Paia, where my family and I live on the island of Maui, is a small and rustic town with a population of just over 2,400.
There are about 850 homes in the area. Roughly one-third of the residents are white, another third are Asian, followed by Hispanic/Latino, and finally, those of native Hawaiian descent. The reason such a small community can live happily and prosper is thanks to the well-established tourism industry.
There's a small shopping center, a market, cafes, and restaurants. We even have a decent art museum and a park large enough to host a field day for the entire neighborhood.
But when you think of Paia, one thing stands above all else.
"Here comes a big one!!"
"Moi!"
"Yes, Dad!"
You can't leave out surfing. This place is known as the windsurfing capital of the world—a surfer's paradise. The best waves in the world crash against these shores.
Paddling hard on the surfboard I received for my birthday last year, I timed it perfectly, pushed myself up, and caught the wave. Goosebumps broke out all over my body.
"Wooooohooooo!!!"
# September 6, 2010
#-1. Paia, Maui, Hawaii
#-2. Ka'anapali Beach
"Did you see that?! That was a personal record!"
"Haha! But son,"
"?"
"I'm certain you'll be aiming for an even bigger one next time."
"Yes, sir!!"
Sunday morning. After coming back from church, I headed to the beach with my dad. Observing him since I was a toddler, I've realized he is a diligent man who always strives to be a good husband, a father, and a respected member of the community. Naturally, I found myself wanting to be just like him.
"Are you hungry?"
"Fish burger! Let's go get fish burgers!" "Alright. Pack up your gear."
We cleaned up our spot and stood up. Before leaving, we took a moment of silence facing the ocean. Following island tradition, our family believes that all the blessings people enjoy in Hawaii come from nature. Thus, we are always grateful and a little apologetic toward it. This moment of silence was our way of showing that respect.
"Your swimming has improved a lot."
"I've been practicing hard."
"In a few more years, I might actually lose to you."
"I'm definitely going to beat you one day, Dad." "I'll look forward to that day with joy."
In my first life, I couldn't swim. In fact, I had a phobia of water. Whenever that man I called "father" came home drunk, he would shove me into the bathtub. He would press down on my chest until I was seconds away from drowning. Then the physical abuse would start. Back then, I thought dying would be better.
"Moi?"
"Yes?"
"Are you daydreaming again?"
"Ah, yes! That wave earlier just killed me!"
"Sigh... I really shouldn't have let you spend so much time around Mel. You're picking up her slang."
"But I really like Aunt Mel."
Dad shook his head lightly and walked ahead. I followed closely behind.
Anyway. During my first life, I suffered from frequent nightmares, and as an adult, I hated even the thought of my childhood. But now, I can talk about it comfortably. I don't feel that old bitterness anymore. At first, it felt very strange.
As I thought about it, I realized that, as I mentioned before, I remember everything from my first life as if it were the plot of a novel. It's something I experienced, yet didn't. It was a wound, yet isn't.
I think that's why. Perhaps it's the reason why the 48-year-old me can live with the emotions and instincts of an 8-year-old. Occasionally, when I think deeply, I act or speak like an adult, making fewer mistakes and better choices than my peers. It's proof that my past experiences are helping me in some way.
Tinkle-tinkle—
"Welcome— Oh, Moi!"
"Hi, Angela. Two fish burger sets, please."
"O-oh! Sure! Hello, Mr. Stone."
"Oh—Angela. You've grown quite a bit."
The place Dad and I visited is a restaurant called 'Paia Fish Market' located right next to the beach. It's famous for its emerald exterior that reminds you of the Hawaiian sea and the large clock hanging above the entrance. It serves the best fish burgers on the island. Even my mom acknowledges their taste, and I love them too.
Angela, who greeted us, has been my friend since we were little. She's three years older than me.
"Did you go surfing today too?"
"Yeah. I caught a massive wave today."
"You should go surfing with me sometime." "Are you sure? Your leg is still..."
"It's fine. It'll be all better by next week."
"Okay, then. Let's do it."
After Angela left to take our order, Dad folded his newspaper and said we should eat quickly. Even without a specific order, our table was always served with the exact same menu.
For Dad: Fries, bacon, and beer. For me: Steamed potatoes, hot wings, and a milkshake. And, of course, two fish burgers each.
Today, the tray was once again loaded with protein.
"Moi."
"Yes?"
"Don't you think it's time to decide on your second sport?"
"Ah... yes."
"What are you thinking? Javelin? Shot put?" "No. Baseball."
"Baseball? Don't tell me you're thinking about..."
"No! Absolutely not that, Dad."
Dad, who had been momentarily startled, looked relieved. He said he'd support me as long as I wasn't getting distracted. My dad wants me to become an NFL player. He is a die-hard NFL fan, specifically of the Oakland Raiders.
In my past life, the Raiders were a terrible team that nearly faced forced relocation several times due to pathetic performance. In this life, however, they are a strong team competing fiercely in the Western Division.
However, they currently haven't made the playoffs since 2002 due to what people call the 'Curse of Jon Gruden.' That makes Dad very sad.
"I'm definitely going to be a quarterback."
"In that case, baseball is a good choice." "Really?"
"Yes. I'll look for a good place for you to play."
If track helps with basic physical strength, core development, and gaining flexible muscles to prevent injury, baseball is the perfect sport for learning 'how to throw.' While javelin or shot put can help increase throwing distance, baseball is far better for a quarterback's mechanics.
"Um, this is for you..."
"Huh?"
"Eat it when you get home. I made it myself." "Oh, thanks! I'll definitely eat it later."
"Yeah... and..."
"?"
"Could we just go surfing with just the two of us next week?"
"...."
Yes. As you can see, Angela likes me. Before Dad finished paying and we left the restaurant, Angela caught me and suggested a date. A simple 8-year-old might not have noticed her intention, but to me, it was obvious from the start.
However, I just looked at Dad innocently, pretending I didn't understand. Dad let out a hearty laugh.
"Haha. Sure, Angela. Let's do that."
"Oh, really? Is that okay?"
Angela's face brightened instantly at Dad's answer. Dad looked at me with a warm smile and added:
"Moi? Be a gentleman and take care of the lady."
"Yes, sir."
Stepping outside, I saw my reflection in the restaurant window. I didn't look like an 8-year-old at all. I was taller than most 12-year-old boys, and the thickness of my torso and arms was beyond my years. Twice the size of my peers—no, if I'm being honest, maybe three times the size of the skinnier kids.
After walking back along the beach, I showered with my dad, went straight to my room, and jumped onto my bed. But I immediately sat up and looked at my desk.
[Goal: Become the Greatest Quarterback!]
[1. Start Track at age 7!]
[2. Start Baseball at age 10!]
After double-checking my roadmap to becoming an NFL quarterback, I finally relaxed and prepared for a nap. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.
Track and baseball. It looked like I'd be getting a lot busier starting next year.
# April 10, 2011
#-1. Wailuku, Maui, Hawaii
#-2. War Memorial Sports Complex
As with all youth sports in the US, leagues are operated through local sports clubs. Hawaii is no exception, and the Little League on Maui is led by four regional clubs: Central, South, Upcountry, and West. To join a baseball club, I visited Wailuku, west of Kahului, with my family on a Saturday morning.
"You're the one who called."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Noah Stone."
"Wow. Your physique is incredible. Did you play sports back in the day?"
"No. I just enjoy watching."
"My! This country has missed out on some serious talent then."
No matter where we go or who we meet, the reaction of men meeting my dad for the first time is always the same. The man in front of us was no different. He wore a white and orange hat and had an impressive mustache. He turned to look at me.
"Um... you said your son has never played baseball before?"
"That's right."
"I don't mean to be rude, but isn't he a bit late to be starting baseball?"
"You think nine years old is late?"
"Pardon?"
A strange silence fell over us. The man looked back and forth between me and my dad several times. Then he took off his hat and scratched his head.
"Wait, wait. Did you say nine years old?"
"Yes. Moi?"
"Yes, Dad."
As I stepped forward, the man flinched slightly. It was the same reaction I got from the freshmen who saw me for the first time last year. At the time, I was flustered because a few of them looked like they were about to cry.
"Hello. I'm Dwayne Moi Stone."
"Oh... I see. Nine years old?"
"Yes."
Pop! Pop!
Every time I slammed the baseball from my right hand into the glove on my left, the color drained from the man's face. Well, he was already quite pale, so I couldn't be sure, but that's how it felt.
Dad spoke to the man again.
"Is there a problem?"
"Huh? Oh, no. Not at all."
"We came here because we heard the best coach was here. We believe he can give our Moi proper instruction. If not, we'll have to look elsewhere. So, could we move this along?"
To me and the rest of our family, Dad's words were perfectly polite. He was a bank employee, so he was just a bit formal. But to others, that formality felt like a threat. Our family knew this well and used it to our advantage occasionally—and Dad secretly enjoyed it.
A short while later, I stood on the mound. A man without any gear, holding only a catcher's mitt, sat behind the plate. Dad spoke up, sounding concerned.
"Shouldn't he be wearing proper gear?" "Haha, it's fine."
Thomas Bradley, having regained his composure, gave a relaxed smile and said it was no problem. Dad still looked worried, but instead of saying more, he stepped up to me and whispered:
"Show him what you've got."
"Yes, Dad."
Dad's hidden meaning was: "Throw it properly once so he doesn't get hurt later by underestimating you."
Ready, I rotated my arm loosely.
"I'm throwing!!"
"Come at me!"
His "give it your best shot" expression and slightly patronizing smile annoyed me just a little. I took a deep breath and went into my wind-up. I had been practicing steadily since I was six. I even had a coach of sorts.
That would be Uncle Iwai, who had been a pitcher for his high school team in Japan and even competed in the famous 'Koshien' tournament.
I followed the pitching form that was now completely ingrained in my body. At the final moment, I snapped my arm.
Whoosh—!
The ball left the mound and got sucked into the mitt.
SMACK!!
"What the..." "Wait, hold on!!"
The man catching jumped up in shock, and Thomas Bradley stood there frozen like a stone statue. I felt a surge of victory. But I hid it and spoke innocently.
"That was only about 80%."
"...What?"
"My shoulder isn't fully warmed up yet."
"...."
I had only thrown one pitch since the test began, but a few moments later, Thomas Bradley was practically begging me to join the team. It looked like he might sit down and cry like a child if I refused.
Dad looked satisfied, and seeing that, I decided to play for this team.
And so, I stepped into the second stage of my journey.