Hawaiian Summer

We called it “the Tower,” because that is exactly what it was.

The Bishop family owned it. They found the abandoned windmill and rescued it for their summer camp. It stood on a rise above Great Peconic Bay near Hampton Bays, where friends and families had summer “camps,” as they were known.

The Herricks and the Bishop families had been friends for eons. After my grandmother died, my grandfather married Alma Bishop, whose husband had died, too. Since they had grown up together in our small, close-knit village, Alma and Gaku were happily matched.

I turned 11 in March 1965. Gaku would turn 80 that July.

The endless 20-minute drive west to the Tower on the old highway skirted the shore of Peconic Bay. We sat in the back of the pickup truck, our eyes glued forward so that one of us would be the first to spot the tower. “I see the tower!” was the claim to that day’s fame.

As my grandfather’s 80th birthday approached, we could hardly wait for our aunts Luzzy and Nancy, who were traveling with their families all the way across sea and land from Oahu in Hawaii. There would be lots of days at the bay, but the birthday party was to take place on North Main Street at the original homestead, built in 1750, where my family still lives. My Uncle John Herrick, Aunt Dorrie and their six kids from Massachusetts were to stay with us, the cousins all sharing our bedrooms.

Preparations began. Long tables, borrowed from the church, were set in the yard closest to the patio. The clambake pit was established in the driveway.

Cousin Maggie, from Hawaii, was a year older than I. Maggie was quite tall and lean. She loved horses and making up skits to entertain the grownups after dinner, like I did. To our great amusement, we discovered that shaking a lit flashlight at the actors made them appear as if in an old movie reel, animated.

Later, at bedtime, when the lights went out and we were to be asleep, Maggie and I talked and dreamed our next day’s adventure.

Those following days we spent at either the Tower, diving off the float into the bay, or at the ocean, riding waves on our blow-up mats. Aunts, uncles, parents and friends kept our days full and happy.

At last, the big event took place. Everyone wore flower leis direct from Hawaii. Gaku stood tall and erect, adorned with a beautiful birthday lei around his neck. I wore a red shift with white Hawaiian flower print. I felt unusually special and pretty. Maggie and I did a hula dance for everyone.

The party was a happy success and, too soon, the cousins had to return to Massachusetts and Oahu.

My family had to deal with a difficult issue that fall. In November, Melissa came home from secretarial school pregnant out of wedlock. Within a week, she was married to her boyfriend in our front parlor. No one explained it to me. I simply sensed my parents’ shame and anger. This was, after all, small town, 1965.

Aunt Luzzie suspected I needed liberation and rescued me by offering an invitation to visit Oahu the following summer. It was exactly what was called for.

I traveled on my first-ever airplane ride with Julie, an older cousin headed home to Hawaii from Radcliffe College near Boston. We stopped in California to visit her sister, Mary.

One day, Julie took me on an outing along the famous 17-mile oceanfront drive. Suddenly, she pulled over, told me to stay in the car and ran toward a large boulder in the ocean waves. Standing atop, she bellowed a sort of primal scream as her long blond hair blew straight out toward the sea for several minutes.

I had never seen anything like this in staid Southampton, and the image has remained vivid ever since.

Arriving on Oahu, Aunt Luzzie and Aunt Nancy, Julie’s mother, met us at the airport draping us with beautiful leis, the official Hawaiian welcome.

Aunt Luzzie taught grade school and, hence, enjoyed kids. Soon, I would find myself making leis out of flowers and seeds, having been taught by her. She also got me scrambling up mountain passes, hiking in ancient forests, swimming and snorkeling in gorgeous reefs.

Hula dancing was one thing Luzzie didn’t teach. Instead, I learned hula at the local “Y” from a native Hawaiian.

I had never experienced the kind of friendship Luzzie offered from any other adult.

I grew up and out of my old self that summer. Early on, I was still needing a fix of food to calm me, like a drug might calm a drug addict. One day, Aunt Luzzie was out, and I thought I was able to sneak something.

As I opened the freezer and was about to scoop a spoonful of ice cream, I sensed someone behind me. My heart fell in panic as I turned to see my cousin, Mackenzie, watching me from behind. Shame flooded my robust frame.

After that, I decided to lose the weight. I couldn’t wait to come home lighter and make my mother happy.

A week before I was to fly home, Luzzie took me to Waikiki for an outrigger canoe ride. She watched from the shore. I and about seven other “tourists” climbed into the long canoe with a large wooden brace on one side. I felt independent and eager. We were each given a paddle and very strict directions to paddle only when told.

The boat rose under a large wave. “Paddle!” the captain shouted — and I paddled like mad. Instantly, however, we were sitting on the ocean bottom, watching large colorful fish swim by, and, just as quick, we surfaced, soaking wet and befuddled. Someone screwed up with paddling, but we survived!

On the beach, Aunt Luzzie had a good laugh.

My last day in Hawaii, Aunt Luzzie handed me a coconut right off the tree, fully encased in a hard brown outer shell. I was to husk the shell off like we had seen the young Hawaiian do it at the Polynesian Cultural Center one day.

By then, I was lean and strong enough to slam the fruit onto a pickax blade over and over, pulling the large nut toward me with all my strength. It took me a proud afternoon to finish.

When back in Southampton, Gaku invited me to step on the big scale at the hardware store. In his stately way, he was showing his pride in my weight loss.

There were still some days left for going to the Tower before school started. And I was eager to start seventh grade.

Gaku died just a few years later. The memory of his 80th birthday and the gift it gave me stays ever alive, like it was yesterday.

Hilary Herrick Woodward is a resident of Southampton.