Have you ever killed someone while on holiday? Spouses, annoying children, and people who stand up to take things out of their bags in the overhead lockers before take-off excluded. I am headed to Honolulu for a rugby tournament. Sounds awesome on the surface, but underneath my calm exterior my life is in turmoil. The normally vast amount of patience I have with the stupidity of the world has worn thin in recent months. My travel agent and best mate Jonesy thinks it is in my best interests to attend the event in the islands to calm me down. Of course, he doesn't think to put me in a better frame of mind before we leave.
Watching Rick Steves' travel productions on television, people have the assumption that anyone travelling on vacation must always be in the brightest of moods. Why is that? Does no bad shit ever happen to anyone during or right before vacation? How is it that Rick Steves never gets diarrhea while travelling? Does he have a steel tube for a colon? I get diarrhea after my first meal of foreign food. Am I the only one? Sorry I digress. I love travelling, don't get me wrong, there are simply enough pitfalls and hassles with it that it is always advantageous to not already be suicidal when you arrive at check-in. Don't know what Jonesy thinks a weekend in Hawaii will do for me. Molokai, Lanai, Maui, Kauai, every bloody word ends in an 'i.' That alone is enough to send someone postal.
The wisdom of the ages, don't stress over what you can't control, just let it be and focus on being happy. Easier said than done. I don't seem to have much control over anything in my life at the best of times. Should I consider myself a piece of flotsam on the ocean's surface? Inevitably headed towards the great Pacific garbage patch? I initially reject the idea of attending the 1997 Budweiser Hawaii Harlequins tournament. But Jonesy uses my credit card details to buy his ticket as he doesn't have the funds. He thinks it proper that he also buy a ticket for me to repay me. Also using my credit card. What are mates for?
I have just quit, or been fired, from my job. Same difference, so I tend to forget immediately exactly how it goes down. They both equal unemployment. On my resume it is always documented as downsized. It isn't the first occasion I have been sacked or resigned from a company. Perusing my CV, you would think the medical industry was in severe recession. Downsizing every few months. Unlike the other times, this time it feels different. There is a change happening, either with me or with the work environment I am used to. Or with society in general. Who has the time to keep track? Change is not a bad thing, it just feels uncomfortable. Like knowing my prostate is healthy is not a bad thing, but to have it inspected to find this out feels uncomfortable.
Something doesn't feel right when I lose my job. This entire year feels different. Princess Diana dies in a car crash. Mother Teresa dies of being overly kind and generous. The UK returns Hong Kong to Chinese rule after their lease runs out. There is a global economic crisis, the Hale-Bopp comet has its closest approach to earth, and to top it all off there is a frigging El Nino weather pattern in the Pacific. I can't keep my head straight with all this going on. Next thing you know some scientist will clone a sheep. Oh shit, that happens as well.
On the five-hour flight to Hawaii I weigh all of this up in my head. There is such a prevailing aura of stress hanging over me that all the other passengers in my row ask to be reseated elsewhere. The stewardesses avoid me like I am carrying the plague. All the signs are there that this is not starting out to be a good weekend in paradise. And they already have the El Nino to deal with. As a travel agent, Jonesy makes a piss poor psychologist. I don't think Hawaii will be able to handle me. They were already fucked over once by Japan. We shall see.
Speaking of days that live in infamy, without diving too deep into the technical details, people living at the time of WWII must have been particularly clueless. First the Germans amass an invading force for Austria that no one sees coming. Then Hitler invades Poland which no one sees coming. The Japanese have a fleet of aircraft carriers approach and bomb Pearl Harbor that nobody sees coming. Hitler invades Russia with 3 million men and 3500 tanks that nobody sees coming. The Allies land at Normandy with thousands of troop carriers that the Germans don't see coming. Did people just not care what was going on around them? What could have been occupying the attention of the people in the 1940's so much that a World War broke out that nobody saw coming. WWII was like Justin Bieber mania in 2009. One minute not a soul knows anything about it, the next thing you know it is fucking everywhere destroying the world.
Arriving at Honolulu airport I am given a standing ovation by the passengers on my flight who are thankful to be rid of me. My travelling companions are not so lucky. My foul mood threatens to cast a dark cloud over their trip. Hawaii is at risk of being drowned by the tsunami of my gloom. The airport sliding glass doors open. My face is struck by the warm rays of the glorious sun. Oh god, shoot me now.
Then something weird happens. There is something insane about what palm trees and a tropical breeze can do to a person's temperament. Within 20 minutes of stepping off the plane I am starting to twitch with the feelings of being refreshed and relaxed. What is wrong with me? An hour passes, and I am standing on Waikiki Beach renting a long board to go surfing. The islands of aloha can do that to a person. Just not if you are flying overhead dropping bombs. If I was a scientist, instead of cloning sheep, I would be trying to work out how to bottle the essence of lying on warm sand at the beach to sell in a range of personal care products. After shave, underarm deodorant, teeth whitening gel. The world is becoming a stressful place to live, we all need a little time at the beach to put things in proper perspective.
There are seven players from the Santa Monica Dolphins going to Hawaii, eight if you include me. I am not pulling on the boots. Ten months ago, I was nearly killed in a car accident and I am still progressing with my rehab. I am working hard at getting back to full strength. Currently I can down four beers before starting to feel drunk. My goal before resuming my rugby career is nine. Seven players are not enough to make a rugby side so someone has been in touch with the team coming to the tournament from Guam, who also don't have a full complement of players, and both team will combine. They will play under the title of Guam and so will be representing that country. Afterwards my teammates claim it as earning an international cap, but I haven't heard the International Rugby Board's final opinion on the matter.
Kapiolani Regional Park is on the forefront of Waikiki Beach and the foot of Diamond Head. Picture perfect. No one could ask for a more spectacular setting for a rugby tournament. I have played my fair share of rugby games on landfilled garbage dumps. This is the place to play the game they play in heaven. The fields are set up beside the Waikiki Bandshell which has been fenced off to act as the legal area for drinking alcohol. Watching guard over the beer garden entrance is an enormous Hawaiian man squeezed into a plastic lawn chair. He sweats like no other man I have ever seen. That is what people do in Hawaii, they perspire. The flashy advertisements all promote the idea that life in Hawaii is all about surfing, paddleboards, and scuba diving. But what you really do while there on vacation is sweat. The official state drink is water and the state food is salt tablets.
Despite the soul sucking humidity, the games are as fun to watch as the beer I sneak out of the beer garden is to drink. I commit the cardinal sin of waiting to the last minute to resist fighting the urge in my bladder. Don't want to break the seal to early and I'll be heading to the bathroom every five minutes. On this occasion I have misjudged the pressure building in my perineum. I probably look like a castrated goat as I scurry off in search of the bathroom.
As I power walk past the sleeping Hawaiian man in the lawn chair at the opening to the beer garden, I ask for directions to the bathroom. He doesn't stir. 'Hey mate, can you point me to the loo?' I ask in a louder tone. No answer. I look closer. The beads of water on his brow are the size of marbles. Sweat is bleeding out of his pores. A steady stream of liquid cascades down the furrow of his nose and pours off his flaring nostrils. Reminds me of the waterfall at the beginning of Jurassic Park. It must be a profoundly deep sleep as the guy barely looks like he is breathing. In fact, I suddenly doubt he is breathing. I gently nudge him. Nothing. Then I shake him, then I start slapping his face trying to get him to respond. No response at all.
I was taught basic first aid from the old school of medical intervention. If someone has a panic attack you slap them hard across the face to calm them down. If someone collapses from cardiac arrest you break their ribs performing CPR. If someone is choking from an object stuck in their windpipe you wrap your arms tightly around their waist and look like you are bum fucking them with a vengeance. This guy is not responding so I get vigorous with my hits. Nothing. Shit. He not only could fill a bucket with his sweat, he has kicked it.
Several other people start to gather around. The police are alerted, and the first officer there makes a perfunctory assessment of the crime scene. A bystander points at me. 'That guy was slapping him around.'
The officer eyes me off, then subtly motions for me to come over to him. 'So, you were slapping him?'
'I was trying to arouse him,' I respond.
'Why would you need to do that?'
'I wanted to know where to pee.'
'So, he didn't tell you and so you assaulted him?' The cop persists.
I can think of many reasons why I have wanted to kill people, with most of them having been especially trivial. However, committing first degree homicide because someone isn’t willing to tell me where the toilet is situated would be a stretch for Ted Bundy.
'No. He was already dead.' As soon as I said it I knew sounded rather heartless. As in, we wrapped the body in plastic and dumped it in the river to drown it, but he was already dead.
'He was dead before you gave him a chance to answer?'
'He was dead before I knew I needed to pee.'
Surely the cop would have experience with this type of incident before? Why is there any suspicion of foul play? I can't imagine that this is the first incredibly overweight Hawaiian local to go belly up while sitting in a chair under the hot sun. With the size of some of the people on the islands, sitting in a chair is probably the number two or three killer of the populace. With climbing stairs being number one. This is probably the least tragic death I have ever seen. You have to say it must have been his time. He was sitting there minding his own business and peacefully expired. You can't ask for a more laissez faire way to take that final dip in the 6-foot deep kiddie pool. The cop goes back through his notes, is satisfied that this isn't a case of an honor killing and allows everyone to disperse.
'Watch yourself,' he cautions me.
'I'll try be more careful next time I have to take a whiz, mate.'
Later that night I am at the rugby function. I am chatting with some lads on a team from the north island of New Zealand. One of them mentions he lives near Papatoetoe. This name rings a bell from the numerous trips I had made to New Zealand with my family to visit my relatives.
'My cousins live not far from Papatoetoe. One of them is an electrician and he…'
'Matty Smith,' he states without hesitation. It never ceases to amaze me how small this world can be.
'Bloody hell, how did you know that? Is he the only electrician on the North Island?'
'Aren't you the Aussie guy that killed the local?' One of his mates asks.
Shit, bad news travels fast. If I am not careful this news will get back to my cousin, then to my uncle, then to my mother, ultimately it will get to Dad. What the hell has that imbecile done now, will be his reaction.
'I didn't kill him. I just slapped him around a bit. He was probably already dead,' I reply. That sounds right, doesn't it?
And that is another secret of my life that my father never knew about until he reads this book.