RockaHula

At six I lived in a state of perpetual hope that I, like Ginger Grant, might find myself on an uncharted island, drinking from coconuts and wearing grass skirts. Walking barefoot through sugary sand would replace my daily Kodiak trudge from Webbwood Estates to St. Gregory’s. I wanted that combination of blue, white and green. And the shells. Nubby conches and smooth-speckled cowries—’way better than our pedestrian St. Clair Beach clams. And Elvis in his Blue Hawaii phase. Those Aloha shirts so cool I could see past his tiny ukulele. We’d make a go of it all right.

Image based on a photo by Visual Panic on Flickr