Thoughts About the Tides in Molokai

Low tide at a Molokai beach

Molokai high tide is to the sea as, I’m beginning to understand, a pardoned Catholic Confession is to those who have sinned. Yesterday’s low tide exposed the underbelly of the sea. An early January winter storm had washed ashore mangled sea kelp and debris, leaving the beach layered with the sins of the sea, waiting patiently for high tide to rise. High tide forgives all the mistakes, errors and lapses in judgment — bless me father for I have sinned — it washes the slate clean. By morning, footprint-free, pure sand remains. It is innocent once again.

Vintage truck Neil Young would love on Kamehameha Highway in Molokai

The ocean is friend and it is foe. It is ying and yang. You can be lured by its siren call, succumb to the tranquility, and forget to be observant. The ocean is always in control. It is an illusion to imagine you can control the ocean. Those who try are easily defeated. Those who turn one eye the other direction soon learn who is mistress madam — pay attention you scum lowlife to the crack of my whip on your leather-clad strapped bare butt.

There is a balance to maintain.

Molokai Pizza Cafe is a throwback to 1950s Hawaii

This is what I will no doubt miss when I go back to living in Sacramento. The balance is not there, and I am not living my life in harmony with the sea. I am prancing on a hamster wheel, buzzing and moving and planning and worrying and winning most of the time. The tides don’t come and go twice a day like Molokai. The sun sneaks up and it drops with a thud. I rise to the challenges of the day and slay (most of) the dragons by nightfall.

Which is OK because it makes me a very effective Sacramento Realtor. It keeps me focused on the job at hand and allows me to turn in the results my clients expect and demand. Don’t get me wrong, I love my career; I also feel re-enegergized after my winter vacations, because this time away from work keeps me centered and grounded during the year.

I have friends who say island life is boring, there is nothing to do, and the solitude and quietness would drive them insane. I, on the other hand, could sit on a beach in my retirement years, wade through the remains of low tide and realize contentment. Why I couldn’t have been born a monk is beyond me. I would have made a great monk. Except for the part where I would desire a manicure and matching pedicure in pearly pink polish. And there’s the whole praying to God thing that I’d struggle with. Not to mention, I am not the right sex to be a monk.

Flowering tree on Kamehameha Highway, Molokai

In a 2-mile walk to the downtown portion of Molokai today, I toyed with the idea of renting a car and driving the island, but a) I did not bring a driver’s license and b) my husband someday would like to see the island with me. That can wait for another vacation. It was easier to call a cab for a ride back to Hotel Molokai, carting a box full of take-out goodies from the Molokai Pizza Cafe to ward off starvation for another few days.

Thank goodness for a refrigerator and microwave. And for the sea tides in Molokai. If you’ve read this far, you deserve to know that my brother-in-law shot himself in the head two days ago. My husband’s teenage niece let us know he was dead via FaceBook.