Zen Temple

Zen Temple which replaced the old one that I visited back in '73

Checking Out Nuuanu Ave.

I knew from past experience that the Honolulu's
"religious culture" was concentrated on Nuuanu Ave. I especially
wanted to go to Nichiren Shoshu, the Japanese Buddhist temple.
When I arrived, it was a bit intimidating. All the temples looked
exclusive and private. The doors were open to the Zen Temple, so I
walked up the steps and went inside. Up by the altar sat a large
Buddha statue (three times my size). It was painted gold with jewels
and other paraphernalia decorating the place where it sat. The Buddha
looked expensive and ornate. It was beautiful, though. I stood there
quietly. I had never been in a real Buddhist Temple before. I could
feel the presence of the spirit. I was in awe. I stood motionless for
a long time. Then, from behind a back panel, out walked this monk. I
guessed he was a monk; his robes were, like the Buddha, lined in gold
broche. He looked at me (scowled might be a better way of putting it)
and then began attending to the shrine.

In that one transforming glance, everything changed. When I first saw
the monk I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to help me get to know
the Buddha better. But, under his stare that feeling all but
disappeared. I became uncomfortable. I felt like an intruder. I
remained silent, but when I looked around I no longer felt like I was
standing on Holy ground. Rather, I saw before me the established
church. I saw the mortar and architecture of a building. I saw the
rules and regulations that set people apart from one another. I saw
the private property that transformed me into a lowly vagabond, a
"threat" to somebody else's "stuff." I turned and, in silence,
returned to the street. When I went into the other Japanese Buddhist
Temple, I had a different experience.

Yoga For Beginners

Keaau Beach, Hawaii
March `73

A couple of days ago, I was sitting by the ocean, playing my
recorder, when two ladies walked up and started asking me questions.
After they finished with the initial introductions the short, heavyset
lady asked me if I had ever practiced yoga. After I told her no, she
told me a class was starting up, and she would be joining it. She said
her friend was the teacher and he was looking for students. She said,
"When Ruth and I saw you playing music by the ocean, I just knew you
would want to join the class." I told her, Babbet, that I had read
books about yoga, but I had never practiced. "Don't worry," she said,
"the class is for beginners."

Babbet offered to drive me to the class. It was going to be held in
Waianae, the next town down from Makaha. Although I was looking
forward to joining the class (the class didn't start for another
week), I wasn't exactly thrilled with Babbet. Apparently, I had
committed to being her beach boy confidant. Within a few days (she
visited me everyday) I knew her entire life story. I found out that
she and her husband were having problems, and that "growing old"
bothered the hell out her. I actually had to schedule a trip into
Honolulu just to get away from her. The excellent Asian food peddled
by the Ala Moana vendors was enough to get me to Honolulu all by
itself, but this time around I wanted to visit some of the religious
temples too.

Life – Eulogy For White Fang

Keaau Beach, Hawaii

I never really recovered from the dog pee in the eye incident. The problem went away,
though. The male dogs screwed little White Fang until she got sick and
died. I was doing business in Honolulu at the time, and when I returned to the beach,
Danny broke the news to me. He told me the ground was too hard to bury
her, so they threw her body into the dumpster. I needed a bit more
closure than that, and I got it by writing her this little eulogy:

White Fang

A stray dog; a hungry dog; a thief.
Provoked anger, mingled with supplication,
culminating in compassion;
a food cash now divided among two species.

Time passed, and a
new home proved expedient.
The dog followed.
Picnic extravagance was much appreciated.
Days of resolute effort turned into
days of tumble and roll.
White Fang had found friends:
Keoki, Mo, Yesika, Primo, Jack, and Short Tail.



The setting sun signaled the end of play
and the beginning of White Fang's vigil.
Witnessed by the light of the moon
two heads lay upon the same pillow.
The divine disclosure of ripe fertility turned
White Fang into the most popular dog in the park.

Pursuit embodied activity
interruption defined routine
excited dogs fighting among themselves
Chaos defined the night.
Evanescent organism
left more than memories.

Two weeks of flight
ended in unnatural quietude.
Exhaustion turned to sickness
leaving a drained and limp body.
Convulsions ushered in death.

Delivered into the garbage can
emotion was rendered neutral.
After two days of rotting dog
empathy lapsed into repulsion.
The garage man was applauded.
White Fang was forgotten.

Pissed Off—Dog’s Rule

Keaau Beach, Hawaii

Edible garbage never lasted long. There was always a stay dog around
to eat it. Every once in a while a dog would disappear from the beach,
but replacements were only a matter of time. Once, after I bought a
five-pound bag of dog food, White Fang reverted to her thieving ways
(there were no cupboards on the beach). That time she took her
boyfriend, Primo, down with her. The two dogs made a shambles of the
inside of my tent. Uneaten portions of dog food were scattered
everywhere. After that, she had to settle for table scrapes. There
were times she went to bed hungry, but that never stopped her from
protecting the tent from intruders. At night, under the light of the
moon, her white body could be seen from far away, and upon close
inspection, my darker silhouette could be seen sleeping right next to her.

Living together was always hard, and just when she and I were getting
along the best, the curse of curses struck. White Fang went into heat, and
after that chaos reigned. Dogs didn't just hang out around my tent after that; they fought each other for White Fang's affection. The problem was she wanted none
of it. I tried to keep the dogs away from her, but I was only
partially successful. There was really nothing I could do except be
irritated, and I was, very, very, irritated.

One night when I was sleeping, and White Fang was tucked safe away
inside the tent, a dog woke me up. Outside, above my head, I awoke to
the cocked leg of a male dog. Before I could react, I got an eyeful of
piss. What a stinging, hurtful, pain, to be roused from sleep at 4 a.m. with a burning sensation in your eye, and dog pee running down your cheek. I didn't
have time to think. I ran to the water faucet up where the cars were
parked and flushed my face with cold water. When I returned I guessed
the dogs could sense my anger because only a few remained.
The sad part was that I couldn't even identify the culprit, it all
happened too fast. When I laid back down, the smell of urine was all
over my jacket and pillow.

Doggy World—A Community Of Their Own

Keaau Beach, Hawaii

I first met the dog while camping on beer can beach (Makua); back
then she was just a stray, thieving, dog. For the most part, it was
food that came between us. It's hard to stay mad at a hungry dog,
though, so we sort of adopted each other. When I left Makuua, she
followed. At Keaau, picnic leftovers were abundant and a smart dog
learned quickly how to fend for herself. In other words, White Fang
(her camp name) no longer had to steal food from me in order to
survive. Actually, once I got my unemployment money, it became a
fifty/fifty proposition. I would feed her some of the time and she
would eat "can food" the rest. During the day she would hang out with
four or five other strays. On the beach, garbage kept the dogs alive.
Her two best buds, One-Eyed Jack, a half-blind collie, and Primo, a
dwarfed yellow lab, used to hang at my tent. At night, though, it was
only White Fang that would show up to sleep. It was her home; every
once in a while that caused problems.

When it rained White Fang figured I put the tent up just for her. In
the beginning, I tried to stop her from getting inside, especially on
that first night when she had her boyfriend, Primo, with her. I
blocked her from coming in the front, but she was sly and smart. She
went to the back and squeezed in from underneath. I could have kicked
her out, but I didn't. Instead, I ended up cramped, sleeping in an
undersized tent with two smelly, wet dogs. In that unpleasant environment,
upon falling asleep, I dreamt about dogcatchers, and they weren't nightmares.

Moving On Up—New Tent

In the pictures above, White Fang is under the cement picnic table and again, she is lying down in the dark patch of shade under the bush by the orange tent; hard to see, but at least she's captured on film.

My beach dog
March ‘73

When I picked up my mail in Honolulu I got a
surprise. Carol Sue was coming over to visit me. She would be here by
week's end and planned to stay for at least a month. I was surprised,
happy, and then anxious. Time would tell if that would turn out okay.
I'd postponed looking for a job for a while. C.S. probably was as
capable as anybody when it came to living in this kind of environment. I
just hoped she knew what she was getting herself into. In her letter
she said she was bringing the basics with her, meaning, I guessed,
that it was up to me to prepare for her arrival.

Before I left Honolulu I bought a new tent. It was big enough for both
of us. Back on the beach, after setting it up, I realized I was
embarking on a whole new lifestyle. The tent was huge, waterproof, and
private. My canvass pup tent, open in front, airy around the bottom,
not large enough to stretch out in, sat beside the bright, new, orange
nylon tent. It was now downgraded to mere storage. That faded piece of
canvass had a lot of memories attached to it, though. I swore I could
still see White Fang, the bitch terrier, sleeping on the blanket
inside. With my trusty terrier lying by my head, I used to feel safe
and secure.

Keaau Surfing—The Protocol

The Haulie Factor

Straight out from the park there was no beach, just a rocky coral
shelf. It was great to walk on, but swimming was dangerous.
More often than not, the waves would throw you up against the shelf's jagged
edges (not a pleasant experience). The swimming beach was at the north
end of Keaau, that's where the surfers congregated. That's also where
I tried surfing (I was given a surfboard as present when one of the surfers
went back to the mainland). I found the surfing protocol too demanding,
though.

In Hawaii, I was considered haulie (a white skinned non Hawaiian).
Among the locals, haulies were considered either a threat, or just
an undesirable part of the landscape. When it came to surfing, though,
haulies (at least at Keaau) were expected defer to the locals. To
avoid offending anybody, it was best to surf when nobody was out on
the waves, and that was only when the surf was down. Bodysurfing was
different, however. Those waves broke close to shore. Actually, I was more
than happy to let the locals have their waves. All I needed to make me
happy was to be able to see, hear, and feel the waves. If I had to, I
could do that from the rocky shelf or anywhere else.

In fact, I spent a good deal of time sitting next to the shelf’s tidal
pools. These natural aquariums offered up crayfish and other assorted marine
animals a breather from Ma Nature’s food chain. Cradled safely within
the pools, the young escaped from the ocean’s more dangerous waters and
tidal currents. Sitting above the pools, I would watch as the baby eel gracefully
plucked algae from the pitted rock surfaces while the more colorful tiny fish
darted to and fro across the bottoms of the larger pools. Occasionally, an
overzealous wave would wash across these tidal pools, sending crabs and
company back into the sea where dinner was constantly being served.
But, until high tide at least, most of these prodigious youth would remain
free from the meld that, ultimately, weaves everything back into the
patchwork of nature’s organic quilt.