KIHEI, Maui — The beaches are nearly 3,000 miles from the one in in Oregon, where my mother once trained her keen gaze on me and my sister, warning us never to turn our backs .
Back then, we were small enough for her to pick up and hoist, one girl on each hip, sparing our feet from the white-hot sand.
Now, five decades later, we’ve reversed roles. My sister grips Mom’s left hand, and I steady her right hand as she carefully shuffles her flippers — her back to the ocean! — until the clear, lukewarm water is deep enough for swimming and snorkeling.
If the water is clear, calm and warm, there’s not much my mother likes more than snorkeling, especially when she can just walk right into the ocean, with a little assist. She had foot surgery last year, and at 81, she’s old and wise enough to be cautious about avoiding another injury.
My sister J.J. and I, in our mid-50s, are old enough to enjoy Mom’s company without the power struggles that made adolescence so trying for all three of us.
Here we were in Hawaii, thousands of miles from our respective homes, one child of the Depression and two late-stage baby boomers, happily keeping company in and out of the water.
The three of us were in Maui once before, along with my brother and my younger daughter, when my friend Ellen loaned me her house in Ka’anapali. This time, my sister’s generous friend offered her family’s shared condo in Kihei, a town that seems to have at least as many locals as tourists, especially at the western end of town, where we were.
We fell into a daily rhythm: Wake up around 6:30 a.m. First one up started coffee, while the second one got a copy of the . While Mom read the paper, J.J. and I would make oatmeal and chop up fresh pineapple, some kind of citrus and a couple of those little because we wanted to make sure Mom’s potassium levels were good.
As we made breakfast, we packed a little cooler with beach snacks — sandwiches, ginger tea, edamame, , and that sort of thing, plus cold sodas. Once the dishes were done, we took the cooler, along with towels, sunglasses, sunscreen, books and knitting projects, and we were out the door. (The snorkeling stuff was already in the car.)
Mom and J.J. know much more about Hawaii than I do, especially Maui, because they’ve often traveled here. So they know the best snorkeling spots, including a nominal beach locally known as The Dumps, where J.J. and I once saw a preternaturally luminous in the water.
But The Dumps involves a quarter-mile approach over an old lava flow and rocks that offer uncertain footing, so it was off our agenda.
Instead, we’d often go to a beach Mom and J.J. call The Prince, after the now-closed hotel on Malauka Beach. It’s an easy walk from the parking lot — a criteria once important to me, as a young mother shepherding two little girls, and crucial again with my tenderfoot mom.
At The Prince, there’s a great spot with a generous tree for shade, where we parked our beach chairs and gear. Barely offshore, the reef offers fantastic snorkeling. We routinely saw , ( , , ), , and even a .
We’d be in and out of the water, snorkeling or bobbing in the waves, then drying off as we read or knitted, keeping an eye on whoever was still in the water.
Once the wind came up — typically around noon, pushing whitecaps ahead of the freshening breeze— we’d pack up and go back to the condo to shower, nap and explore.
One day we drove the road to Hana, while Mom stayed in Kihei. If you drive the road, expect it to take most of the day. Definitely stop and swim at the waterfalls and beaches, and do not omit a stop at vegan ice cream stand. Get the flavor.
But the point of the trip was to hang out with Mom, so we spent most of our mornings together snorkeling .
During the last few nights of our stay, when it was too dark to see the ocean, we watched the , a mesmerizing hula competition broadcast locally.
Then it was time to go. I hugged Mom and J.J. goodbye. They were staying on one more night before returning to Oregon, where blooming rhododendrons awaited them. In Denver, it snowed on my first day back.
It made me think of the snowflake eel at The Prince, and of following my mother and sister over the twisting canyons of submerged ocean reefs.
Claire Martin: 303-954-1477, cmartin@denverpost.com or twitter.com/byclairemartin
