Footloose with the Hang-Out Gang
With the tube on the way and an expert installer ready to help, I fell into an easier rhythm in the V.I.P. yard. Between work on my book and other Swell ālife-enhancementā projects, I tried not to resist my situation and enjoy the good around me. I greased winches, worked with Olivier to flatten the floors in the galley, made an extension for the mid-cabin bunk, and refinished the countertops.
Just outside the chain-linked fence that surrounded the yard, the kids of the surrounding neighborhood flocked, squealed, bumped music, rode bikes, and hung out under the coconut trees. It was Tahitiās āspring breakā of sorts, and hordes of younsters ranging from 7-20 years old, milled and chilled around the yard to the great displeasure of the yard owner . Ever since Iād let them borrow my skateboard and started playing soccer in the afternooons, theyād stopped calling me āmadameā to my great relief and would now scream āLeeeeeeeezā! whenever I surfaced from Swell.
These kids were tough and hard, but deep down they were all good kids. There were no afterschool programs or camps, they knew only street rules of kid-on-kid survivalāteasing and talking was part of the game. Theyād fish off the jetty, climb trees for fruits, ride bikes, sell fruit to boatyard clients, and constantly harass each other. When the sun sunk low enough for the day to cool a bit, the scattered groups of kids would come together on the 40 yard stretch of asphalt between the main road and the boatyard entrance gateāthe dayās feuds, events, crushes, and quarrels were played out in the daily evening soccer match.
It was half indoor, half outdoor soccer. The āindoorā side was the fence surrounding the āV.I.P. yardā entrance, which had been made extra challenging by the yard owner who lined it from top to bottom with barbed wire to deter the kids from playing there. The āoutdoorā side was just opposite, where the road fell into a drainage ditch and then an open terrain. Teams fluctuated in numbers and skills. It was girls, boys, women, and men of any age. No shoes, no jerseys, no referees, but street rules and common courtesy kept the game flowing much better than one might imagine. No one kept score. Newcomers would watch for a moment from the sidelines to determine the dominant team and then join forces on the weaker side.
I had wanted to play with them for awhile, but felt shy to join in. Then one afternoon I had waited too late to go surfing my body badly need some exercise. I could see the kids running and hear their shouts from Swellās dusty deck. Finally, I wandered out the gate and asked, āCan I play?ā
āOui!ā They said. āYou go that way!ā Jay, the Rae-Rae, pointed. He became my overseer and language coordinator in the following weeks. Soccer became my release. The kids were the light in my daily grind. When the surf was mediocre, Iād wander out the gate, filthy and barefoot, to sprint back and forth on the asphalt until it was too dark to see anymore. Some of the kids didnāt accept me right away, but eventually they all got used to the grungy āpopaā (equivalent to Hawaiian āhaoleā) who ran fast but lacked any real ball-handling skill.
I dissolved into these evenings, whether the clouds poured down rain or the sunset ignited the sky above us, I felt grateful for the damp asphalt, the half inflated ball, my calloused feet, the warm salt-laden air, and the giggling, shit-talking, glowing Tahitian faces that were now all friends.
2 Comments
Todd Bates
April 20, 2010You make me laugh and smile. My son is 14 and running track as I write this. I can only hope that he has half the adventures that you do.
steve rupp
April 21, 2010You, young lady, can write. Thanks