Diane Stark (McConnell) Sanfilippo
Chapter 68 Even More Adventures in Paradise
From the very first, there was something about Billy’s sports
car that I did not like; whether it was his ‘love’ of the tiny
car, its Martian-like ‘bug eye headlights, or the cramped
conditions when the entire family filled it, I am not sure.
What I am sure of was that I did not like it. Billy loved it
though and on the weekends when he was not on duty, we all
piled inside and explored Oahu.
Once, when someone asked me what we saw while we were there,
and another asked, “Did you see thus and such?”
My reply was always the same, “We saw everything that did not
charge admission.”
Some of these places remain in my memories as special and those
that I wished to remember; like the huge steel cross that
marked the pass in the mountains where the Japanese zeros
roared over Schofield Barracks on that early Sunday morning in
December, 1941, to strike first at the fighter planes on the
ground at Wheeler Field. Although I was not even born at the
time, I could just imagine the fear of those young couples
living in the quarters on post. Awakened from a deep sleep,
they heard first the explosions and then the sound of the
aircraft overhead as wing after wing of those planes, with
the terrifying rising sun on their wings, flew over Schofield
Barracks. Most of the officer’s quarters were the very same as
on that Day of Infamy, and being right there just brought the
horror to life for me.
Not long after Elvis Presley donated money to create a proper
memorial over the battleship Arizona, we visited Pearl Harbor
and took a boat out to the site. Amazingly, bubbles of oil still
leaked from the massive sunken ship and the graveyard of so many
young sailors. Even Michael, at the young age of three, seemed
to realize that this was a sacred place and he quietly held onto
his father’s hand as we peered into the depths of the harbor and
saw the massive ship, seemingly intact, although she lay in pieces,
blown to bits by torpedo bombs. I will never forget that afternoon,
staring into the clear water of Pearl Harbor at the rusting gray
tomb, the image forever etched in my memory.
There were other memorials all over the island, and stories to
learn of so many heroes, but the Punchbowl National Cemetery was the
one that I think of when I think of cemeteries. I have been to
Arlington National Cemetery many times while living in Northern
Virginia, and I visited several American cemeteries in parts of
Europe that were gratefully cared for by the local residents, but
nowhere have I ever experienced the feeling that I did that day at
the Punchbowl. Shivers ran up my spine, although it must have been
80 degrees in the sun, and perhaps because this was the first time
that I had visited such holy ground with row after row after row of
perfectly aligned white crosses and the occasional Star of David. As
we stood there in complete silence, both of us holding onto our own
thoughts, for some reason, I could not shake a feeling of foreboding,
perhaps because I knew that soon my precious Billy would be leaving
for Vietnam. I know that I silently prayed that I would never have to
read his name on a cross or a bronze marker, and when I moved closer
to him, he slipped his arm around my waist, and I around his. I could
not imagine life without him since my own had begun the day we met.
We did not confine ourselves to the memorials, but we parked at
Waikiki Beach and dipped our feet into the almost still water, just
so that we could say that we had been there. We circled the entire
island on the King Kamehameha Highway that ran in front of our house,
and once turned off the main road down a sandy lane that led to an
abandoned World War II airfield. The concrete of the runway lay in
chunks, the hangers gone, but several old Quonset huts still stood
watch silently, although full of holes where they had rusted through
in places from the salt air. We walked over this barren landscape and
could hear the sea just over the dunes, and Billy said how lonely it
felt here, although the highway was less than a mile away. Now, I
understand, there is a huge resort hotel on that very spot.
We circled around to Kaneohe Bay, where the shark had killed the
surfer that had been on the front page of the paper not long after we
moved into our beach house, and where the Marines in the shark watch
copter watched several sharks following in the wake of a water skier.
Also in the article had been the fact that one of the largest tiger
shark breeding grounds was found near the entrance to the bay, and
we both decided that we would let the Air Force keep this side of the
island!
One drive took us to the Pali Overlook where legend says that warriors
leapt to their death rather than become prisoners, or killed, but that
is just one of the legends that belong to this scenic area. After Billy
parked the car, tenuously I followed him, with Michael riding on his
broad shoulders, and as we approached the edge of the cliff I could not
bring myself to get close enough to look over, besides the view was
enough beauty for me to take in that day. There was not a secure
guardrail as there is at The Grand Canyon, and my fear of heights
replaced any desire I had to look downward. It is beautiful, and the
winds are strong here, but not for one moment did I believe the legend
that if one jumped from the overlook, the wind would push them back to
the precipice. No, not for one instant did I believe it!
We walked the wooden board sidewalks of Haleiwa, going into the stores
while I shopped for material for curtains for the children’s rooms, and
the prices were twice that on the mainland, but of course, ships furnished
everything to this remote island, even the fuel for electric power! Then,
in the mid 60’s, one single dollar bought meat for one meal, but when I
ran out of milk and bread, I was appalled to have to pay a dollar for it
at the local stores. It simply made no sense to purchase anything on the
economy, and we certainly avoided it as much as possible. Gasoline was
outrageous, except on the military posts and bases, so trips to Schofield
to buy groceries, or even to fill the cars up with gas were essential.
Money was tight now that we had a car payment, something that we had
never had before, and there were times towards the end of the month that
I did not have the money for milk or bread, and would have to search the
house looking for change just for the bare necessities.
However, we had plenty of pineapple! Most evenings when Billy was able to
come home for supper, he would stop in the pineapple field and for just a
quarter buy the leftovers from the tourist buses when the fruit was at that
perfect stage of ripeness when one more day would find it spoiled. So while
we did not have the money to visit the ‘tourist’ attractions, such as the
Polynesian Village where there were nightly luaus, we saw what we could see
just paying the cost of gasoline, and I will have to admit that ugly ‘bug-
like’ car went a long way on just a little bit of gas!
On one of our weekend drives, Billy took me through Schofield Barracks and
out the back gate. This gate opened to a road that led through miles of
mountains that were supposed to conceal secret ammunition bunkers, and the
M.P.s timed all vehicles as they made the descent from one gate to the other.
If a car took too long to reach the gate at the other end, a Military Police
car went to look for the offending vehicle, and if a car reached the other
end too quickly, the driver received a ticket for speeding. It was almost
impossible to speed as the road was one hairpin curve after another and
switched back on itself several times. The actuality that there was cactus
growing in this tropical landscape fascinated me, along with the fact that
all along this road, the steel cross in the infamous pass was visible. I
enjoyed this drive, not just for the beauty of the mountains, but because
every now and then, a narrow road, not much wider than tire tracks would
veer off towards the mountains with a large ‘KEEP OUT’ sign at the entrance,
so my imagination went wild wondering what was at the end of the road.
Often there was even a locked gate, which intrigued my imagination further,
but unlike the times that Billy and I would follow roads just like these
in the North Georgia Mountains and some at Ft. Benning, we knew better
than to even try it here.
Goodness! Of all the sights that I left out were two that are among the most
popular with the tourists, Diamond Head, and the blowhole! Diamond Head does
not need description, and actually, the view from the Pali Overlook is far
prettier, although the sea is in the distance, but the blowhole fascinated
all of us. It was exciting to observe the huge waves as they crashed against
the lava rocks and then sprayed water through the holes that had taken
centuries to form. and even Michael enjoyed the spectacle since we were far
enough away from the water that he could not possibly get wet. We drove
through the rain forest near Kaneohe, although, at the time, I was not nearly
as appreciative of the flora and fauna as I would be now. Still it was
breathtakingly beautiful, and such a rare occurrence to see thousands of
orchids in a kaleidoscope of colors from the deepest jewel tones to the palest
of pastels just growing wild throughout the forest. But nowhere did we ever
find a beach nearly as lovely as our ‘own’ backyard, plus we had the advantage
of having no ‘tourists’ to mar the natural beauty of Sunset Beach.
We spent hour after hour, whenever Billy could be home, getting to know our
beautiful island home and these memories will be with me forever, but I have
no burning desire to return. One can never go back, and I am sure that I would
find the changes appalling as the island’s tourist trade has grown out to
invade even our lovely wild beach, with a huge resort just around the corner
from our small A-frame home, which is still there. I know that I would HAVE to
see it, but I would not want to see it, because of the memories. Although I
know that I can never, never go back to those beautiful days exploring the
island, and those even more beautiful nights lying in my Billy’s arms on that
soft cream carpet.
As if it were yesterday, I still have those same feelings, with the same
intensity, and my mind remains twenty-two years old while in our little frame
house I am still waiting for my soldier to come home. I can never hold him
again, or gently trace his handsome face with my finger, and my heart can no
longer race through those peaks and valleys as we made love with the moon
watching through the tall windows. My cheeks no longer sting from his
unshaven face as we kissed, deeply and frantically, until we both climbed
to the moon over, and over, and over again, and never again will I hear him
softly whisper, “I love you more than life itself”.
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