It's not getting any easier for me. I once thought that when you found your man, you rode the surfboard of life together, weathering all its wipeouts and near misses. Not really. I'm not that naïve any more. You see, I'm talking about my family. It's always been about ohana--nothing else matters. I try very hard to keep us together and functioning. Yeah, happy too. Sometimes I actually succeed. I shouldn't brag lest I tempt the fates, for we are certainly vulnerable, even on this beautiful island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

         Hawaii is the most isolated island group on earth, yet this stark thought doesn't frighten me. I feel complete here. You see, the Koolau and Waianae mountains watch over us. If we're not near the mountains, we're closer to the ocean. One or the other is always there to embrace and nurture our ohana. We are kamaaina, children of the land. Oahu is our land--we have never lived anywhere else. In fact, we've never even been to any of the other 49 states.

         Malia Pualoa is my name. Right now I'm sitting on a grassy knoll at Kakaako Park on the south shore of Oahu. I'm native Hawaiian and passionately proud of my island heritage. My mother tells me that we are alii, those descended from chiefs, kings, and queens, but I don't buy that.

         Overhead in the monkeypod tree, I hear the mynah birds squeal and squawk like some enormous squabbling family. Oh, I don't say there's never peace and quiet in our family. But my mother lives with us, and she's tied to the old ways. Hank says she interferes too much. Mama thinks I could have made a better marriage for myself. I disagree. I love Hank dearly. Most of the time we're still sweethearts. Only the boozing causes squabbles between us. The more successful his construction business becomes, the more he wants to relax with a drink in his hand. Still, when his strong arms wrap around me, he's so tender. I wouldn't change places with anyone.

         I'm the mother of two fine keiki. My eighteen-month-old naps peacefully on the straw mat rolled out on the grass beside me. Hank and I named him Kekoa, "the courageous one." His four-year-old sister, Leilani, sits quietly on the low stone wall. Massive black rocks separate the wall from the battering ocean. She's daydreaming, kicking the heels of her flip-flops on the rough lava rock. Her name means "heavenly child." Oh, she's not usually such a loner--likely as not, she's still sulking from the scolding I gave her earlier.

         We've spent the day here with three other families. While infants and toddlers nap, the older children bike or roller-skate on the shoreline promenade. Others are sliding down the grassy knolls on flattened cardboard boxes. Bouncing along, their screeches and giggles join in chorus with the mynah birds. I left the other mothers and their keiki at our sheltered stone picnic table to find a quieter spot for Kekoa to nap. It's so peaceful here at sunset, so reassuring. The waves slide gently in and then suddenly they collide with the rocks and send up fountains of foam.

         I glance over to the makeshift volleyball court staked out with towels and sneakers in the grass. I catch my Hank leaping in the air. He spikes the on-coming missile into an opponent's waiting, two-hand block, and I watch it spin out of bounds toward us and the picnic tables.

         "Side out! Over here, hon!" Hank yells to me, waving his hands in the air. I stop the rolling ball with my bare foot, and my husband lopes over to retrieve it. As he reaches for the ball, I press down harder on it to get his attention. He snatches the ball out from under my foot and defiantly stands eye-to-eye with me. Silently, I admire his craggy face darkened from playing hard under the afternoon sun, but outwardly I'm insistent.

         "Hank, we gotta go."

         "Your timing's lousy, Malia." He tells me, tucking the ball under one arm. "We're only behind by one point."

         "It's never a good time for you. If you're not winning big, you're desperate to get even. Believe me, it's time to quit."

         Hank shrugs apologetically at the other players and powers the ball back to them with the impact of his fist. "What's your problem?" he asks as we return to the picnic table for our belongings. His words slur, and his muscular bulk waivers from a whole afternoon of beer drinking. Because his question isn't worthy of an answer, I merely glare back at him.

         A misshapen moon hovers over the mountains behind me, tentative and pale, not quite sure where it belongs. Ahead, the sun slips by seconds into the green sea, painting the distant clouds pink, and leaving a slice of iridescent blue sky between. Above me, I see dark, threatening clouds--rain rolling in from the mountains. I can see a partial rainbow, a huge arm reaching, but only a fragment of it, still deciding where to touch down. I feel the first drops and know we are going to be caught out in the open.

         "Hank, get everything to the car!" I call.

         I reach down and bundle Kekoa to my shoulder with one arm and gather our belongings with the other. He squirms a little, but drops off again quickly. Leilani runs to help, and I give her the mats and my purse to carry to the car.

         Our '62 Chevy Caprice wagon has seen better times. Its mustard yellow primer bleeds through the maroon paint in most places, and rust grows like an unforgiving weed along its seams. No actual holes have appeared yet. The ceiling cloth over the front passenger seat sags down on my hair like a veil. It's annoying, I have to prop it up with my hand while I turn around to face the children in the back seat. Leilani whines.

         "Shush, Leilani, you'll wake your brother."

         "But Kekoa nap all the time. I got no one to play with," she replies.

         "Sweetheart, he's only eighteen months old"

         I hear my husband at the rear of the wagon, where he's just slammed the second ice chest up against the rear seat. "Easy, Hank, you'll wake the baby."

         "So?" he grunts at me from the way-back.

         "So you want to hear da kine all way home?"

         Hank comes around, sticks his head in the driver's window and rests it on his crossed arms. "Was one nice party, eh, sweetie?"

         "Yeah, sure, nice party," I say. "You getting in? It's late. I wanna put the keiki t' bed."

         "They one great bunch of bruddahs, eh? Hell, we talk story for hours. Went through one whole mess of brew. Sheesh, plenty strong stuff." His arms slip slowly off the window well, and he sits down hard on the paved Kakaako waterfront parking lot. He swears.

         "Hank Pualoa, that's no kind of talk for your daughter t' hear."

         Still sitting, he reaches up and opens the driver's side door. "Hey, Malia, 'bout time she know 'bout the real world, eh?"

         "I don't like that kind of talk. You stop this right now."

         "Gawd, you're beautiful when you're mad."

         But I can't take it as a compliment. I'm ashamed of him and hope the other moms are so busy getting ready to leave they won't hear him. He tries to get up, using the car door as a prop, but it swings away, dropping him on his okole once more. He swears again and manages to pull himself up into the driver's seat. With a sheepish grin, he meets my angry glare.

         "Wod now?"

         "You gonna be able to drive us home?"

         "Course, drive bettah with few belts under m' belt." He laughs, fiddles with the key until he finds the ignition, and starts the engine. He revs it up simply because he loves to hear it roar.

         Worried, I reach over and turn off the ignition switch, and the engine knocks and hisses to a halt. "We could wait here awhile. Maybe I should get you some coffee. You're in no shape to drive us anywhere."

         "I thought you were in this great big hurry t' get home. Make up your mind."

         "I am. I mean I was, but I want us to get there in one piece."

         "Don't you worry none. Relax, I'm in good shape."

         Hank restarts the car and, without waiting for the motor to warm, screeches out of the parking lot onto Koula Street, burning rubber and scattering pebbles.

         "Look out!" I yell, but he increases speed in the two blocks to Ala Moana Boulevard. I scream, "Hank, the light… the light, it's red!"

         I hear brakes screech all around us in a disastrous chorus. Metal crunching and bunching--thunks and crashing sounds coming from everywhere. Our Chevy weaves crazy-like, sideswipes a taxi, and escapes the tangle in the eastbound lane. Somehow we manage to enter the westbound lane free of impact, but… a truck barrels toward us, toward my side, like a tank.

         Leilani screams, "Mommy-y-y!"