Hawaii: The Unexpected Father

Late last year, my dad let me know that he was renting a condo in Hawaii for two months and that for much of that time it would be empty. “I am only using it for a few weeks,” he offered, “but it is cheaper to rent it for two months. So if you want to use it, it will be empty.” This was the impetus for my current Hawaiian vacation. A free place to stay plus a flight paid for entirely in miles equals my kind of fun! I didn’t know anything about this condo before getting here. Only that my dad has been renting it out for years and for a time two years ago when he put his house on the market before heading off on vacation here, had briefly ended up signing his Dear Abby letters “Homeless In Hawai’i” after it sold unexpectedly fast.

Throughout my childhood, my dad was always a planner of elaborate vacations. In his mind, he figured we would never remember the boring parts in between, or the parade of stepmothers, if circus-like adventures clogged our tiny minds leaving no room for anything else. The downside of this strategy was the invariable disasters that would ensue on these road trips, always reminiscent of the National Lampoon’s Vacation movie series. Although in the end, he was right. I remember them quite vividly.

My concerns based on our shared history led me to email my Dad to make sure that the condo had the basics: cable and internet access. His wry response that it did, as well as running water and electricity, did not make me feel guilty in the least. After all, when we went to Lake Powell last summer, he booked us into a single-wide trailer with a backdoor that didn’t close properly, utilizing only a heavy rock on the outside to keep the urgently needed air conditioning from escaping. Never mind that it did nothing to keep roving serial killers from pushing the rock aside and just wandering in with a hatchet and a few hours to kill. The TV, mounted hospital-style in the corner of the living room only received two TV networks, forcing me to engage against my will in a night of So You Think You Can Dance and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader.

While the condo in Hawaii did have internet access and basic cable, it also had an additional feature I had not anticipated: my own father. Apparently, he was able to successfully move some other business around and extend his stay at the condo for the full two months. He offered to pick us up at the airport, and sure enough, when our plane landed at the Kona airport on Sunday night, there he was, waiting just outside the Polynesia by way of Hollywood lava rock building. I always like spending time with my Dad, especially when he is away from the rest of the family. And Hawaii is really his element. Finally, he is able to be the hippie artist he always was inside, and hobnob with other disaffected burnouts of the me generation.

Mike has gotten particular joy out of hanging out with the two of us. Additional pieces of the Derek puzzle fall into place, while others go questioned back into the pile. While I have previously assured Mike that I picked up all my worst habits from the father, he didn’t believe me until he saw them played out right in front of him by someone else. Like me, my Dad is incapable of leaving the house once. There is always something left behind that must be immediately retrieved, and sometimes a departure can have as many as three or four false starts. Dad also shamelessly ogles, as Mike discovered at the green sand beach while he was transfixed by the blond wahine who briefly abandoned her bathing suit in a 60s era giggle fit and I stared at the hot guy ignoring her nearby.

One huge area of departure for us is humor. My Dad does not get my sense of humor at all. “I can’t tell if you are kidding or being serious.” It is as if his brain is unable to process sarcasm. While walked back to the car yesterday, we were discussing Dad’s new Hawaiian friend who goes only by his last name of Ransom. “It was like I said to Ransom yesterday. Send a million dollars or I am going to kill you.” I could hear Mike rolling his eyes behind me while my Dad just turned to me with a blank stare. “Why would you say that to him?” When I said I was joking, Dad asked me to repeat it but Mike tried to stop me. “It wasn’t funny.” I did the bit again and explained that I said it because his name was Ransom, like a ransom note. “Oh. I get it now. Mike’s right. It wasn’t funny.”

For the most part, Dad has kept to himself on this trip, not wanting to get in the way of our planned vacation. Although, he did introduce us to the Holuakoa Café, which has been our center of gravity for four days now, with our morning lattes and everything bagels with cream cheese. Even now I am blogging on their patio, enjoying the cool ocean breeze on an overcast day. Dad was here earlier, sitting at a table sketching but he has since gone off to the gym and then who knows where else. I would offer to have him join us for 30 Rock later tonight, but if he doesn’t get my sense of humor, Tina Fey will seem like an alien from another planet. I guess in the end it is fine. You should have some things in common with your parents, but the older you get, it is important to have your own identity. And maintaining a sense of humor about that relationship with them always helps.