Mahalo
My heart weeps for Hawaii.
March 20, 2026, the rains came, the Kona low. Eight inches, 12 inches, 32 inches of rain in some parts of Oahu. Would the 120-year-old Wahiawa Dam hold?
Videos on Facebook showed mud, red clay, surging and roiling, invading every space, waist-high in homes and schools, carrying cars and trucks, black, jagged pieces of asphalt that once were roads. This wet, unstoppable force descended from the mountains and brought tears to my eyes.
Of all the places we lived, those islands rising from the Pacific Ocean, with volcanic ash spewing into the sky, lush gardens, wild mountains and bluest waters, have always held treasured memories.
On June 13, 1971, after one blissful year, our family left the islands. George William had been a traveling judge for the Army. Based at Ton Son Nhut Air Force Base in Saigon, he flew by helicopter across Vietnam and by military aircraft to Okinawa, Alaska and Japan to hold court-martials.
It was the time of drugs, Jane Fonda and fraggings.
Cocooned in our suburban life in Kailua, we knew little beyond what he shared in his letters, and we lived happily in the aloha spirit.
The year passed all too quickly. We had arrived on the SS Monterey, also known as the Love Boat, and now we boarded her again for our journey back to the mainland. Our cabins were filled with well-wishers in muumuus and aloha shirts, sipping the bubbly stuff. It was George William’s birthday.
We, the departing ones, were draped in orchid, plumeria and tuberose leis, a noisy, colorful, fragrant group.
The ship’s bells sounded. “All ashore who’s going ashore.” Time to go. Our friends moved to dockside. The band, in white Bermuda shorts and pith helmets, played “Aloha Oe,” and our ship began its journey eastward across the Pacific.
As we passed Diamond Head, I stood at the rail, sniffling. I threw a lei overboard. If it returned to shore, so would I. I did not want to leave. I never cried when we left an assignment. There was always something new ahead. This was different. We were leaving the land of aloha.
I remember our tiny house on Alahaki Street, the covered lanai with a pingpong table and rattan sofas, the quiet mornings at Bellows Air Force Base beach when the children were in school and I had time for myself, the Pali Tunnel connecting the windward side of Oahu to Honolulu, frightening me every time I drove through it.
We went to a polo match on the North Shore, where Jim Nabors sang the national anthem, and London’s cast of “Hair” came to support the opposing Irish team. I sat on the grass at the University of Hawaii outdoor theater, watching Miss Hawaii’s silhouette hula and Hilo Hattie’s comedic shtick. There was the aquarium across from the zoo, the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor, bridge at Schofield Barracks, and lunch at the Waioli Tea Room.
And everywhere, water. Blue water and waves rolling into shore, breaking into a salty froth. Surfers with long, sea-washed hair, oversized trunks hanging from their hips, beachgoers in crocheted bikinis.
When the big waves came to the North Shore, the ones surfer boys dreamed of, the Banzai Pipeline, we drove the winding road to Haleiwa to watch.
Rock concerts, Santana, sticky rice, li hing mui, Kapiolani Park, The Royal Hawaiian Hotel, Fort DeRussy, Kunia Road, Tripler, shave ice, squid, Spam, huli-huli chicken, saimin, poke bowls, outrigger canoe races, mai tais, Don Ho singing “Tiny Bubbles,” planes flying so low over Ewa Beach you could see the pilots.
So many years ago. I remember it well.
Prayers for now. Mahalo. Aloha, y’all.
Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92 in 2025, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Annelore Harrell’s story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.
