Drove my Chevy to the...

Fifty years ago in the summer of 1963, John Kennedy, visited Hawaii to address a conference of mayors. Thousands, 6 deep, thronged the streets as his motorcade moved through downtown Honolulu. I don't exactly remember why, but I found myself embedded at the airport, eschewing the chaotic city streets for a glimpse of the President as he caught his return flight back to the mainland. I was perched far enough behind the surging mass to have an unobstructed view of Jack Kennedy as he turned at the top of the boarding platform waving...his hair, shockingly more auburn than any photo had ever depicted.

Months later my senior class picnic was held at Bellows Field Beach, a wild, beautiful stretch of sand and surf near the town of Waimanalo.  I was driving my blue convertible Chevy Nova; the car packed with girls, towels, and illicit cigarettes. Tunes were blaring from the radio; an excursion from the mundane rigor of high school was always an excuse for hi jinks. We were the top dogs, the alphas and we were going to enjoy every second of the day. It was 9:00 when we left the campus. Somewhere between the school and Bellows Field, with the radio cutting in and out and the breaking news marred by heavy static, we learned Jack Kennedy had died in Dallas. Every person in the car began to cry. I was emotionally paralyzed behind the wheel. To this day, I have no idea how the car did not lurch off the road. When we returned to the school, the nuns led us in the rosary via an intercom. I drove my Chevy not to the levee, but home; retrieved my cigarettes and retreated to the park behind my house. There after lighting the first smoke, I balled my eyes out; my adolescence crushed, like so many others, fluttered hopelessly under the Hawaiian sun.