4:20ish AM: The whole Caligtan-Tran ohana are awake. Silence blankets Honolulu. Into the night, the three of us pack in to our mini van as our housemate wishes us well as we depart .
4:35 AM: Driving in complete silence, the car holds a reflective anticipation. We turn onto
Pensacola Street. Other cars ferry runners who will be engaging in this annual running ritual of carrying one's body and spirit for 26.2 miles. From Pensacola, the runners will walk to Ala Moana street and wait for the fireworks to signal the start. Though we have done this now annually for 5 years, I know this race will be different for Paul. This time, this marathon is for setting personal records and dedicating his efforts to something much bigger. Before he says goodbye, I make sure to say "I love you."
4:50 AM: Malaya and I drive to Chinatown to catch the first leg of the race. We park right before the road blocks near Hawaii Theater and walk down the middle of Nu'uanu street which is completely empty, except for one lone police car and officer who watches us take to the center of the road instead of the sidewalk.
As we proceed to Merchant Street, I feel little drops of water fall from the sky. I brace inside knowing that the runners will have a quite day with possible winds and rains ahead of them. I
unfurl our yellow and blue umbrella and raise it to honor the elements who will have their way.
4:55 AM: We reach our cheering outpost at Murphy's Bar. Malaya and I find a Santa in his Berumda shorts and red coat, and black belt. "Look, there he is!" I say. Malaya's eyes become wide and she looks to me for confirmation. The other adult spectators milling in the doorway smirk and laugh. Malaya's simple delights makes it worth it for me to be out here this god-early.
The Irish pub restaurateurs welcome us in and Malaya lies down in one of the booths. Santa warns her, "Don't got to sleep!" She lifts her head and sits up quickly and watches him as he puts on his white beard.
Folks generously offer us sandwiches and sympathetic smiles. When do you expect him to come by?" they ask.
"He's hoping to run right under 4 hours," I offer.
"Should be 5:30," Santa predicts.
I get my camera ready as the first race chair runners come through, escorted by cyclists.
5:05 ish AM: Shortly after, three Kenyans and one Ethiopian from the leader board run in a tight pack. Moving at less than 5 minutes a mile, they elegantly zip by. Santa barely gets a shaka up. A good space of time passes and then the rest of the front runners pass by. I look for the few women and give an extra loud shout.
5:15-5:30 AM: More runners turn the corner. The street slowly begins to overflow with runners into the sidewalk. We see the man who annually wears his Maori warrior regalia and runs in bare feet. We see an old friend, Kaipo. We see runner after runner. And then-just as Santa thought...."There he is!" we spot him, "Papa!" Malaya and I say in unison.
Relief and tears come to my eyes. He smiles, gives a wave, and passes. It is a brief moment that will be among many today. And it will be repeated among many of the support teams lining Hawaii's streets from downtown to Hawaii Kai today.
Five minutes later, the sky opens up with torrential rain. I say a prayer, go home with Malaya, and prepare for the big finish line greeting.
