, thats fucked. I deliab him.

...and that is where Aloha fills the emptiness.

The hole is large; but the aloha will be larger.

Aloha.