Birthdays begin to lose significance as we get older. Sweet sixteen graduates to 18. 18 begs to be 21. 21 stumbles into 30. And then what? We begin counting our lives in decades instead of events, often forgetting entire years in an effort to deny. Well, I decided to reject that notion. I decided to make my 31st birthday (this past April 18th for those who forgot!) the day to hit for the cycle! I played doubles tennis and mastered a wicked cross court return. I bowled a 226. I birdied a 515 yard par 5 that was littered with 100 foot cliff drops into the ocean. I hit a bottom of the ninth, 2 out, 2 run homerun to win a 1-1 battle. I boxed the toughest girl on the planet and knocked her ass out in the third with nasty jab, jab, body blow, roundhouse jaw breaker combo. Then I finished the day by mastering the guitar, playing to a sold out crowd in Japan, and inviting Slash on stage for an encore jam session. It was a truly eventful 31st birthday.
The two weeks prior to my birthday had been taken up by one grueling day in the hospital after the next. The only thing I really remember during that time was a man from Alabama, here on vacation, who came in with pneumonia. He frequented the islands, visiting with his wife twice a year. I told him I completed my residency at Emory and married a girl from Athens. He then said "I know these islands fairly well and you aren't Hawaiian. And I'm from Alabama, and you sure as &*%$ ain't from the south. So where you from Doc?" He got a kick out of himself, and so did I. Then I told him I was from Canada and called him a hoser.
I worked up until April 14 and am currently in the middle of 2 solid weeks off. On April 16, our friends Rick and Kathryn Rodrigue arrived for what would turn out to be one of the best weeks Elizabeth and I have had in Hawaii. The weather reports leading up to that week were grim. It had rained non-stop the week before and Guy Hogie (his real, real funny, name), our local weatherman, was predicting the worst for the week to come. Now I realize that putting your faith in a weathermans' predictions is akin to believing Philadelphia will win a major championship in the next ten years (better make that 20). And I also realize that backing a hack named Guy Hogie (or Hurricane Schwartz or Flip Spiceland or Amy Freeze) is filled with it's own pitfalls. But despite how often they are wrong, when it comes to ruining your plans, they always seem to get it right. Thankfully, though, Guy continued to be a stellar underachiever and the week turned out to be sunny and 85.
We began with a deep sea fishing excursion aboard the Blue Nun. The boat would suit our purposes, but on first sight it appeared the only thing more removed from a good cleaning were the captains teeth. Captain Bob was a man in his late 50s who had sailed these pacific seas for 20 plus years, never finding the time to see a dentist, or wash his feet apparently. His first mate was a drunk named John who nearly missed our trip after he woke up in his car at 3AM in Waikiki. But John knew his way around boats and gave us all the pointers we needed to reel in the big one. He also told us where to stand, sit, throw-up, and relieve ourselves (very important details in a deep sea adventure). The one warning he gave us was to avoid the fish box (the compartment where the fish are placed when caught) when the door (which opens vertically) was open because it could easily slam down on the person bending over the box to tend to the fish, as it is only held up by weak abutment to an overhang. The door itself was also equipped with two nasty screws just right for puncturing an unsuspecting lung from behind.
So we set out. With the girls on the top deck getting tan and subjecting themselves to the political leanings of el capitan, Rick and I headed to the bottom deck so Rick could throw-up (sorry for calling you out on that one Rick) and I could drink my first birthday beer, before noon. Then, hours passed without a bite. I fell asleep under a false calm. Suddenly, a loud snap broke the din. Elizabeth thought something had broken on the deck below. But I looked up and saw a reel giving way. "Fish On!" I yelled. Everyone came to the bottom deck and Rick got in the chair to haul in the first bite. As he was fighting the fish, a second bit on Kathryns' rod and she too joined in. We were fighting two Mahi Mahis (I think) while the boat rocked violently to and fro. But it wasn't meant to be. After about 5 intense minutes, both fish got loose. Bummer! So I had another beer and went back to sleep. A couple more hours passed, then SNAP! "Fish On"! The bite came to Rick's rod again. However, being the generous, kind soul that he is, Rick let the birthday boy get a crack. I strapped in the chair and began to tug and reel. Tug and reel. The fish jumped as it got closer. As it was nearly boatside, my line knotted and I couldn't reel anymore. In my excitement I forgot to tend to the line. Idiot! But it was still too late, for the fish that is. It was close enough for John to hook it and pull it aboard! A 17 lb Mahi Mahi! Elizabeth wasn't permitted to get near the fish as she would, no doubt, feel immediate remorse and likely attempt to throw it back.
We wouldn't get another bite the rest of the day, but we did have one more bit of excitement. John let the fish pass in the box for 15 minutes. He then opened the door (vertically, with the two death screws waiting patiently) to tend to it (get it ready for a good picture). The boat was rocking non-stop. I got up to see my catch and was off balance from the get go. You know where this is going. As I neared the box, one good jolt of the boat knocked me sideways. To brace myself I reached for the closest "stable" object. It happened to be the box door. As John leaned over the box, the door broke loose. Rick gave a warning shout, which sounded like a slow motion "whoa!", but it was too late. The door mercilously slammed down on John's waiting, unsuspecting, fully exposed back with one loud crunch. Idiot! I immediately assured Jim that I was a doctor to which he pointed out my stockpile of empty beer cans. Touche. Luckily John was cool. And luckily those screws somehow didn't end up lodged in his chest wall. He was fine. Phew! The only comfort I take from this stupidity is that I know it won't be the last time I do something like this. It is just in my nature.
Over the next few days we ate Mahi Mahi, caught some rays, went surfing (if you can call it that), and headed to Turtle Bay. For those unfamiliar, Turtle Bay is a beautiful resort at the North Shore and home to a championship golf course. Rick and I played the Palmer Course while Elizabeth and Kathryn hung out on the beach. Rick tore up the course. So did I, just not in the same way. He played well, while I had enough grass on my clubs at the end of the day to build my own course. But we had a great time.
Sunday soon rolled around for the main event. The Kokua Festival is a concert at the Waikiki shell held by Hawaii native, and resident haulie, Jack Johnson every year. This year, along with Go Jimmy Go and Mason Jennings, Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds opened up for Jack. The smell of petuli oil and grass provided an intoxicating aroma (for those who can smell) as the day evolved. Dave and Jack both played awesome sets. They pandered to the crowd, playing favorites like Ants Marching, Crash, Mud Football, and Flake. Tim Reynolds electrified with his fine finger movements culminating in truly great guitar riffs.
I hadn't been to a concert like this in 3 years and was moved to nostalgia. The last one was Music Midtown in Atlanta when John Fogerty opened for Tom Petty, the same concert where I fell in love with Elizabeth. Jack finished his set and walked off the stage. The crowd was not ready to go home and chants for a duet rained down. Finally, Jack and Dave reappeared and sat down for the much lauded finale. They strummed a few cords and we took guesses on what they were going to play. That's when I got punked by Kathryn Rodrigue.
She knew from the first cord that it was Buffett and layed the smackdown when I denied it. But what a great way to end a concert. A Pirate Looks at 40, one of the best Buffett songs of all time, sung by two of the best singer-songwriters of this era.
So my birthday went swimmingly (I love that phrase, even if it makes me look like a dork). I fished, I golfed, I surfed, and I saw a concert for the ages. Oh, and I got the Nintendo Wii and the game Guitar Hero (thanks to Elizabeth and my wonderful in-laws). It's a very cool interactive game system where you can play doubles tennis, bowl, golf, play baseball, box, and jam with Slash. Or, as I call it, hit for the cycle.
