The leading edge of the weekend was about water, time spent in the Pacific, walking along the beach at night returning from dinner and drinks served by a Stepfordesque cheery military wife from the better half of a binary choice between Burger King and Pinky’s Pupus. It was about cruising the Nimitz highway, one of a few multilane concrete ribbons on the islands. It was about seeing a man hang-ten in the back of a pickup truck, holding a refrigerator upright with one arm, and the other on the rollcage, flying down H-3 toward the Tetsuo Harano tunnel.

It was about aikido rolls and cartwheels, hammocks and shots—rules: no shoes in the house and if you talk about work you have to do a shot. About $5 wagers and bickering. I can pinpoint the moment yesterday when the first in-joke relevant to just us was birthed, the mention of since cracks us up. I’m not sure how to articulate it, but I think it’s important, necessary for the success of a long group trip.

Number of Man o’ War swam with: 1. Number of tunnels passed through: 5. Number of interstate highways driven: 2. Number of times mistakenly driven up to the MCBH and had to turn around: 3. Number of friends picked up at the airport: 2. Number of hours spent in the ocean: 5.

The trailing edge of the weekend is about food and farmers’ markets, and hiking the Haiku Stairs.

Let’s get illegal.