We lived for our Saturday afternoon and Sunday “Free time” with different groups heading off in different directions. I had begun to get close to Charlene, a New Jersey girl from an Italian family. We usually paired up for an excursion to Hapuna Beach. Of course, we were hampered by the lack of transportation to the other side of the island. Our only recourse was to hitchhike.
One weekend, with blankets and supplies in hand, we hiked up to the edge of the highway, put on a pleasing face, and stuck our thumbs out. Eventually a big white Cadillac took mercy on us and stopped to pick us up.
“Wow,” I thought, “this is great, we will be riding to the beach in style.” I was wrong, it was not the delightful ride I had imagined. The Cadillac was occupied by a wealthy middle aged couple, and after we had gotten in, closed the door, and answered some introductory questions, the couple soon forgot our presence in the back seat, and began to verbally go at each other.
They bitched and complained, insulted and argued at each other as Charlotte and I, embarrassed by the verbal tirades, tried to make ourselves invisible in the back seat. While I was thankful for the ride, I was even more thankful and relieved when we were able to get out of the car and escape from the really miserable rich couple in their fancy car.
Our beach time was idyllic, Hawaii was a paradise for the senses. The azure surf, the deep blue sky, and the blinding white sand all fit my Hawaiian stereotype. We even got to stimulate our tastebuds when we were even invited to help ourselves to the leftover fresh pineapple and other tropical fruit refreshments from a Sierra Club gathering that had been held at the beach. At night we made our bed in the sand beside a van-sized rock, under a million stars, with the surf lulling us to sleep.
After a morning of more swimming and lazing around in the sun, it was time for us to gather up our blankets and head back to camp. We hiked up to the road then once again relied on our thumbs for a ride, eventually we made it the main highway, halfway home.
As we stood there hitching, a very old beat up and rusted truck slowed to a stop. The driver, one of the two old grizzled geezers in the cab, spoke through the rolled down window and said, “There isn’t any room in the cab, but we’ve been out picking guavas and you can sit in the back with the fruit if you want.”
We accepted the friendly invitation, threw our bundles into the back, then climbed over the dented tailgate and settled in.
It was an uncomfortable ride, sitting cramped on our blankets, which we had bunched up to pad our bottoms from the hard floor of the truck bed. Our confinement, squeezed between the baskets and cardboard boxes, full of the freshly-picked green fruit, didn’t hamper the enjoyment of our ride. We watched, with the wind in our hair, as lush flowering bushes, green ferns, and tropical palms flew by, giving us the occasional glimpse of the Pacific on our left.
When they stopped to let us out, we climbed out of the back of the truck, our legs still stiff from the confinement. As I thanked the old men, they told us we should take some of the guavas with us. Seeing that they were poor men, who had already given us the gift of a drive, I tried to refuse, but they insisted.
Those two very contrasting rides, one in the miserable rich man’s plush Caddy and the other in the poor man’s beat up truck, will be forever in my memory, and even back then, given the choice of what kind of life I wanted, I would have always chosen that of the poor content old men in their rusty old pick up, over the neatly dressed wealthy guy in his shiny white Cadillac.
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