When my husband and our five children moved to Hawaii in 1971, I thought I’d landed in paradise. I’d never seen any place so beautiful.
But one thing that worried me was the fact that we were surrounded by water. The 20-foot waves at Nanakuli Beach scared the tar out of me. Of course, my husband and the kids, ages 7 to 14, loved them. They didn’t know any more about surfing than I did, which was nothing, but they were eager to try.
Nanakuli became our favorite beach. It was down the coast from Waimea Bay, where we also often went. Waimea is a large bay with a huge rock just off the beach, like the one at Seaside, Ore.
Even though I became more comfortable with the water, I soon developed the habit of taking an inner tube and fins with me when I swam. Seven-year-old Paul, our youngest, was the only one who hadn’t completed the test for his swimming badge back home at Andover Pool in Linthicum, Md., when we left for the islands. So he was the one I was most worried about. He continued taking lessons at our local community pool in Hawaii, but still wasn’t quite competent, I thought.
We were at Waimea and the younger children were playing near the beach while the older ones were climbing the rock with some other children and jumping off. I decided to float out on my tube to be near them and was calmly paddling around when I heard a faint cry coming from behind me on the beach side: “Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!”
I turned in horror at the sound of Paul’s voice to see him far from the beach, splashing, all arms and legs, like a crab, about 20 yards away.
My heart in my mouth, I began paddling like crazy toward my son and soon covered the distance between us — meanwhile screaming at him to stop and wait for me. I was terrified that he’d get tired and sink before I could get to him.
As I drew near to this struggling kid, I saw behind him, swimming slowly and silently like an alligator, a large young Hawaiian man. His head was barely out of the water as he followed my child. Paul was happily splashing his way toward me, and in an instant I knew my boy was all right.
I heard a deep Hawaiian voice call calmly to me, “He OK, Momma?”
I breathed a grateful, “Yeah, I got him now, thanks.” And as I reached my errant baby and grabbed him onto the inner tube, I realized how close my Paul had come to drowning, except for a big Hawaiian angel who was guarding him — and his mamma in an inner tube.
I learned later that it was a custom for Hawaiian “beach boys” to look out for any youngster who might be in trouble, and that these unofficial lifeguards had saved many lives. It was one of many Aloha traditions I came to appreciate.
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