Dad Starmer's Vacation

My dad ventured to the islands for a visit these past eleven days! Typically, his college sends him to the Dominican Republic or Columbia as the liaison to recruit students for summer programs. For the last twelve years, he expects beaches, sunshine, humidity and pristine pools on his spring break (lucky bastard!). This year, he got all that and then some, visiting Hawaii and having a guest room instead of a hotel room and, while many will argue that the locals have their own language, my father didn't have to struggle with his Spanish.


[Starmer Tangent]
In 2002, my father took me to the DR on one of his business trips. We strolled along cobble-stone roads and through the historic district of Santo Domingo, the Capital. In one of the shops, my father found a trinket he wanted to purchase for my mother. He pinched the trinket between his forefinger and thumb, approached a clerk, squinted his eyes, holding the tricket and, mustering his best Caribbean-Spanish accent, asked: "A que hora?"-- which means: "What time is this object?"
He meant to ask how much it was.


But never mind Spanish, Dad was in Hawaii and, for the most part, didn't need to struggle for coherency when interacting with anyone. 
Dad's flight was delayed for so long on March 16th that he actually missed his connecting flight to Honolulu. He rebooked his trip for the following day, and arrived at HNL at 2p.m. on Sunday, March 17 (Hobbes' birthday!). Nick and I picked him up at the airport and the four of us (Hobbes included!) catapulted into the eye of a tornado that spun us at disorienting speeds until it spit us out at the airport curb on Monday where we were all hugging and saying goodbye. 
Luckily, I have pictures to help us remember the week.


Within hours of Dad's arrival, Nick and I took him to the infamous Koko Head mountain and kicked his ass all the way to the top. It was a hazy day, but the view was still breathtaking. We occasionally paused on the vertical train track trail, and Dad would attempt to articulate his experience. The ever-inspiration-seeking writer sought to describe the hike so he may depict his experience in a short story, a poem, or just to Mom, Luke, Jake, Mindy and Cooper when he returned home. 

A reward twice over for me and Nicholas, Kona Brewing Company beckoned at us. Sandwiches, pizza and especially the sampler of island Kona brew greeted us at the bottom of the trail.

The rest of the week was but a blur. Dad soaked up sunbeams on a daily basis. We surprised Nick with some new furniture and some rearranging. Like ignorant assholes, Dad and I bought a bookshelf and proceeded to use our Starmer genes to put it together. For the loyal readers, you know my history with projects that require building. You may also recount that I graciously received my crooked-chromosome for building from my father. The very father who came to visit. Never mind the process. The bookshelf is built, and that's all you need to know.


Dad channeled his inner kelp and embraced the relaxations of beach-napping by the lagoons.

We even spent the week watching the NCAA tournament! Dad refused, on two occasions, to accompany me to work so that he could watch Syracuse advance. Unfortunately, Ohio State trampled Syracuse in the elite 8.... 

Dad's flight took off on Monday. He racked up the Hawaiian experience with monk seals, sea turtles, hiking, Kona brew, bad pizza, a tour of Schofield and Leeward, Pearl Harbor, Duke's, Honolulu, Waikiki and the east shore. But we couldn't let him leave before he swam with sharks. 
I scheduled our shark tour for Monday morning at 7a.m. (his flight left 12 hours later). We fought off H1 morning traffic and peaked the North Shore hill just as the sun was rising behind us. As we pulled up to the Haleiwa Harbor, Dad freaked out a little. There was a definite chill to the air that didn't inspire jumping into the Pacific waters. 

           

        




The boat ride three miles out was the most horrendous part of the adventure. Eighteen-foot swells rocked our craft as we slid down the backs of waves so steep, I was certain we would capsize. Dad's no help. He's famous for his melo-dramatic comments. The side of our boat would dip and smack against the waters surface and dad would grab onto me yell out: "Woooaaahh!" backed by a nervous laugh. 

By the time our boat reached the 3-mile buoy, Dad and I were far from enthusiastic about volunteering for the first round of cage bait. Comments from the boat crew, like "Don't all move to one side of the boat!" jolted shocks of electricity right through the tips of our nerves. So much so that I sure as hell was counting the people who were standing on the right side of the boat watching the first victims. 


By round two, I couldn't stand the slow up-and-down of the swells tipping the boat off balance. I volunteered our party of two. Snorkel masks sucking our faces, Dad and I stood at the back of the boat in our bathing suits, our hair prickled in the chilled morning air and our muscles spring-loaded in anticipation of .... damn well anything.


We climbed into the tank and held on for dear life for twenty minutes. Sharks ranging from big humans to small cars circled the cage. Waves as big as Beaudry Park sledding hill flushed over our snorkels, slapping our bodies against the cage, banging the cage against the boat. Dad's eyes bulged, magnified by his goggle mask. "Wow" was all he managed to say, repeatedly, for those entire twenty minutes. 


Dad is not a fan of the water though and a few times, I thought I saw a hint of panic sweep over him after a wave as he stared ominously upward, perhaps in anticipation that the next wave may lodge our cage under the boat---trapping us underwater to drown, or for the brave, slip through the metal bars of the cage and risk a true shark encounter in an effort not to drown. I watched Dad consider both options, as if he needed to have this backup plan ready for implementation by the next swell. Before the crew member could finish announcing that it was time to get out, Dad was already halfway up the ladder. 


"Well, what did you think?" I asked between my teeth, bent over the end of the boat, wrapped tightly in a towel, waiting for the violet abdominal contraction that would eventually make me purge my sea sickness.
"I love the boat ride and I love the sharks. But I hate the water." He stuttered, wrapped in a towel and sweatshirt, teeth chattering. 
Mom said it best later that afternoon. Dad is the only lifeguard we will probably ever know who absolutely hates the water.


Dad's trip was unforgettable. Nick and I are so fortunate that we have family who are traveling 6,000 miles to visit us on our little island. Before Dad's plane hit cruising altitude, our next visitor book his plane tickets. Michael Karpinski is coming in May-- and I think Kage is coming right before him!
We're still waiting for my brothers and Nick's parents to arrange their Pacific jaunts. Hop on it, guys!