A Blustery Day in Maui

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Abstract

heir mother hovers just far enough away that the youngsters can explore the boundary between ocean and land. But she’s close enough to be able to snatch them to safety if necessary. My guess is that they are here for spring break, and that this might be their first foray to the ocean.</p><p id="e65f">My husband and I were talking about “firsts” last night — the first time he ever saw the ocean, when he was eighteen and went on a fishing trip off of the Louisiana coast; the first time we ever came to Maui (thirty years ago); and the first time we walked together under a glittering canopy of stars on the Lahaina Beach, and he sang “Who knows how long I’ve loved you” to me.</p><p id="37d7">Those “firsts” are important. They mark the boundaries of our memories. My husband remembers going on a second fishing trip with the same group of guys. But he doesn’t remember any of the details from that trip like he does from that first one, from which he recalls the terror of a being on the open water during a huge storm, the rainbow shimmer of the fish they caught, and the sense that the world had suddenly yawned open into a much bigger place than he had known growing up alongside a river in a small town in Louisiana.</p><p id="6eae">Like those tourists boarding the catamaran, dodging the waves, trying to get aboard without getting soaked, we all go through life trying to dodge certain experiences and embrace others. But if we never get wet, never allow ourselves to get soaked with the “unknown,” we’ll never know what we might have missed.</p><p id="532c">I’m quite certain that, for at least one of those tourists, it will be the very first time they’ve ventured out onto the open waters of the Maui sea. And maybe, one day, they will look back and say, “Can you imagine — if we hadn’t gone out on that blustery morning, we’d never have seen that whale?”</p><p id="2123">I’m eyeing those waves. I’ve let go of the idea of stand-up paddle boarding for this morning. But it might be high time to join those little girls in their frilly bathing suits for a dip in the sea. Who knows, by letting go of what I had planned, what other “firsts” I might find on this lovely, blustery Maui day?</p><p id="a314"><

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i>Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies). Erika is also an editor for <a href="https://medium.com/mindfully-speaking">Mindfully Speaking</a>.</i></p><p id="15f0">You might also enjoy:</p><div id="20a2" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/eudaemonia-9692b63d3a6a"> <div> <div> <h2>Eudaemonia</h2> <div><h3>The space beyond words</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*S2zfYfxYyonnEFwmkYSD8Q.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="4017" class="link-block"> <a href="https://psiloveyou.xyz/the-weaving-of-our-lives-b0c13dfd0460"> <div> <div> <h2>The Weaving of Our Lives</h2> <div><h3>Sisterhood</h3></div> <div><p>psiloveyou.xyz</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*A8d-4W24oYLx92HbykbaEg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="03d9" class="link-block"> <a href="https://erikaburkhalter.medium.com/its-been-exactly-a-year-since-my-husband-and-i-had-covid-19-97d09ff0aded"> <div> <div> <h2>It’s Been Exactly a Year Since my Husband and I had COVID-19</h2> <div><h3>As they say, “In sickness and in health”</h3></div> <div><p>erikaburkhalter.medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*hoajwZ6tbGiWkXD8b9BE4Q.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="669a">Photos and story ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.</p></article></body>

The power of “first” moments

I closed my eyes last night, dreaming of gliding across a tranquil sheet of Maui sea glass on a stand-up paddle board in the morning. Maybe one of the ancient turtles who inhabit the waters off of the Maui coast, or even one of the whales, who are here to mate right now, would pop their heads up to visit me.

But, instead, I woke to blustery skies and to a sea darkened to cobalt and roughened to the texture of old leather. No paddle-boarding this morning.

My husband and I were talking about “firsts” last night — the first time he ever saw the ocean, when he was eighteen and went on a fishing trip off of the Louisiana coast, the first time we ever came to Maui (thirty years ago), and the first time we walked together under a glittering canopy of stars on the Lahaina Beach and he sang “Who knows how long I’ve loved you” to me.

From my balcony, ten stories up, I’m watching the tourists trying to board a catamaran for a snorkeling expedition. The crew are timing the waves and frantically attempting to guide people, one-at-a-time, onto the ladder that’s been lowered to the beach. But waves are not always so predictable, and several of the tourists have gotten a good dunking already.

There’s a different kind of beauty to the sea when it’s slicked with silver and tossed with white caps. Raw power surges up from the depths and reminds us that we are not really the ones in charge. We may inhabit the earth for a few short years, but the sea, she has caressed these shores for millennia.

Two little girls in frilly one-pieces are skipping into the arms of seafoam at the water’s edge. I can hear their squeals of delight from here. Their mother hovers just far enough away that the youngsters can explore the boundary between ocean and land. But she’s close enough to be able to snatch them to safety if necessary. My guess is that they are here for spring break, and that this might be their first foray to the ocean.

My husband and I were talking about “firsts” last night — the first time he ever saw the ocean, when he was eighteen and went on a fishing trip off of the Louisiana coast; the first time we ever came to Maui (thirty years ago); and the first time we walked together under a glittering canopy of stars on the Lahaina Beach, and he sang “Who knows how long I’ve loved you” to me.

Those “firsts” are important. They mark the boundaries of our memories. My husband remembers going on a second fishing trip with the same group of guys. But he doesn’t remember any of the details from that trip like he does from that first one, from which he recalls the terror of a being on the open water during a huge storm, the rainbow shimmer of the fish they caught, and the sense that the world had suddenly yawned open into a much bigger place than he had known growing up alongside a river in a small town in Louisiana.

Like those tourists boarding the catamaran, dodging the waves, trying to get aboard without getting soaked, we all go through life trying to dodge certain experiences and embrace others. But if we never get wet, never allow ourselves to get soaked with the “unknown,” we’ll never know what we might have missed.

I’m quite certain that, for at least one of those tourists, it will be the very first time they’ve ventured out onto the open waters of the Maui sea. And maybe, one day, they will look back and say, “Can you imagine — if we hadn’t gone out on that blustery morning, we’d never have seen that whale?”

I’m eyeing those waves. I’ve let go of the idea of stand-up paddle boarding for this morning. But it might be high time to join those little girls in their frilly bathing suits for a dip in the sea. Who knows, by letting go of what I had planned, what other “firsts” I might find on this lovely, blustery Maui day?

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies). Erika is also an editor for Mindfully Speaking.