North Star

07 | bejeweled pt. i

2019

I had heard the phrase we were all equal before a wave too many times to count.

Growing up on an island meant I heard it more than any person needed to in one lifetime. If there was an ocean metaphor to be used for any life lesson, islanders didn't shy away from using them, even if it was wholly unoriginal and overdone. It took a while to appreciate the meaning behind it, but I was reminded of it each time I found myself floating along an endless loop of waves, not quite sure if I was waiting for something or not. I always told myself it was another wave to catch, but then that next one would come and I would continue to sit there. Stuck in that continuous loop.

On one hand, I understood what they were trying to say. In the face of uncertainty, we were all capable of failing, which could be applied more directly to surfing. A wave was a wave, and it didn't care who you were. If it wanted to, it would pull you under.

But even as someone who spent enough time in the water as a child to be called a fish, I understood it wasn't always true, the idea of equality before a wave. While a wave was a simple act of nature that had no rhyme or reason, everyone that stood in front of one was a real person with experiences that greatly differed. No two people were ever the same. That meant varying levels of understanding and privileges. My sister Leimomi and I could both bob in the ocean as a wave came toward us, but I had years of experience with swimming to know what to do if I was ever in trouble.

Some people were thrown into the ocean as children. Others were given swimming lessons in the safety of a private pool. We were as equal as the rhythm of the waves themselves, which was not at all, as much as we wished that was the truth.

The wave did not discriminate. It didn't mean we were all equal. There was a big difference.

With all this in mind, I was comfortable in the water but also aware of its uncertain nature. I wasn't necessarily afraid of turning my back to it as I knew nothing about it was linear. I needed to look left, right, up, and down, and even then, there was a strong benefit to trusting your gut instinct.

My relationship with the water was that of a lover, and love always had the chance to turn sour.

"Hi," I murmured in the quiet of a morning swim. Salt air clung to my skin. I breathed it in, closing my eyes as I submerged myself further into the ocean. The sky above was cloudless and its icy reflection below was crystal clear. I always thought we were spoiled in that sense. Unbelievably blue waves that looked like a gemstone beneath the sun. A bird's eye view of Hawai'i could make the whole world shimmer. "How are you?"

Silence echoed back. It always did.

"We're going to see Alex and Anthony today," I continued. To no one. No one that was here anymore. "It's been so long. I'm kind of worried about what they're going to think of me now. I mean, I saw Anthony a couple of weeks ago. But, you know, we were both drunk. And it was late. I don't have anywhere to hide now."

I once wondered what it would feel like to be submerged. Not just for a few minutes but for the rest of my life, as if I were some creature from the sea like I always wished I was when I was a kid. For a long time, I would take the deepest breaths and sink as far as I could, imagining myself as an anchor who longed to touch the ocean floor. For a long time, I pushed myself to the limit. It wasn't until Leimomi caught me one time and nearly cried because she was worried I drowned. I had to beg her not to tell anybody about it for fear that they would make a big deal about it, and she only agreed not to as long as I promised not to do it again. That promise had been upheld for years.

"Do you think there are people who are genuinely just... happy?" I asked. "I can't imagine it. I can't imagine not wanting to constantly sink."

It had been a long time since I asked a question and got an answer back from my dad. The only reason it stopped bothering me as much was that I had accepted this as the new normal. It took years—years that I thought would hold answers to questions I didn't know the answers to—but I eventually got there, in a way. It was organic and constantly evolved, but I liked to think I would stop being afraid of it one day. Or maybe the way I felt was akin to being numb.