The beach at the very end of what used to be Lawrence Road on the Kaneohe Marine base was one of Oahu’s less spectacular beaches. Unlike Waikiki, sand had not been imported from Australia to create a tourist-friendly spot to sunbathe. No. The beach was a gleaming black lava flow with large, jagged pieces of the black rock the Goddess Pele had tossed about, sitting atop the long-since-cooled lava flow of her anger that oozed across even earlier flows.

In this manner, the beautiful island was formed. The ancient path of Pele’s wrath was worn smooth by the eternal motion of the Pacific Ocean.  The water was a vivid blue that one can’t imagine until they see it for themselves — up close and personal.  The crashing waves were edged with white foam reaching for the sky. None of it looks real.

That shoreline smelled of plumeria and hibiscus. It smelled of coconuts lying on the ground in the bright tropical sun.   It smelled of salt and mildew and of decomposing small sea creatures trapped in the tidepools when the ocean receded.

I was a feral child crouched over a tidepool formed by smooth lava and the blue water of Kaneohe Bay.