Waiting for wind in Windward Oahu

My new home is just 2 kilometres from a large army base. The huge Galaxy transport planes come in every five minutes. They are flanked by small security Cessnas or Chinook helicopters. That’s what I call fear in your own country. You can’t blame the soldiers. It wouldn’t be the first time here that a president has had 2,000 soldiers barbecued for a reason for war.

Despite the proximity to the base, it’s wonderfully quiet here. But compared to Waikiki, even a jackhammer is quiet. I check the wind on the other side of the bay on the internet and after 11 weeks of almost no kitesurfing, I finally head to the Mecca of kitesurfing on Oahu, Kailua.

I lie on the beach all day in 15km/h winds. A French woman shoos her husband with the kite to the apparently correct starting position. But with so few assets and so little wind, it can only be fun. Which it does.

I walk home in the evening, frustrated. The second car picked me up on the way there. On the way back, 500 pass by and not a single bus within 2 hours. I walk the whole 5 kilometres home, partly in the dark and in the rain. Back home, I realise that even flip-flops can make your feet bloody.

Next day, hardly any wind. It rains every now and then. I’m working on a database. My landlady flew to LA this morning. The two other lodgers are moving out. The last one is as good as invisible. Just in his room all day. You need a house in paradise for that. I’m alone in a luxury house for around $4,000 a month rent. My golden cage doesn’t even need bars, there’s simply no wind. I watch my feathers fall to the floor.

In the evening I take the bus back to Kailua. After only 45 minutes, one of them arrives. The bus driver barks at me that if I don’t stand, he won’t stop. Stupid git, could have arrived half an hour earlier! Kailua. No shoes for me anywhere. I buy beer and cigarettes, something to eat. Bored at a lousy Mexican restaurant. On the way back, the same idiot on the bus again. While he tells me that my ticket from earlier is also valid for the return journey, he stuffs my unaccepted dollar notes back in. “Ay, still got it? Well then it’s for the tyres.”

I hang myself in the mat of this lock. My beer sounds like fully synthetic high-performance oil: HG800 (High Gravity, 8%). Cheers then.