Each morning, the locals come out -- some, mostly men, bring long poles and throw their lines into the surf. Then they sit nearby and watch the waves roll in. I haven't seen them catch anything yet -- but I don't really have the attention span. There are the morning surfers and kayakers -- and the morning tourists. Those not-so-easily distracted fitness walkers and those plagued by the time change from the continent -- up before dawn thanks to preprogrammed internal clocks.
Then, there are the seaweed pickers. The locals, who, armed with plastic bags comb through the mounds of seaweed left when the tide goes out for a particular type of seaweed.
So, as I headed out this morning for my morning stroll, I stopped and watched. A small woman with a visor and sandals stooped every few steps and pulled a brownish collection from all the green. I watched her for a few minutes and all I could do was marvel at the way she could spot these little brown plants when all I could see was green.
Another tourist came up and asked her about the seaweed. She explained that you clean it, then par boil it. It's served chopped with sweet onions and tomatoes and a little bit of pepper.
That tourist left and I asked the woman if I could take her picture. She hesitated for a moment -- "Come on?" I said. "You'll never see me again..." She looked up and smiled.
Her name is Lenore. She's originally from the Phillippines but moved here when she got married. She said she has to walk each morning because she's retired now. Sometimes she picks the seaweed for herself, sometimes she gives it away to her friends. Her children are grown and she has grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. Lenore admits that sometimes she'd like to move back to the Phillpines -- a brother and sister are still there. But, later she says there's nothing much to miss as it's almost the same here.
I ask her to teach me to find the seaweed and I stoop to pick up a clump that I'm sure is right. She laughs, "No -- that's not it." This process is repeated for about 5 minutes, when I finally learn to spot the right stuff. "That's it!" she nods. I was ecstatic.
I walk with her for a while -- not sure if she wants company -- not sure if I do -- but watching her eyes scan the clumps of verdant plants for the small brown branches of her salad. She's like an eagle -- scooping up her prey -- prey that is unseen by anyone else.
Lenore explains that you can find this certain seaweed on several beaches, but this one is closest to her home. (I think she said it was called gobo, but by the time I got back to the house, I'd forgotten the word)Each side of the island has different kinds of seaweed. She said tourists come here and learn how to eat the Hawaiian way -- and it makes them feel better. Then they go home and forget about it. The next year, they come back and they remember again.
Finally, I'm able to see it. Once you're eyes are trained to it, it's easy to spot. The branches are longer than the other seaweeds...no feathers, not green... It occurs to me that hunting for this seaweed is a lot like life. Sometimes what you need is not the magic potion purchased from the great wizard selling hope -- it's right in front of you hidden among the mundane.
Eventually I thank my new friend for sharing her day with me and I walk ahead. The beach is an interesting place -- there is the weathliest of visitors -- walking along with their $20 "green" mug filled with expensive coffee and good taste. The grateful retiree who saved and pinched for a lifetime to visit or to stay here each winter. The locals whom I suspect begrudingly share this space with everyone else. Then there are the people I suspect slept here last night -- worldly belongings packed in a 30 gallon black plastic garbage bag and a few essentials tucked into a back pack. This group is also diverse -- a college age kid in a hurry to get somewhere. A 20-something smelling of patchoulli and dreams of living "free". The elderly gentlemen who found a protection collection of palm trees under which to camp and talk.
It's easy to make assumptions about these people as I travel through their world and I wonder what or if they stop to think of me. The housewife on vacation -- stopping to find seaweed or take a picture. The writer who wonders if other people hear the words in their heads like I do -- the person who has a hard time soaking it all in because she want to get back to the computer so badly -- to write and tell the story of her new friend Lenore and her seaweed.
It's easier to walk close to the water -- the sand is more compact. Yes, there is risk of a wave or two -- but again the beach has reminded me of another life lesson. Sometimes it appears to make more sense to stay away from the risks -- to walk away from the water. But maybe it's better to walk closer to the water's edge -- there is risk, yes -- but the rewards are so much greater...
Today I met someone new -- I learned a little about seaweed... and maybe a bit about myself -- all I had to do was walk along the water.
