Bend Fly Run

Maui: January 2019

Have you heard of Hana, Jamie?

It's a town on the eastern shore of Maui. It's considered one of the last bits of old Hawaii left on the island. There aren't resorts built along its every beach. The tourists come in droves but they come only for the day, in rental trucks and SUVs. They carry cameras and point. You should forgive them if they're too loud, a little bit cranky, if their stomachs are twisted and nerves on edge. The highway to Hana is fifty-two miles long. It has six-hundred and twenty hairpin curves and fifty-nine one-lane bridges. Every moment is a reflection of mortality. Every pulsing taillight and zealous tourist in the street. Every reaching bit of forest below. You think of your heart driving to Hana. You think of how fast it moves. The blood it pumps to your hands- the way it lets you bend then blink. You think of the air in your lungs. Filling your nose. Down to your chest. You think of all the things you don't think about it. You think of all the things you forget.

Because Hana is beautiful. But that beauty is earned with terror, and in terror you have to survive. I've made decisions in that state before. Decisions that were wrong, reckless- the worst among them cruel. And now I've made new decisions- choices that scream. I don't know if they were wrong. I don't know if there's any question that could frame them as right. All I know is that I made them. I made them and I'm still sitting here. I made them and survived.

Have you heard of Hana? Have you seen its breath-counting views? I saw them.

I saw Elliot too.

I'd been in Maui for a day. I'd spent most of that morning unpacking and buying groceries, exploring a park near my hotel. The surf shop was across the street. I knew I had the time, there was no need to rush. I had lunch at a café, took a few pictures. Wandered left and then right because I was on vacation and I was alone. It wasn't like that first bus ride to Bondi. I wasn't scared to be alone- panicked with fear. I had promised you adventure and there I was- taking one- letting my failure of progress fade. I was keeping my word. I was rising.

"You're lucky," the receptionist told me, later when I arrived to the shop. "There's only one other person in your group- it's practically a private lesson."

I smiled as I read the waiver, scanning all the ways I could die. Then I scribbled beside his mark and handed the paper back. He shuffled it into a binder, took a couple notes before he stood from the desk. I followed him to a seating area outside. He pointed to a rack of rash guards and said to pick one then a chair. The teacher would be there soon. Hopefully the other student.

It's hard not to think of his word choice. Recall his declaration now and feel a pang of discomfort. I don't think what happened next was luck- the benevolent gaze of fate or a fortune I could never have dreamed. I don't think it was the magic I no longer believe in, destiny or an unseen future. I think that it happened. I think the movie that played was our movie alone. Does that make it any better? Worse? Does it justify the pages I write?

Maybe you can tell me. Maybe if you read this, someday, you can tell me how.

"Go ahead and grab a rash guard," the receptionist said, his voice growing as he emerged from the shop. "Then wait with the other student. It's Beanie, right?"

"Yes," I answered. "Beanie."

A second figure stepped from the doorway and blinked against the sunlight, his honey-brown eyes darting to the rainbow of shirts before landing on me. His face showed no flash of recognition. The dark curls atop his frame danced as he smiled but only from the breeze, not from my sight. "Elliot," he said, pacing to reach forward. "Nice to meet you."