Prints in the Sand: My Journey with Nanea

Somehow I’m still upright, legs shaking, as the haze fades to reveal the same hotel, except now a barbed-wire fence runs along the shoreline for as far as I can see. Following a set of paw prints along the wire, I reach an opening large enough to crawl through. I duck through the hole, and trace the tracks around to the hotel’s front entrance, where a whole crowd of soldiers and sailors has gathered, uniforms and all, right there on the sand. A boxy, old-fashioned navy blue automobile creeps through the onlookers. Out climbs a nurse, a red cross stitched onto her crisp white uniform, and she quickly disappears inside. Something here is definitely off.

From within the crowd, a girl about my age steps out, a red blossom pinned into her wavy hair. She calls out a familiar word, mele, taught to my brothers by Auntie Oli this summer, meaning song. Just then, a bundle of fur and energy bursts from a flower bed nearby. It’s my dog, I think, then correct myself. Her dog. This must be Mele.

Scooping the dog into her arms, the girl vanishes through the doors, and I trail after her. Only once inside do I remember, mortified, that I’m still in my swimsuit. I hesitate over running back for my cover-up, and the pause costs me. She’s melted into the crowd, and everyone looks too formal for swimwear.

I dash outside the hotel and back to the beach and through the hole in the fence. I tell myself to look for the red umbrella; it was the most noticeable thing on the beach. But when I find it, I see a sailor now sits cross-legged on the towel beneath it, tipping his white cap my way instead of the woman I saw before.

Hoping to spot my brothers, I sprint toward the water, but the shoreline looks unfamiliar now. A few teenage boys splash in old-style black swim trunks, and two women wear vintage bathing suits with attached skirts. I don’t recognize a single face, and I’m no longer sure where, or even when, I’ve ended up. It feels like slipping backward through time, and excitement prickles down my spine anyway.

Pausing to breathe, I retrace what just happened. I noticed the dog, rose from my towel, found the necklace, and pulled it over my head. I touch the puka shell necklace, and it feels strange. I lift it off again to inspect it, and the ground pitches beneath me the way a surfboard tips over a swelling wave.

My eyes open onto the ocean stretching out ahead of me once more, and there’s that wobbly sand castle again, teetering on the verge of collapse in front of Alex and Aidan. Nothing about my brothers has changed. Auntie Oli remains braced against the sand castle as though time had simply paused around her. My watch continues to show 3:22 PM. The barbed-wire fence has vanished entirely, and kids race around in regular modern swimsuits again. Beneath her red umbrella sits the same woman who wondered earlier if I had a trip planned.

I’m tempted to tell her I just got back from one. Instead, I look down at the puka shell necklace looped around my fingers, wondering if it’s the thing that whisked me away, maybe even into the past.

Heading back toward my towel and my waiting book, I stop short partway there. One option is settling in with Nancy Drew’s latest case, I remind myself. The other is chasing down an adventure that’s entirely mine. That idea lands with such clarity it might as well have been spoken aloud. My gaze drifts to the red umbrella once more, the exact shade of the flower tucked in that girl’s hair, a girl who clearly loves dogs just as fiercely as I do. With her and Mele on my mind, my decision is already made. I snatch up my cover-up, pull it on over my swimsuit, glance once more at my brothers, and slowly settle the necklace back over my head.

This time, once the ground stops shifting, I’m standing before the same hotel. I see the sign, which identifies it as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. It does resemble a pink palace, towering above even the tallest palm tree on the beach. Sidestepping a soldier into the lobby, I notice posters covering the walls. One urges, “Buy Your War Bonds!” Another declares, “Do Your Part to Help the War.” War? What war? My stomach twists with that same uneasy feeling from before.

A young man wearing a crisp jacket, Darrell according to his name tag, offers his assistance. Unsure how to respond, I ask instead what today’s date is. He points toward a calendar mounted on the wall and answers, “June 26.” My eyes travel upward to the year printed above it. 1942. My legs go weak beneath me.

Reaching out to steady me, Darrell’s voice takes on a worried edge as he asks if I’m searching for my parents. Shaking my head, I explain it’s actually a girl I’m after. His face relaxes into an easy grin as he guesses I mean the Honolulu Helpers meeting. He leads me through the lobby, past glittering chandeliers and pink-cushioned chairs.

That’s when I spot her, the wavy-haired girl, dog nowhere in sight now. She stands by an open doorway, chatting with another girl beneath a sign announcing “Welcome, Honolulu Helpers.” The smell of fresh cookies drifts toward us, and Darrell notices it, too. He jokes it almost makes him wish he could join the club, too. Then he hustles off.

Laughing, the dark-haired girl waves me over and introduces herself as Nanea Mitchell. She asks me if I’ve come for the club meeting. There’s a cookie giveaway planned for the soldiers. Having her look right at me makes this dreamlike adventure suddenly feel real.

Curious, I ask what the Honolulu Helpers actually do. The other girl, Lily, explains that they support the war effort and lift spirits, and Nanea clarifies that really just means making people happier and more hopeful. When she asks if I’ve heard of the club, I shake my head. It does remind me, though, of the Acts of Kindness Project that Kayla and I invented back home. We secretly did favors for people so they’d never learn who helped. Those had been such fun times.

Before I get the chance to mention it, Nanea notices my cover-up and wonders if I’ve come to watch the hula performance instead, mentioning she might dance in it with her dog if she can duck out of part of the meeting.

Does she mistake my cover-up for a hula costume? I wonder. Then an even bigger question occurs to me. Can her dog genuinely dance the hula? That’s something I need to see for myself.

Lily chimes in that I could probably learn a few steps, too, since Nanea’s a fantastic teacher. Blushing, Nanea explains that her tutu, her grandmother, is the true instructor, though during performances they sometimes teach the soldiers a bit of hula. She offers to show me herself.

My smile locks in place. Dancing has never been my strength. Even though Mom’s been urging me toward hula lessons for weeks now, I worry about making a fool of myself in front of people I’ve barely met. Then again, choosing the meeting means missing out on watching Nanea’s dog perform. Nanea waits there, smiling, for whatever I decide.