Hawaii May 2003 By Jon Konrath

Friday

It's been like twelve hours, twelve hours of airports and airport food and walking concourses and changing planes and dealing with ticket agents and nameless and faceless people behind counters, slinging five dollar Pepsis and droning on about new federal regulations over the intercom. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm dehydrated, and my thumbs are bloodied stumps from playing Tetris for hours on my GameBoy, burning through sets of batteries and hoping that by the next game, the next set of blocks, another thousand miles will be gone under me.

Below me, outside the 767's window, I see nothing but a blanket of clouds. At Mach .8 and something like 40,000 feet, I'm cruising across the Pacific ocean, somewhere between California and Hawaii. There was an info-graphic on the TV screens, with a map of the ocean and a tiny computer icon of a jet, at the end of a long and probably not to scale line. I can judge progress better by time; it's 6:13 PM in Honolulu, and I think we "unplane" (I love that word) at 8:20. But to me, that's really two in the morning, at least sleepwise. At two, with no real food and a splitting headache, I will slap around the peons at Thrifty car rental, and get sent out into the night with a tiny Neon subcompact or similar. Aloha!

The clouds look incredible, though. It's not just a bed of cotton. Saying all clouds look like a bed of cotton is like saying all kinds of music are the same, from Cannibal Corpse to Brahms. If you look at the wispy white pieces that form the sky below me, you can see darker greys, twists that have been broken off and concentrated to longer white bits, windows that show another sheet of white-grey below. It's amazing, hypnotizing to watch all of this ground below me slowly turn orange as we coast into the western evening. I can almost see where day becomes night on the horizon. That's something that doesn't happen every day.

What a fucked up day, by the way. I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night, and woke every couple of hours, wishing I could be packed and ready to roll. I even woke at about six, wrote on the computer a bit, and contemplated taking a shower and maybe going for a bit of breakfast before the flight. But I fell asleep for another two hours, and woke even more tired than if I would've skipped the last bit of nap. That meant I had to rush through the shower at double-speed, throw the rest of my stuff from the bathroom into my bag, and unplug the electronics and case them up for the trip.

I got everything ready to roll in record time, and hit the door with a gym bag, my laptop carryall, and my camera case. I decided to save the twenty bucks on a taxi, and huffed it to the Astoria Boulevard bus stop. It was about 60 out and very hazy, like it would rain at any moment. I didn't want to wear a jacket and then carry it around for the rest of the trip, so I threw on an old sweatshirt when I left the door. By the time I got all of the gear to the bus, I was sweating and wished I hadn't even wore the one extra layer of clothes.

The M-60 bus showed up in no time, and I got on and paid the now-$2.00 fare. The bus was packed, so I piled everything on the floor and hung on. The M-60 is a godsend, the only bus I ever ride anywhere. Not only does it go to LaGuardia at quick speed, but you can take it the other way and easily cross the Triboro Bridge and get to Harlem a lot faster than you could on the train.

Airport, no problems. The goal is to look as much like Timothy McVeigh as possible, and then you will never get searched. I had on an olive green army shirt and a brand new crewcut that I got trimmed down the night before, so I made it through in record time. I stood in front of these upper east side trophy wives, blabbing on and on about some fake-ass Martha Stewart wedding they were going to. They looked like they were the snottiest of their sorority in college, and did nothing but aerobics since then. They got stopped and had to do the whole nine yards, down to the shoe search.

I ate a really bad egg sandwich at Nathan's, and got one of those inflatable head pillows at a bookstore. Come to think of it, both of them probably tasted the same. I don't know how I managed to kill the time until I boarded, but I did, and I ended up climbing into an MD-88 and sitting next to these two Japanese girls who didn't say anything and spent far too much time looking at their makeup in little mirrors and putting on hand creme.

I played Tetris on the GameBoy, figuring I'd kill a few hours before getting out the laptop or any books that would require mental thought. About 20 minutes into the flight, we got out drinks, and the Japanese chick proceeded to dump a glass of Tomato Juice all over everything. About a shotglass worth, maybe a bit less, went all over my left jeans leg. The flight attendant gave me some club soda and I quickly dashed it all over my leg so it wouldn't look like I just had my period or something. The girl got up and moved to another part of the plane, since the whole back was empty (wise move, since I really wanted to fucking throttle her) and when I tried to give her the club soda, she didn't get it and it was an endless exchange of broken Engrish and pantomime ("I no rike crub soda!") until I finally gave up and let the stupid bitch leave.

OK, we land in Dallas. I have about 45 minutes to run down about 10 gates, and maybe eat something. Since I have three different flights, I never get a real meal all day. In the course of "deplaning", I follow the signs to gate 7, which, lo and behold, bring me to the baggage claim and outside the holy security land. So I am dropping the f-bomb about 27 times a minute as I go back through security, then sprint to the fucking gate. I get there and they have about ten minutes until they board. My laptop bag, after having done the laptop shuffle again, has spontaneously broken a zipper, and about 257,893 fucks later, I get it fastened again and run to a Taco Bell express. I get some tacos, nachos, and a drink, and as I turn to go back to the plane, a nice guy tells me I've dropped all of my tickets on the floor and completely fucked myself. Thank you sir. Sprint to the plane, the flight attendant (the cute one that doesn't actually get on the plane) calls me Mr. Konrath as she reminds me that she has to see my fucking ID for no reason. That's Doctor Konrath, I forget to say. On the plane.

I wolf down my food as the rest of the people board. A woman asks me if that's lunch, and I say it's breakfast and I'm in the middle of a 14 hour run. She asks why I'm eating if we get a meal on the plane. Poor fool. The only way to get a free hot meal at 40,000 feet these days is to get elected President and fly Air Force One.

Lots of Texas women on this flight. I love Texas women. Not thin, not fat, not afraid to speak out, but more polite and courteous than anyone you'd find in Manhattan. Lots of them were on the plane, but all paired up with husbands and boyfriends. In front of me, a guy and his wife have a little girl, a three year old, I'd guess. I am certain this will be a disaster, but she's actually very well behaved. Her dad, who looks like Will from Will and Grace but salt-and-pepper gray hair, tells her to behave and then she'll get to watch her DVD. AND SHE DOES. WHAT A FUCKING MIRACLE! I almost gave those parents a dollar when we "deplaned."

More Tetris. I listen to the entire David Cross comedy double-album on the iPod. It's a great flight. And we cruise into SFO and I see the bay bridge and watch the approach, and it looks just like it does in Flight Simulator, except every little pixel is a house or a car or an apartment or a store and it all looks so wonderful and incredible at 3,000 feet, to see the Golden Gate and see all of the little boats. And you almost touch the water, you coast right over it, and right when you think you're in the drink, the runway appears out of nowhere, and you touch down and roll to the gate. It's truly wonderful.

Sprint out of the plane. On each plane, they've given me several packs of these mint strip things, the gelatin flash squares or whatever the hell they are called. I now have a pocketful of them, plus I'm stealing puke bags and service cards from each plane. I've vowed to steal a card from every plane I fly on from here out.

San Francisco is cool, I guess. There's a Jamba Juice and a Starbucks and it takes me forever to find the water fountain and it barely leaks a dribble of warm water. I sit down and break out the video camera, since I have five minutes, and babble this whole story. After watching the Vegas footage, I'm disappointed there isn't more. Total coverage!

We board the 767, the "narrow wide body". They give us a blue bag lunch, with a shitty little sandwich, the usual drill. I finally have a window seat. I read this Onion book, This Dumb Century, then Tetris. And here I am. My hands hurt from Tetris, and I'm listening to the Pollock soundtrack, and it's twilight outside, dark in the cabin. I've got on my little light, and I'm wondering how long my battery will last.

I still haven't figured out why I'm taking this trip, or what I'm doing. I feel like if something was actually resolved in my life, it would freak me out. And yet, I get so anxious over the smallest thing not being in order. Makes you wonder.

6:54. Landing at 8:20. I feel like I could use a nap. Time to power down, I think.

Later...

So we landed in Hawaii. The 767 pulled up to the gate and I marched out like I usually do, to hit the head and maybe buy a Coke before the baggage system dumps my stuff onto the conveyor. But this time, I almost forgot about this, but then remembered it as it happened - a dude was standing there with a big JON KONRATH sign. Delta gave me some kind of hospitality dude because I bought a travel package, and when I said I was Jon, he gave me a Lei and said welcome to Hawaii.

The dude looked like a typical Hawaiian, and started on this whole sphiel about how to relax in Hawaii and watch out for pickpockets and people selling timeshares, and all of that. I told him I wouldn't need a ride to the hotel and that I'd get my rental car and be on the way. But he was way too nice, and hung out with me as the bags started appearing, telling me useless Hawaii trivia I learned back in like the first grade.

I went to take a piss, and thought that I'd lose him there. But when I came back, he pulled in and started going on and on about a reception breakfast on Sunday and there would be free fruit juice and blah blah blah. I got my bag and thought I'd dump him there. But then he said he'd walk me to the rental car busses, and he waited for me at the curb. Of course, when I said I was from New York, he started the "so where were you on 9/11" bit, which is probably like the least favorite conversation topic to have, especially with a stranger.

But I got the shuttle bus. And I got to the rental car place, and there's not much you can say about the satellite car rental places that live on the underside of most airports, usually on a street called "Service Access Road" or whatever. I talked to a Martha Stewart type from Virginia about how her son is trying to get into a college for horse breeding (whatever the Latin, technical, ending in -ology term is for that). And a few minutes later, I was in an almost brand new Dodge Neon, and I quickly found out two things: FM radio in Hawaii sucks, and I'd somehow missed the entrance to the H-1 highway, and I was driving in some random direction without a map.

I found a major east-west road, the Nimitz highway, and cruised past a collection of strip-mall storefronts that were hidden in palm trees and colorful Hawaiian landscape. It reminded me of parts of Florida, like in St. Pete where the revitalization gave everything this sort of nautical, seaside feel. But this was real, or at least as real as Safeway and CompUSA and Checkers auto parts wanted to make their stores on the island.

Here's a bit of advice for anyone trying to follow directions or drive around Hawaii: speak fluent Hawaiian. I quickly found that I was fucked, because every road has a really similar name, and unless you take the ten seconds to sound out each syllable, you'll mix up Malahalawalawiki Road with Mahalawikiwalalua Road, and both of those are probably completely different routes. Lost isn't really the word to describe the state I was in. But I knew Waikiki was east, and my watch has a compass, so I kept on the main road, and saw the port numbers get lower on my right side as the ocean scrolled past.

I eventually got to the hotel, and went through a painful, hour-long procedure to find a place to park. Of course, everything costs money, so the hotel didn't have their own lot. I circled around and finally found a pay lot behind the hotel and after a sleep-dep-enhanced conversation/argument with a parking attendant, I got the car parked, pulled my gear inside, and hit my room.

I've stayed in some pretty small places, the smallest probably being a single room at a nursing college in Stratford, Ontario, which was just slightly larger than the bed it contained. This room wasn't that small, but it was the tiniest hotel room I'd ever seen, which is ironic considering it was also probably one of the most expensive. There was a TV so microscopic, I expected it to run on 4 AA batteries; the bathroom looked about as big as those in submarines or airplanes. But I had a balcony that overlooked a bunch of other hotels.

I called Ray to give him an update, since he was the only person I knew who would be awake at 5 AM. (And I thought Seattle's 3-hour time difference was bad...) After that, I vowed to sleep for twelve hours or more, and passed out.

Saturday

Well, I didn't sleep. After all of that abuse, my body pulled awake about six hours later (i.e. 6:00) and I couldn't fall back asleep. I opened the shades and went out on the mini-balcony, which overlooked the pool and a bunch of other high-rise hotels. The air outside felt so much different, even though I was just staring at a bunch of chrome and mirrored glass skyscrapers. I could tell the ocean wasn't far, just from the smell and the humidity. There were also birds everywhere, even sitting on the railing of the balcony, looking for something to eat.

I washed up in the world's tiniest shower, and realized the great virtue of hair that took ten seconds to shampoo and zero seconds to style, comb, or glue down. With that, I grabbed my camera bag and set out for some breakfast - a new concept for me, since I never get out of bed before noon on a day off.

Hawaii is obviously a very Asian-influenced environment, but after a block or two, I was astonished by how much Kanjii and Japanese-oriented stores dominated the landscape. It's not like Chinatown in New York, where stores and restaurants are piled on top of each other with incredible density; the relaxed layout and high design factor reminded me more of nice parts of Seattle. I saw a lot of cool noodle and ramen places, and tons of little junk shops selling beads, post cards, luau shirts, lais, and the like. One chain of 7-Eleven-like stores called ABC had a convenience mart every block, sometimes more than one on the same block.

I finally found my breakfast stop: Denny's. The familiar diner had a location carved into the base of a huge hotel, so I stepped in and got my favorite, the All-American Slam. I was hoping for a Spam Slam, incorporating the island's local favorite in the processed meat department, but no luck. As I mention in every trip report, I love Denny's, and there isn't one in New York City, so it's always a treat to find my favorite oasis in a faraway travel destination.

The eggs and bacon hit the spot, and I had a good six hours to kill before my later plans. I walked down another block or two and found an access lane to the public beach. But before the beach I found a much cooler photo op: the Army museum. I checked out the building, a long bunker that, in a previous life, held the big guns that protected the beach during the war. The doors didn't open for a few hours, but out front, a static collection of tanks, artillery, and a Marine Corps Huey Cobra protected the museum, at least in a virtual sense. I got some great photos of the howitzers and tanks, then went to the beach.

It's hard to explain the feeling I get the first time I see an ocean. Okay, I've seen the Pacific before; I even have a videotape from 1997 of the first time I stuck my hand into the surf where it met the sand in Oregon. But each beachfront, every new place where the water hits the land is like a new universe to me: a new set of seaside buildings, new piers and jettys and lighthouses and boats, and a memory as rich as a new face. I walked the sand and snapped photos of the most famous beach in the world, the place where Waikiki met the sea, with Diamondhead as the backdrop and scores of high-rise hotels in the distance. A few surfers paddled out to meet the white foam of crashing waves, and a handful of catamarans and tour boats circled the waters, carrying tourists to see the shore from afar.

I found a pier, a narrow rectangular piece of stone or concrete that sat next to some big boulders and jutted fifty feet into the water. I saw something scurry as I walked, and quickly caught glimpse of what I think were hermit crabs. They ran sideways and quickly hid in the cracks when I tried to snap a picture. At the end of the pier, I sat down and hung my legs out toward the water. As I scanned the horizon with the camcorder, a wave silently swept to the pier and just met the bottoms of my shoes, so I decided that hanging over my legs wasn't a great idea. But I got some great footage of the surfers and some people in a kayak, paddling across the water. And I watched the small number of early morning surfers, paddling out to the water, or coming back, carrying their boards at their sides, and rinsing off the salt water at the public showers.

After photos and Denny's, I had a ton of time to kill until the museum opened, so I hopped in the car and drove around, hoping to find a Best Buy or Target or some place that sold an adapter that would let me hook up my iPod to the car. I drove to Honolulu and back, looking for some huge mall or chain store right off the road, but not really finding anything. Back on the Nimitz highway, I found the CompUSA and got a little adapter that plugged into the iPod and broadcast it over an FM radio station like a Mister Microphone, and with about the same audio quality. At least I'd be able to listen to my own tunes and not the hip-hop suckage of the local radio broadcasts.

I ditched the car at the hotel and went back to the Army Museum by the water. It's not a bad memorial to the military history of the area, but the scope is a bit limited. I hate to criticize the effort in any way, because it was well done, but you can get through the exhibits in a half hour without breaking a sweat. You can't beat the price (free), anyway. After that, I went back to the hotel, then looked for a quick lunch. I ended up at a Jack in the Box for my favorite, a Sourdough Jack. I fell in love with their food, and especially their hilarious commercials, back when I was in Seattle. So I got some food and sat by the window to peoplewatch and catch some lunch.

My glider lesson was next. I really want to learn how to fly planes, and I've been obsessed with general and military aviation. But now that I can probably afford lessons and plane time, I've got enough medical issues to prevent me from passing the physical needed to get a private pilot's license. I've always looked for loopholes to experience flight beyond sitting in seat 43A of a 767-400ER, and I've had fun with touristy helicopter rides and friends piloting a Cessna 183 or whatever. Just recently I found out that ultralights don't require a medical exam, and you can get a private glider license without a doctor's visit, too. So I searched around and made a reservation at a place at Dillingham airfield in northern Oahu, and planned on the first step toward learning to fly.

First I had to drive to the airfield, and that was a bitch. I cut upward on H-2 and ended up driving across Oahu on narrow, winding roads with few exits. H-2 finally ended, and as my 2:00 appointment quickly approach, I got lost on instructions printed from the web site. They were basically like "drive through this little town and go past the overpass and go right not left" and so on. I ended up on a tiny "highway" that was two twisted lanes cutting through some kind of pineapple fields or something, owned by Dole. Huge mounds of plowed dirt surrounded some fields, a bright red soil that looked like it belonged on Mars. I got stuck behind someone for a bit, but then took the 35-rated road at about 70 until the right side opened up to the ocean, lined with beaches and people parasailing and racing dirt bikes on bright sand mounds.

To the left, I found the airfield, which wasn't more than a single strip, a bunch of garage-like hangers, and what looked like a park picnic shelter that housed flight operations for two tour companies. When I parked, a dude called my name and I got started before I got out of the car. He got all of my paperwork and talked me into signing up for the full deal: a 60 minute lesson where I'd fly with the instructor, plus an acrobatic flight option and the videotaping option, for a grand total of about $200. He got out a blank VHS tape and finished the paperwork, then suited me up for a parachute. Yes, I had to wear a parachute! It had four straps: two that went on my shoulders, and two that went under my crotch on my inner thighs but away from the vital bits. It had a D-ring on the left and no reserve. The guy asked me if I knew how to use it (for some reason, everyone there thought I was a private pilot or military or something) and I said "yeah, sure" even though I had no idea how the fuck I'd bail out of a closed-bubble glider if it broke apart. I guess it's just an FAA requirement to have a chute if you do acrobatics, but it wouldn't do you much good unless you were really lucky.

The counter guy told me to go out to the glider on the tarmac while one of the guys installed the rear controls. The red and white Schweitzer 2-32 glider sat next to the concrete, with a single main wheel and most of its weight leaning on a wing on one side, sort of like when you throw down a bike with no kickstand and it sits on its side. The wings were long, almost like a U-2 spy plane, and the cockpit was tiny, smaller than a kayak but for two people. It was a tandem, with a copilot seat behind the pilot, and a single set of instruments on the dash. Also, a VCR was wired into the control panel, and I saw webcam-like cameras on the right wing, tail, and in the cockpit.

An old guy named Elmer showed up with a pair of pliers, a wrench or two, and a control stick. He looked a hundred years old, very skinny and almost skeletal, with thick, leathery skin. He was also super friendly, and the second I told him I came from New York, he practically told me the whole history of soaring in the Empire State, talking about one of the guys he used to know that ran a gliderport and vacationed out in Hawaii before he passed away from cancer. He told the stories and asked me about my flying background as he removed a plastic panel on the floor and clipped in the second stick to the control system of the plane. After he finished, he showed me how to climb into the back seat (it isn't easy!) and then talked to me a bit more before the pilot showed up.

Mark the pilot was a pretty laid back guy, and looked like a lot of the pilots I've known from my limited aero career. He quickly strapped himself in the front, got a walkie-talkie radio, and got us ready to roll. We agreed we'd start with the all-out acrobatics after our tow, and then he'd get me situated and I'd take the stick. He joked around about Elmer a bit as he got our cable hooked up, and the fact that he just celebrated his 60th year flying. Considering this is the 100th year of powered flight, that's a lot of years.

Elmer got us set up and then went to the tow plane, a Cessna top-wing that almost looked smaller than the glider. He took off and once the slack in the yellow line let out, we slowly pulled up behind his plane and then popped up high, so we could see him below us pulling the line. He circled up and back, and the altimeter quickly climbed up to 3000 feet, when Mark hit the release button and we cut loose, flying with no engine.

First, a few things about being in a glider. It's not quiet, like some people think. You hear the wind blowing against your canopy, and it's like driving your car fast in a windstorm. It's not loud, nowhere near the noise of a single-prop plane like a small Cessna. It's quiet enough that you can easily carry on a conversation with the other person in the cockpit without headsets or pushing heads together and cupping ears and mouths and shouting loud. It's about like talking in a slightly older car that isn't fully soundproofed like a high-end Caddy or whatever.

Another thing is that the view is spectacular. Unless you're an F-16 pilot or have some kind of esoteric bubble-canopy, low-wing plane, you haven't experienced the incredible view offered by a sailplane. I could see pretty much in 360 degrees, except for the fact that it's pretty hard to turn around and look at your six when you are cooped up in a small seat with a four-point harness around you. But I could see everything in every other direction, and I had a lot to see. Half of our practical lesson area was over the Pacific ocean, an area that smashed waves onto the beach, and a lot of paragliders way below us. On the other side was a tall, maybe thousand-foot ridge, ripe with green trees and a couple of geodesic dome radar things run by the Air Force. With the pattern above the field, a handful of other gliders and the occasional tow plane followed a big, clockwise loop over the area, buzzing over the ridge to its point while gaining altitude, then kicking back again over the water and dropping a bit.

We went out over the water and started the acrobatic part of the flight. This involved some very impressive wing-overs, flips, loops, and other spins. If you think a glider would be limited in its maneuverability, you'd be dead wrong; it's pretty easy to pull more than a few Gs when you slam around the stick, and even if it stalls out or goes into some super-slow, negative-G manger at a decent altitude, it's not hard to flip back, dive toward the water at a rate that would make most people shit their pants, and then gain back all of the altitude you lost. I got pushed back in my seat more than every trip to Cedar Point and King's Island I've ever taken combined, and then combatted that with some pretty awesome negative-G on the flipside of it. And while a rollercoaster can provide some thrills, it's nothing like looking through a canopy and seeing the ocean rush toward you at over 120 miles an hour. And what roller coaster is dangerous enough to require you by law to wear a parachute?

The acrobatics were making me slightly green, but I kept cool and didn't get sick or anything. Actually, the heat inside the cockpit on a hot summer day made me more queasy than the loops and drops. After that fun, we looped back over land and I got a quick lecture on the controls, the way the glider worked, and what I needed to do. Before I knew it, I had my feet on the rudder pedals and the stick in hand, controlling this giant flying machine on my own from the back seat.

My first reaction was that it was completely unlike I expected. Gliders use a lot of rudder and very little stick to fly, which is contradictory to any video game or airplane simulator you'll find. In fact, many airplane games don't even have rudders, or they do it automatically for you, because you don't usually have foot pedals. With the glider, it was a lot like I knew how to ride a bike and eat at the same time, but I had to learn to pedal with my hands and eat with my feet on the bike. Instead of smooth turns, I "pushed" through them with too much stick, but finally got my mix a little more correct.

After getting over the fact that I steered with my feet more than my hands, flying felt great to me. The sensation reminded me somewhat of swimming, or paddling a raft or small boat. When you want to move, you start to coax the craft in the right direction, and then wait for its reaction and slowly move with that to guide into a turn. It took a bit more work than that, because for example, in a simple turn, you coordinate several things in three dimensions. You lean the tail in the right direction with the rudder pedals, but you also twist the wings to a lesser degree with the stick, to bank the plane into the turn. You also watch the horizon out of the nose and try to keep it level by pulling back the stick just a bit. At first this juggle seems impossible, but after a few passes at 60 MPH over the ridge, I got in a few turns that were downright professional-looking.

Another odd thing about soaring is you have to be an amateur meteorologist to figure out the details, while in a prop plane you just plow away and don't worry about the finer points of weather. Sure, any pilot has to worry about wind, but with a glider, the whole thing is all about the nuances of wind draft and using them to your advantage. The wind off of the sea hit the ridge and bounced up, so I could creep along the treetops and get a bit of a boost. And part of the fun is finding a thermal. The first time I hit one, it shook and buffeted the plane. The second time, we saw another glider rallying off of a thermal, so I turned into it, and then banked and corkscrewed as the rising air punched up the glider. Bit by bit, I gained a thousand feet of altitude in a few minutes, for free.

And gliders stall, although they've very recoverable. I asked the instructor about that, and he told me when the nose is at the horizon, it stalls out. I would have settled for that bit of info, but then he said "let me show you", and jerked the stick back until the plane lurched up, and the wings buffeted and made a "paint can" sound as the aluminum buckled and strained. Then it hit, and we quickly dropped from the sky, no longer a flying machine, but a several-ton paperweight. It felt like the plane vanished from around me, and I was falling from 2500 feet, looking straight down at the ground as it rushed ahead of me, wondering where that D-ring on the parachute was at that moment, which is probably on my short list of scariest shit that has ever happened to me. But a second later, he pointed the nose down, the wings gained lift again, and whoosh, all was well, except the 100 foot drop we took. I don't think I've ever been in a plane that really stalled, and it's not something I'd recommend you go out and try (unless you want to learn how to fly), but it was an interesting experience.

We circled around for the better part of an hour, me doing some of the flying, him taking over when it got a bit sticky. Toward the end of the time, he took us out to the water again and we did some more dives and flips and high-G stuff. I had a loose towel that he used to clean the camera lenses, and during a negative-G dive, I let go of it and watched it float in front of me.

I thought he'd take the stick for the landing, but he showed me the pattern and how to let out the spoilers, and I curved it around the field and approached at an above-stall speed. On final approach, I was 100% sure he'd take over and land, but he just told me how to line up and how fast to drop. He made a couple of corrections, but it was my glider, and I hovered right over the strip and had probably the most gentle fixed-wing landing of my life, all while using only a tiny bit of the strip. He popped open the canopy and pulled us in, and that was that: my first flight lesson. I climbed back out of the cramped cockpit and he said "don't worry, you'll get the feeling back in your legs in an hour", to which I responded, "it's cool, I used to drive a Volkswagen". I got my video tape, dropped off my chute, drank some water, and I was on my way back to Waikiki.

As a postscript, I didn't get to watch the video until after I returned home, but it's very neat. The cameras were on the tail looking forward, on the right wing looking left, and by the pilot, looking back. There's a picture-in-picture with a tiny view from the pilot camera, and a switching view from the other two cameras. There's also pretty good audio from inside the cockpit. The color and quality is a little squirrly, given that the cameras aren't exactly broadcast quality, and they have fisheye lenses that make the view look a little weird. But it's so cool to see the plane from the side, rolling down the runway and then yanked in the air by the tow plane. It's probably boring to anyone else, but I love that I got it all on tape.

I didn't do much for the rest of the night, and I think I fell asleep for a while, then sat in the room and flipped channels for a few hours. I did enough for an average week at home, so I didn't feel like going out for any grand adventures. I was also hemorrhaging cash at that point, and didn't feel like throwing a lot of money at some giant dinner excursion. I sat in the room and watched the four or five local channels on the tiny TV, thinking about what to do next.

I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was slightly depressed and antisocial, too. Hawaii is very much the place for couples and families to go out and do stuff, and being alone put me in an awkward position when it came to going to dinner or exploring. Maybe it was the long day or the lack of food that disoriented me for a bit, but I plain didn't want to leave the room and go out and be a happy person and wander the streets.

I thought about just ordering a pizza and calling it a night, or hopping in the car and driving until I found some big, chain, tourist-friendly place that reminded me of Indiana and enabled me to hang low and eat a lot of greasy food until I felt better. I walked through Waikiki, looking at the touristy restaurants decorated in lights and torches that burned in the night, but I chickened out going to somewhere fancy, and ended up down at the Denny's again, where I got a Superbird with fries and a Coke. I answered email on my Sidekick, which I found a great investment for a trip like this. The Sidekick PDA/phone has a Querty keyboard and a fairly functional mail client, unlike the WAP client or messaging-based stuff in cellphones. It comes with a good web browser, with a weird server-side proxy system that cleans up pages and crushes down images before they get to you. It also has a good AOL IM client built-in. All of this means I didn't really need a laptop computer on the road, and I was able to keep in touch well, since Oahu has good wireless service. Unfortunately, the Sidekick could not help me tune out the largest party of assholes with screaming kids I've seen in a while, who were two tables over. I wolfed down dinner, paid my bill, and then went home and crashed. Not exactly an exciting Saturday night on the town, but I had two more days, and I needed to pace myself (and my wallet.)

Sunday

I woke early again, before 8:00, and decided to get right out of bed and go get some breakfast. I took just the digital camera and walked around until I found a McDonald's with a large indoor/outdoor dining area. Inside, I found what I was looking for: Spam! Yes, McDonald's in Hawaii has Spam for breakfast, apparently because the Aloha State eats more of the potted meat per capita than anywhere else. I'd never had the Hormel product before, and when in Rome, right?

The McDonald's had pretty much the usual breakfast menu, although it had been a decade since I'd been awake before 10:30 to actually eat the stuff anyway. One change is that many of the breakfasts came with a portion of fresh pineapple. Given the number of pinapple farms (or is it plantations?) on the island, the fruit is probably cheaper than fresh water. I ordered a meal that came with Spam, eggs, and rice, and added on some hash browns (the only real reason to eat McD's breakfast) and some orange juice.

The food came inside a little styrofoam tray like the pancakes or big breakfast do, but it had a sticker of the Spam logo on it. (I put the sticker on the bottom of my camera.) Inside, there were two little pieces of the meat, roughly in the shape of the can, and fried like bacon or sausage. The rice was very clumpy and good looking - not Uncle Ben's or whatever, and probably better than half the good Chinese places in New York. There was a McDonald's soy packet that was cute, and I probably should have kept it, but I forgot.

Anyway, I anxiously cut off a small square of the mystery meat, popped it in my mouth, and... it wasn't bad. It was actually GOOD. It reminded me of Sizzlean strips, the processed, low(er)-fat meat pieces you get at the grocery store, but thicker and more of a rectangular shape than the fake bacon strips. It tasted sort of like Canadian bacon, but with a texture more like sausage or something, and a richer taste like real bacon. The rice was a weird addition to the meal, but after eating breakfast at Dojo in the Village a lot, I'm pretty used to eating rice and soy sauce with my eggs.

After eating, I headed back at the hotel, called around about jetski places, and couldn't find one open on a Sunday. I did find one that took a reservation for the next day, though. I got myself penciled in for a spot, and thought about driving out to their marina before lunch to see how to get there and take in the general layout of the island. I took my camera and other stuff and figured on making a morning of the voyage. But after driving a quick few blocks east, changed my mind and decided instead to go to Diamondhead and see how treacherous the climb would be.

Diamondhead is the huge crater to the east of Waikiki that forms the backdrop behind the beach scenery. It's an incredibly recognizable landmark, probably the most noticed mountain range on the island of Oahu. The crater used to be a volcano, but after a few million years of dormancy, its outer ridge was home to the Army and some of their gun batteries. When everyone on the island was sure the Japanese would be mounting a major invasion at any moment, the Army Corps of Engineers did stuff like add some trails and a giant tunnel so cars can drive inside the crater, and then added huge guns and sighting platforms for the artillery crews. Decades later, the DNR took over and made the place a nature preserve, with plenty of hiking trails for pedestrians.

The drive in took me through a few winding roads with trees and other native scenery. I got a bit panicked that I wasn't going the right way, but then found a tunnel entrance that went through the side of the mountain, and into the giant crater area. I paid five bucks to get in at the entrance gate, and parked in a lot filled with tour busses and rental cars. When I got out, it was amazing to be inside this giant crater, with a flat park area bigger than several city blocks, and the rising mountain walls in each direction. I headed over to the start of the trail, and saw a bunch of signs warning trailgoers to bring water, a flashlight, and suitable clothes and footwear. I had the footwear, but nothing else. But I did find a table at the start of the trail selling water, so I bought two bottles and went on my way.

The trail started with a gentle hill, but nothing too menacing. I carried the water in my camera bag, and toted the camcorder, with my digital camera riding in a side pocket. After approaching the far ridge wall, the trail got more treacherous, with switchbacks and side rails to prevent hikers from wandering. The smoother concrete surface became more eroded and craggy, and the switchbacks got tighter and steeper. After a few minutes, I started breathing more heavily and wishing I would've went to a mall instead. Then, I saw in the distance at the top of the ridge a tiny observation post, my goal. It looked miles up, and I started having a minor freakout as the sun beat on my back.

The trail curved worse, and I pulled onward, watching the people on the way back down to convince myself that I too could manage this. After forever, the trail led to a long set of concrete stairs, very steep and narrow. I walked up them, but they weren't that bad, maybe a bit worse than the subway steps I take every morning, but many more of them.

At the top of the stairs, I figured out why you needed the flashlight: there was a long tunnel bored through the rock by the Army Engineers, and it had no lights whatsoever. In a bit of ingenuity, I got out the camcorder and put it on night vision mode. This easily pointed out the general terrain of the tunnel, albeit a bit awkwardly. I climbed through this, and then got to another set of stairs. This one was a killer, something like 80 steps, and very steep, almost like a ladder.

At the top of the steps, there was an arrow saying "trail", but I couldn't figure out where it went. I followed into a dark room and felt around while swinging the camera's nightvision back and forth. Finally, I saw a spiral staircase, the metal kind with totally open sides, and I crawled up two flights of this, to a gun bunker with a low ceiling. A guy sat at a desk, saying the usual alohas and offering a certificate saying I made it to the top, and asking for donations. I gave the guy three bucks and got one of the little scrolls proving that I finished the journey, then went out a tiny opening to the cliff side.

The cliff side wrapped around to give a few vantage points, plus went around and up to the top of the gun bunker, which had a sort of crow's nest observation deck on it. The top of the tower presented a pretty good view of Waikiki. This wasn't as good of a vantage as the glider gave me over the North Shore, but from here, I could see the whole beach, and all of the hotels and buildings of the entire tourist area. I switched to the digital camera and took a slew of shots from every angle. Some nature preservation guy that looked and talked like Hulk Hogan started pointing out various natural things to people, but he was really in a lead-up about some nature waterfall hike that he was trying to sell to people. I ducked out before he finished the speech and the hard sell so I wouldn't have to fight a rush of people to get back down.

The climb down was easier than the climb up. I had rationed some water from my first bottle as a reward for the peak, but the wind up there quickly stripped away the sweat, and I didn't drink any. I also kept the second bottle for the way down. I found that it was faster to march the whole way down and not break momentum than it was to walk slower. At least the downhill hike kept me moving, and I tried to think of "left/left/left, right left" to keep time. Withing a few minutes, I got back to the table at the bottom, where I filled up on more icewater and bought a shirt.

I took a largely unscripted drive from Diamondhead east, to see what the outskirts of the area looked like. I wasn't expecting to see any white trash, mobile home, cars on blocks neighborhoods, and I didn't really. I didn't even see that much sprawl or strip malls or anything else. There were a lot of identically-built, retirement-type housing complexes, and even though one house ended where another one started, I wished I could have one of those places so I could wake up every morning and take a walk to the ocean. I'm sure a spread like that would cost millions, but it's nice to think about.

On my way east, I stopped at this fairly famous blowhole. It was weird, a sort of scenic pullover for cars, but below were some fierce dropped-off cliffs. Below one cliff was a shelf of rock or maybe coral. The waves would slam in from the ocean, and there was some kind of underwater cave network that would cache the ocean's force. After enough waves hit, a vertical hole into the caves would spew upward like a geyser. There was also a narrow chasm that was almost like a natural wave pool for a bunch of guys who hung out there. They could sit in this rectangular basin and watch the ocean for a big one, then hold their breath and dive into the surf just as a pounding ridge of water hit the shore. The waves were ferocious, the kind that made the whole surrounding area a frothy white, and the rhythm was like a one-two punch, but more like a one-seven punch.

After the driving, I went back to the hotel, smelling of sweat from the long hike. I pulled on my swimsuit, got a pool towel, and headed to the pool for a quick dip. Nothing too exciting there - I had the place to myself, and the water was actually a bit too cool for a swim. The pool had a hottub on one end, so I soaked for a bit and let my tendons unspool after the hike. I didn't stay long though, because that water was too hot. Maybe you're supposed to go back and forth between the two a few times. Instead, I went back to the room, took a quick shower and got ready for lunch.

My lunch journey took me out to an area where the Japanese culture went apeshit, bringing what looked like a small piece of Tokyo to Hawaii. A giant outdoor mall stretched through most of a city block, with lots of pushcart vendors and food stalls. I went to 7-Eleven first for a Slurpee (this location sold sushi along with nachos and hot dogs) and wandered the aisles, thinking about food but more interested in the bizarre trinkets and beads and silk shirts. I thought about buying a ukulele (and maybe transcribing various death metal or Black Sabbath songs to it) but I ended up buying nothing and heading back toward the hotel, still looking for food.

On the way back, I saw a sign on the side of a small shop, up on a third floor, that was entirely in Japanese but with a picture of an M-16 on it. Was it a model store? A gun range? A video game place? Just as I wondered this, a Japanese dude a few years younger than me walked up and said "hey man, you interested in shooting guns? Real guns, real bullets." What the fuck? He had a gun range on the third floor of an ABC convenience mart. Hell yeah, I'm in! "What do you have?" I said.

Turns out the guy did have a full gun range, real rounds and real ammo and everything. He brought me upstairs and showed me a variety of packages, but I salivated at the platinum level: I'd get to fire every gun in the shop for $88, plus get a free t-shirt. "You guys take Amex?" I said. And with a yes, they snagged my card, had me sign a waiver, tossed me a pair of ear protectors, and walked me back to the range.

They kept a pretty clean line, and used some kind of new trap so they didn't have to have as long of a range as other places. The place in general wasn't as "kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out" as most gung ho gun ranges in the continental US. Another couple came in, two Japanese folks, and the guy rattled off instructions to them in Japanese as he loaded up my clips. He gave me quick instructions on everything, but I knew the drill.

Okay, I started out with a .38 revolver: nothing special; a good, well-balanced gun with no surprises. It's what every cop had back in the day. Then I went to a 9mm Beretta semi-auto: I liked it, but once again, no big shocker. That's pretty much what every cop has now. After that, I fired a .45 Glock, which wasn't bad, and much more behaved than the Glock 20 10mm I fired a year ago at a range in Pittsburgh. Last in the handguns was a .44 magnum, the "dirty Harry". It didn't have the long barrel like he had, maybe like a 4" on it. The kick from this gun was over the top, though! Each shot from the revolver practically knocked it back into my face, and it put out a blinding amount of flash. Even with ear protection, the blast was deafening. I couldn't imagine trying to use one of these for any practical purpose, but it was cool to know how much kick one of these things produced.

After the small stuff, we went up to the Uzi. I've shot one before at The Gun Store in Vegas, a full-auto with a fixed wood stock. This guy was a semi-auto, but had the real folding stock, and I thought that was cool. Shooting it semi-auto wasn't as fun, but it was still pretty bad-ass, and probably lasted a bit longer.

Next up was a weapon I'd never even read much about, the H&K G36. This gun's outer body is made out of a weird polymer like a Glock, but it's textured a bit differently for a better grip. It has a wire-form stock and a weird profile that makes it look more like a laser rifle from a video game than a conventional weapon. I don't actually remember what exact version the shop had, or what size round it fired; the G36 usually fires 5.56, but it's a modular setup, and can easily be modified by a gunsmith to become a different type of gun. This model was also tricked out with a cool drop-down bipod. I fired, and the weird thing is that blowback doesn't go through the receiver; I don't entirely know how the system works, but it means you can shoot thousands of rounds through the rifle without even cleaning it. It also meant there was virtually no kickback, and it was very easy for me to put three or four shots in the same exact place. This is a sweet weapon! If I had an unlimited budget at I didn't live in New York City, I would immediately buy one of these, as it's one of the nicest guns I've ever shot.

Last up was a pump-action twelve-gauge, with slugs. The range was pretty short, and I had to use a scope, which was weird. With that much variance in the barrel, I couldn't even get the four shots onto the paper. It was cool to work the pump action, but I'd rather be out in a field with buckshot and some tin cans on tree stumps.

I got my free tee shirt and headed back to the hotel, still starving as it was almost 4:00 and the only thing I'd eaten since breakfast was a Slurpee. The hotel had some kind of fake-ass French bistro downstairs, with advertisements in every elevator showing a touch of French cuisine mixed with Hawaiian culture, or some crap like that. When I got there, I found nothing more than a bare-bones sandwich shop, with a few pieces of guava in the fridge and a couple of croissants in a rack. I ordered a tuna salad sandwich and grabbed a few little metal cans of pineapple juice, and headed back to the room.

I went out on my tiny deck with my food and my Sidekick, to eat and watch what was going on down at the pool. Eating on the deck and chatting away on IM to friends in the US may sound glamorous, but the birds pecking at my feet and waiting for a turn on the sandwich didn't help much. I also didn't really know what to do for the rest of the day, so I went back to the TV for a while, and drifted in and out of a nap.

Later that evening, I hopped in the car and drove toward Honolulu, thinking about going to the Pearl Harbor memorial. I didn't have a map, and I had no real intention of getting in, since I was sure it would be closed. But I figured I'd check it out, and see what the drive was like. I didn't pay attention to the signs though, and when I thought I was at the right exit for the memorial, I really drove up to the actual Pearl Harbor military base. Even the suicide bomb deflector pylons and guards with M-16s and full camo didn't tip me off, and when I pulled up to a guard booth and they asked "Where's your vehicle pass?" they thought it was really fucking funny when I said "can't I buy one from you guys?" They calmly explained to me that I had to turn around or they would shoot me, and I whipped back to the highway. I did find the entrance for the USS Arizona monument, but everything was closed and you can't see anything behind the gates, so I went back to the hotel. I grabbed a dinner at Denny's, then came back and went to bed.

Monday

When I woke up on Monday, the plan was to go jetski at 2:00. But the climb the day before left a nice shade of red on my arms and forehead. I decided to cancel my reservation, get some Solarcaine and sunblock, and head out to the USS Arizona memorial. I'd heard horror stories of the long lines and the huge cost of a parks department permit that you now needed to go to national parks, but I had all day and I knew I'd kick myself if I came all the way out to Oahu and didn't go to the memorial.

The drive out was much easier since I knew not to turn onto an active military base. There were several overflow parking lots, but I managed to catch a space in the first lot. I knew they'd have draconian security in full effect, so I went through the camera bag and carried the digital camera, camcorder, and a copy of my book, without actually taking the bag. Walking through the lot, I expected to see a huge line going out the door of the smallish museum building, but nobody was outside in the chain maze waiting area, and I went right through the front doors and to the desk.

The other surprise was that I didn't get asked for any money. The person at the desk handed me a yellow card that said 6 on it, and told me that my group would begin boarding at about 9:15 (45 minutes from then.) I wouldn't have to wait in line or fight my way through to get a seat onto the ferry boat; I could wander around, get a drink or a bite to eat, and spend some money at the gift shop until then.

There's a decent view of the water from the indoor/outdoor building, and enough vending machines to fend off a bit of time. There was also a small museum with some models, displays, and other exhibits that you could read and look at. The best part, though, was the gift shop, which had about every book ever published on the subject, along with many tapes and DVDs, plus a whole slew of shirts, hats, pins, and other swag. I had no problem waiting 45 minutes while checking out all of this stuff.

When my ticket came up, I got in a line with about a hundred other people and got led into a very nice theater. A tour guide gave a very solemn and almost sad speech urging everyone to treat the memorial as a graveside and to be as respectful as possible. Then we were shown a short movie, maybe 40 minutes long, that detailed the history leading up to 12/7/41, including the Japanese Imperialism leading up to the war, and some of the goings-on in Europe. Then the entire sneak attack was played out, using footage from that day and testimonial from the survivors. The movie was well-done, maybe on a History Channel level, but much more relevant when you're sitting a few hundred yards from the point of attack.

After the movie, everyone was led out to a shuttle ferry, and a Navy pilot chugged us across the harbor, pointing out the locations of some of the ships that were in battleship row. We had a nice cruise across the water, and I checked out the large NOAA ship docked to our left, panning around with the camcorder. We finally pulled in to the strange white bridge that crosses the Arizona in the water, and the tour group entered.

I expected some strange, eerie, graveyard-like feel to the monument, but that didn't come to me for some reason. It did feel bizarre to look out the giant open windows and see the rusty metal remains of the ship's carcass, along with the pieces jutting up over the waterline. And the giant wall covered with sailors' and Marines' names did make me contemplate the situation. I guess I felt almost ashamed, or belittled. I mean, 9/11 was a huge, huge thing for people my age, people in New York who knew those who died in the attack. But here was a list, a LONGER list of those who died in an attack, and the reaction was so opposite of the one I experienced in my lifetime. There were no grieving widows trying to selfishly get more attention on TV, or giant political discussions that said maybe the Japanese were right and the president was wrong, or anything else. Maybe things were much more black and white back then, and we could see the bad guys as bad guys a bit easier, but it also meant that those that lost their lives were seen as heroes that much easier.

I walked around for a bit, took a lot of pictures, and then headed back to shore, again on the shuttle ferry. Back at the gift shop, I bought a flag that had flown over the memorial, a nice memento that also helped the museum. I also got a chance to meet Brigadier General Jerome Hagen, author of War in the Pacific. I bought a copy of his book and signed it for me, and we talked for a minute about North Dakota, where I was born and originally hailed from.

After taking a picture of the Arizona's giant anchor at the door, I walked over to the submarine museum next door. At the entrance are several sub-launched missiles and torpedoes, including two Polaris missiles, and the Mark 45 nuclear torpedo, which has the unique design flaw of having a range that is much shorter than the blast radius of its warhead.

I got a combined ticket to see everything, and started with the USS Bowfin. This is a sub that was launched a year to the day after Pearl Harbor, and had a formidable career taking out tons and tons of enemy ships on covert underwater missions. The sub is now a floating museum, and after picking up a set of headphones and tape player for the audio tour, I walked across the gangplank. I checked out the top deck of the long, thin vessel, before climbing the ladder and going below.

Inside the sub, I started at the aft torpedo room, where giant tubes led out of the ship and several inert torpedoes awaited fire. I walked back to the next compartment through a tiny door and was amazed by the general efficiency and compactness of everything. Almost every square inch was either filled with gauges or equipment or stowed tools, or had a completely crammed-in set of wires or hoses or tubes or other machinery. And whatever wasn't a piece of working machinery was a miniaturized version of one of life's amenities. Set in one wall was a tiny toilet, shoehorned in front of a giant matrix of battery wires fixed to a wall. Next to it, a functional but miniscule stand-up shower was used for weekly cleaning between the daily sponge baths. Further up, the CO of the sub had his own bedroom, but it had a set of gauges at his feet, so he could know the sub's status before he even got out of bed. Some of the officers shared a single room, which was a big step up from the enlisted guys; something like 36 bunks were fit into a room smaller than my bedroom. And they "hot-bunked", too; one guy slept a shift while another one worked, and vice-versa. They did have the best foods on subs, though. Too bad the cook had to fix all those meals in a kitchen smaller than my cube at work.

The machinery on this sub was simply astounding. A set of four V-16 diesel engines produced about 1600 horses each. On the surface, they charged a huge bank of batteries that drove electric motors for the subs. While underwater, the engines didn't run, because there was no air. A huge battery of manifolds and wires and tachometers and everything else ran through the cabinets, and I wondered what it was like to be the guys turning the knobs and watching the gauges and keeping all of that machinery running in the heat of the moment, when a U-boat was running chase. Submarines are very high on my geek list of high tech in the real world, and if you'd see all of the gear inside one of these tin cans, you would see why.

At the nose, I walked back up on deck and checked out the surface-mounted cannon and machine guns. The Bowfin is actually a submersible, not a submarine, because it had a deck and could be run on the surface with its weapons to prey on smaller ships not worth a torpedo. I walked up its short tower and got a few more shots of the deck munitions before I headed back to land to check out everything else.

The museum there had a few more things outside, and an indoor gallery. I got to check out the conning tower of a sub of the same class, which had been surgically removed and set up as a display. I also saw a Harpoon missile, and some external gun setups, like a WWII-era 30mm battery. Inside, there was a lot of noteworthy stuff, but I mostly liked the Polaris targeting computer (10-bit! Paper tape! Toggle switches!) and the inert S-3 missile, broken up by stage, but missing the MIRV nuclear warheads.

Last up was the USS Missouri. They ran a trolley service that went over to Ford Island, where you can get on the battleship. That took a few minutes, but it gave me a chance to see some of the structures on the island, which is typically reserved for high-ranking brass and visiting dignitaries. Finally, we got there, and I got a good, up-close look at America's last battleship.

Seeing a ship as big as this really makes you realize how complicated and involved military operations are these days, or back in the days of World War II. The Missouri is almost a thousand feet long and at its peak in the 1950s, was home to almost 2500 men. At its full speed of 32 knots, it consumed 10,584 gallons of fuel an hour. We're talking about a pretty huge piece of metal here. As I came up to the front gate, I realized they had it set up much like any large boat at dock would be, with a few shops on the pier, and a set of stairs leading up to a huge gangplank that went to the main deck. As I walked up, a person from the museum took my picture in front of a life preserver - one of those things where you buy the picture in a little frame on the way out. Then I made my way up the steps and onto the ship.

The first thing you see when you're on the deck is that it's made of teak. That's pretty weird - I thought by now, modern battleships would have some sort of super-tech composite made by DuPont or something, not the stuff that Ray's Dad's powerboat had onboard. But it turns out that wood's the best thing to have around gunpowder and static electricity, so wood it is.

The next big thing you see is truly big - the 16", 50-caliber cannon. Aft there are two turrets, each with three of these monsters. Each of these turrets fires a slug that's about as heavy as your car, and can easily heft it over 36,000 yards and hit a target as small as a building. The six forward cannon jut outward like giant fangs, and I spent a long time walking the wooden deck, staring upward at the giant barrels of metal. I walked forward and looked around, ducking into a mess hall and seeing some of the models and displays of the various wars the Mighty Mo had seen. It's strange to think the ship that fought in World War II also saw time in Korea, got decommissioned, sat in Bremerton, and then came back to fight in the Persian Gulf. Most of the enlisted men on deck during the Gulf War probably had grandparents old enough to serve on the ship during WWII.

Inside, I looked at some of the restored cabins, which were much bigger than submarine fare. In fact, the CO on this ship probably had a bigger apartment than I have here in New York; some of the other officers had nice rooms, too. But the enlisted were sandwiched in two and three high. They restored some rooms to be like they were ten years ago, and others to be 1940s-style.

Back outside, I went to the aft deck and found a UAV, a remote-controlled plane that looked like a cool toy model, but actually flew out and captured targeting data during a battle. Back in the day, catapults were in the same area to launch seaplanes, and the same area was used for helicopters later in life. Now the whole rear area was used for presentations and other museum stuff, with a big sun tent over the poopdeck.

I went upstairs and found one thing I was looking for: the surrender deck. World War II ended when the Japanese signed their unconditional surrender in Tokyo Bay on the deck of the Missouri. On that deck, I found a plaque and another sign with the names of the high-ranking officials present on that day. It's very fitting that the beginning and the end of the largest war ever are housed in the same bay. I'm glad I got a chance to see both.

I made another pass through the ship and checked out a few more details. There was a deck containing Tomahawk missile launchers, which were used in the Gulf War. (There were tomahawks painted on each launcher for each missile fired.) I walked through the cafeteria, and saw the "Truman Line", which was the name of the lunch line where you got your food. I also saw the bridge on deck 4, which is nothing like what you'd think from watching movies. The outer part of this room had a decent view, but not a lot of complicated instruments or any place to sit. Inside of a thick, armored turret, the actual controls were operated by three sailors. They could close a 2600-pound armored door and completely seal themselves from any kamikaze attacks. This plating was above and beyond all of the other outer plating, which was as much as 12" thick in places.

After a last look at things, I left the ship and went down to the gift shop to find anything cool to buy. I was way ahead of budget, since the whole afternoon only cost $20 and I didn't spend money on a jetski. I bought the picture they took of me before I got on the boat (it also included two little refrigerator magnets) and also picked up a nice shirt. I took the trolley back to the sub museum and got a hot dog and chips because I was starving, then headed back to the hotel for a nap and to look at all of my photos.

I didn't do much for the rest of my last day, other than herding together all of my stuff and packing my bags. I thought about going back to the gun range, or maybe to some other store to buy some more shirts or other junk. But I ended up doing nothing exciting, aside from a last trip to Denny's, where I worked on this story for a bit and ate a shrimp dinner. I also wandered back to the beach to take some nighttime pictures, although all of them came out blurred from a lack of light. I found a place where I checked my email for $6 (all spam) and came back to the hotel to go through another round of neurotic packing and double-checking before I fell asleep.

Tuesday

There's not a lot to say about my return trip except to explain the utter horror of such a long day. After a shower, I went down to the crappy bistro and got a bagel and some juice. That gave me a few minutes to sit on the balcony and enjoy the last of the Hawaiian view and weather before I had to get back to the real world.

I checked out by 10:00 and only owed about $7 in phone fees, which was a first. I also had to get gas for the car, which cost about $2 a gallon for the ultra-low grade. While I was filling up, it suddenly grew dark and started raining. But by the time I got back to the highway, the rain was over. Weird.

I returned the car and waited forever for a shuttle to the airport, but managed to make it through security without a lot of fuss. The Honolulu airport has a cool layout with beautiful outdoor gardens between each spoke of a terminal. And the spokes connecting terminals are open-air, so you can sit out there and watch the planes. I looked at a set of JAL 747s as they got unloaded and checked, which involved a swarm of ground technicians, baggage handlers, and little electrical carts and trucks. Pretty neat stuff.

I tried to eat some lunch, although it was only about 11:30 and there weren't many places except hot dog stands. I finally found a sit-down restaurant, and ordered what was possibly the worst pulled pork sandwich imaginable. I caught up on email with the Sidekick, then threw out half the sandwich and went to the gate. Before checking out the boards, I went to a gift shop and bought two Hawaiian shirts.

At the gate, I found out my direct flight to Atlanta was in fact a flight to LA that connected to Atlanta, which Delta did not mention, which was just fucking great. That added about an hour and a half to my trip, and caused tons of confusion with the boarding/unboarding procedure. By the time I got on the plane, I found a baby seat in my seat, with a dad wandering the cabin, looking to scam a free seat because he wasn't carrying the kid he was supposed to be carrying. I wished they would have taken him off the plane and shot him, but I seldom get what I want. I ended up moving to another seat to let the idiot sit down. Of course, his other two kids screamed the entire six hours to LA, but you already knew that.

The entire flight back was a blur. A bunch of Marines got on the plane in LA, and I talked to one for a while. He just finished infantry training and was going to Pensacola to learn how to work on F-18 jets. I couldn't sleep the entire way back, and the movie Daredevil was playing, but I thought it looked stupid and I figured if I watched it, the only thing that would happen is that I would have a great deal of sexual frustration focused at Jennifer Garner, so it was easier to just mess around with my computer for a while. I didn't get a meal on the way to Atlanta, and I didn't eat the one on the way to LA because I had just eaten that pulled pork disaster. The only thing open at LAX was a McDonald's, and they only had one register running, so I didn't get in to get any food. The only other cool thing about the flight was that I saw the Oklahoma storm mess from the air. Watching lightning from 40,000 feet is pretty impressive - you just see these balls of light flashing in the clouds, and it looks like a UFO mothership. Maybe it was.

By the time I got to Atlanta, I was so sleep deprived, I could see through walls. I did the Bataan death march from terminal 1 to 9, and every single food store was closed. I sat in a chair and sort of rocked back and forth a bit, hoping some food would somehow drop from the sky. Then a greasy spoon place started serving breakfast, and every damn person in the airport got in line, so there was no way I could even sneak in for a donut before the plane boarded.

I got on the plane, and someone was in my seat. I think I told them to get up without saying fuck 19 times, but I'm not sure. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't, so I played Tetris for a while. We had a perfectly clear view of the approach at LaGuardia after the sun rose, and as we looped north around the pattern, I got a great view of a couple of sunken boats, Rikers Island, and my neighborhood. We landed quickly, and I got the hell off the plane as fast as possible.

It was 9:30. It was about 65 degrees, and I didn't have my jacket. I got my bag from the turnstile, and caught a cab back to my neighborhood. I was back, and my apartment looked weird and foreign to me. Even though my body had pretty much shut down, I couldn't get to sleep right away, so I watched the tape of the glider and uploaded my photos. I tried to sleep, and a garbage truck bashed its way up the road, a dozen cars behind it blaring their horns. It felt good to be back in my bed, after such a long trip, but I realized that it wasn't good to be back in New York. But I survived, and I think I have enough frequent flier miles to get the hell out for another long weekend soon.