One of the most beautiful parts of the day on the North Shore is the sunset. The sun lights up the sky with hues of gold and pink, the wind drops down and the water reflects the sky on it’s unruffled surface. On the beach, people become silhouettes against the glow - cut out patterns in a neon golden backdrop - and families and couples are drawn to the shoreline to watch the surf booming against the shining sky. It’s magic hour.
I like to walk back home from evening surfs, as opposed to driving, to soak up these precious moments, and feel my feet sink deep into the coarse sand while my ears fill with the echoes and rhythm of crashing breakers pounding the shore. It feels rainbow coloured, like life should be.
A couple of nights ago, while I was soaking up one such moment, I saw a Japanese fella walking along the same shoreline. He was clearly dressed for Hawaii, in floral trunks and a neon pink and yellow Sex Pistol’s T Shirt, and was listening to an iPod. Now I am no fluent Japanese speaker, but I have always enjoyed saying hi to people, so I smiled and said, “Konichiwa!”
To my surprise, instead of merely nodding back to me, he took his headphones out of his ears and came bounding up to me.
“What is this place?” He asked.
“Well, erm, it’s called Rocky Point and it’s on the north shore of Oahu, Hawaii,” I replied, trying to be as clear as possible.
“Oh cool, North Shore,” He replied before smiling broadly and taking a deep breath, sucking it all in. “I am listening to Jack Johnson,” He confessed.
“Cool,” I responded, “You know that Jack actually lives up the road from here?”
“GET OUT OF THE SHITTY!” He shouted, slapping my back a little harder than he should have, “Were does Mr Jack Johnson live?”
Now I don’t know exactly where Jack resides, so I drew my new acquaintance a rough map and hoped that would be the end of it. As I crouched like a bushman and explained my rudimentary drawing in the sand to him, he beamed from ear to ear.“My name is Hiro,” He said, “I fly to Tokyo on tomorrow, and you have made my vacation worth my yen with this news.”
I smiled and introduced myself, not sure what to say and kind of feeling bad because my map was a bit of a lie really, but he wasn’t finished yet: “You like my t-shirt?” He asked, stretching it out so I could read the “Sex Pistol’s” part clearly.
“Yup, it’s cool,” I replied, “The Sex Pistols are one my favourite bands.”
“GET OUT OF THE SHITTY!” Hiro yelped again, and, grinning, spanked my shoulder blades way too hard this time.
“I am really a stokie!” He continued.
I smiled sheepishly, “You mean you are stoked?”
“Yes, yes, that is what I mean. I am stoked…. Just like you Daniel-san.”
And Hiro was right. Against the luminescent backdrop of an Oahu sunset, talking to a crazy Japanese tourist, with salt crusting onto my skin and that hypnotic shorepound in my ears, I couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t be stoked when the sun goes down on yet another day on the North Shore.
