By Michael Avery
What I remember most about my time in Hawaii in my late twenties was that first walk from my rented condo to Waikiki beach.
Many of the buildings and streets in Honolulu are named after past Hawaiian royalty. By the way, every vowel is pronounced in the Hawaiian language, but I can think of a couple of exceptions. When an “a” is followed by an “i,” then then the “a” is silent. Also, “au” is pronounced “ow;” so “Kau” would sound like “cow.” It takes some getting used to.
That first day I bought a pair of flip flops, some suntan lotion, a map, a beach chair, and headed straight for the beach. The word “tourist” written across my forehead wasn’t necessary. Everyone could tell.
As I was crossing Princess Kaiulani Boulevard, I clearly heard an impression form into words in my consciousness: “You will meet the Princess later in life.” What a shock! I then came to Queen Liliuokalani Boulevard. “Someday you will meet this queen, too.” Another shock!
I felt an immediate connection with Hawaii. I loved the beaches, the flowers, the history, and the people. It was home; but my destiny lay elsewhere. Several years later, now back in Oregon, I was invited by friends to a dinner party in the Columbia Gorge. A woman named Cybil (a pseudonym), who had recently moved up from California, was the owner of the house near Hood River. Her relatives were visiting from Vancouver, BC, Canada.
The host’s mother and I hit it off immediately. While we talked, the memories slowly began to return, fragments at first, but I knew without a doubt that Cybil’s mother had been the Queen in times past. Cybil’s sister came to Oregon at a later date. There was an air of familiarity. The prophecy I’d been given when I was twenty-eight crossing Princess Kaiulani Boulevard had been fulfilled. To my knowledge, I’ve never met the king.
Meeting friends from my past carried fond memories, but they were tempered with sadness. We’d been together in the palace when the Queen had been tricked into forfeiting Hawaii to the dark forces. Even though we’d all moved on, it was evident that the wounds had not fully healed.
from Wide Awake in Dreamland, p. 26-28, Michael Harrington [Avery]