A writer's life in Hawaii

When I told people that I was going to Hawaii to write some magazine articles, the usual reaction was one of envy. My English friend (who talks with a funny accent) would probably say something like...you jammy sod, while others would use much stronger and more direct language. Words that I can’t repeat, because my mother might read this. The point being—who wouldn’t want to jet off to Hawaii to do some writing?

While I’m not looking for any pity, especially given the fantastic view I have of the beach from my room at the Marriott’s Waikiki Beach Resort and Spa, let me give you an idea of what life is really like in Hawaii for this intrepid writer.

A year or two ago, Asia Pacific Airlines, a cargo airline that operates out of Honolulu approached the magazine about covering their operations. The editor passed it on to me and said to look into it if I ever found myself in the area. I don’t often need an excuse to come to Hawaii, though the timing never worked on my previous visits here, but since I was here again reporting on Hawaiian Airlines, I could probably make some time. And so I found myself on the phone yesterday talking to Jimmy Sy, the airline’s Honolulu station manager.

“Ok, the flight is coming in at 0430 (yes, that’s four-thirty in the morning),so you’ll need to be at the airport by 0400, and you have to call me in the morning, so I can let you know if the plane will be arriving on time.”

“Right (insert pause)...four in the morning. No problem...I’ll be there, and I’ll call in the morning.”

I got off the phone with Jimmy, and began to ponder what part of the morning I would be calling him if I needed to be there at four. Better not to think about it.

Since I had set the alarm for 3:00 am, I decided to go to bed relatively early, though the drifting sound of ukuleles from the hotel next door made sleeping a bit of a challenge. I looked at the clock at 1:00 am and thought this would be a good time to call Jimmy. But he didn’t answer his phone. So, I went back to bed and when I woke at three, and called him again. Yes, the plane was on schedule.

After showering and getting dressed, I grabbed my bag and went to the hotel lobby to try and find a cab. I only saw one couple, and wondered if they were coming in from a night on the town. The city looked deserted as we drove to the airport. The smart people were all still sleeping.

Jimmy arrived at the same time I did, so he led me to his modest office, where he fired up his computer, and checked his emails while I asked him some questions.

The flight we were meeting originated in Guam 10 hours earlier, and made a stop at Majuro en route to pick up 45,000 lbs of fresh tuna.

Never heard of Majuro? Well, it has a population of 25,000 and is the capital of the Marshall Islands. You’ll find this speck of land in the middle of the Pacific at 7⁰4’N 171⁰16’E (check it out on Google Earth). It’s so narrow that the width of the Island can only accommodate a two lane road. Oh, and given the load on the flight, there must be a lot of tuna around.

Just after 4:00 am, Jimmy stepped out of his office. That’s when the pilots of the plane radioed in.

“Honolulu...”

I could hear coming from the radio in that crackly, far away sound. A minute passed and another call came in.

“Honolulu Ops...?”

I wanted to go over to the radio and tell them to circle the airport for a few hours, so we could go get some more sleep. When Jimmy came back I told him that someone was trying to call.

He got on the radio and the pilots confirmed that they would be arriving at 0428. Jimmy confirmed that 1-Charlie was the parking stand.

Jimmy gave me a security badge and a bright reflective vest to wear, and we drove over to the cargo area of the airport. Not long after we arrived, the airplane could be seen touching down. A short taxi brought the Boeing 727 freighter to the stand, and once the stairs had been pushed against the aircraft, the door opened and the three pilots didn’t waste much time getting off. Presumably to go to a hotel for some sleep. With equal haste, the large side cargo door was opened exposing the interior of the jet. Snugly packed in the aft fuselage were seven pallets of fresh tuna. It only took 20 minutes for the aircraft to be unloaded. Inside the warehouse, the boxes of whole tuna were being separated and sent to their final destination in Honolulu, Los Angeles, and New York.

After thanking Jimmy for his time, I took a taxi back to my hotel and climbed back into bed just before 6:00 am. A quick nap before I needed to be at a meeting two hours later.

There you have it. A taste of what life is like for this writer in Hawaii. So, the next time you bite into that piece of tuna sashimi or tuna sandwich, think of me standing in the dark at the airport in Honolulu, at four-thirty in the morning.