MY, MY MOKULÄ’‘IA
A motley crew of creatives find commonality at a remote beach camp.
By Christina Fang
“Is this going to the retreat?” I asked, breathless and standing in a wet one-piece on a Honolulu street corner.
“Not to any kind of retreat you’re going to,” the Chinese man chortled, as he placed a silver walker into the back of the black van. He looked to me like the definition of a tourist—tan baseball cap, cargo shorts, and brown leather flip-flops.
Then I considered what I looked like to him, a young Taiwanese girl—lost without a clue. My cheeks turned red enough to match my soaking bathing suit. My grip tightened on the carry-on suitcase I had just spent 15 minutes dragging along the pavement, racing to this designated spot in front of a Waikiki hotel. I was still panting.
“Wait, so this isn’t going to the O‘ahu Writers Retreat?” I asked, weakly. Sea water dripped from my dark, tangled hair.
Three other adults stared at me: a Japanese woman sitting in the middle seat, a white woman sitting shotgun, and the Hawaiian taxi driver.
“Oh, yes, it is—” the Chinese man said, straightening slightly.
“Yea, I’m going, too.” I said, brightening, “Sorry, I’m all wet. I just had to go for a swim. I haven’t seen the ocean in years.” I hurled my carry-on into the back of the van, and climbed into the backseat, tucking in my knees.
“How old are you?” piped the white woman.
“Oh, uh… I’m 24. I guess kind of young to be going to a writers retreat. I don’t even know if I’d consider myself a writer, yet.” My eyes shuffled between my flip-flops and the car floor.
“I think it’s great that you are younger,” the Japanese woman said, and she might have winked. “Don’t want to leave all the writing to us older folks.” And I suddenly felt at ease. As the car ride continued, a sense of camaraderie formed amongst this motley crew of creatives.
Within an hour, we arrived at Camp MokulÄ“’ia, and my heartbeat quickened again, this time with anticipation. The campground itself was unpretentious. A cavernous cafeteria, picnic table and lawn chairs out by the sea wall, lodge kitchen for shared snacks. Still, I felt a sleeping magic stir awake.
Just six months ago, I was journaling in my living room, at the crack of dawn, daydreaming about being a writer before slinking away to my office job. Months went by of wishing and hoping until eventually my dream sat me down and asked, “So, what are you going to do about it?”
And this was what I was going to do about it: Register for a weeklong deep dive.
Each morning began with a daily nonfiction writing workshop in the lodge. Although I was the youngest person in the room, I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only girl in her twenties. I connected with Jodie, an intelligent graphic designer from San Francisco, Sophia, a shy plant nurse living on O‘ahu, Lydia, a savvy marketing entrepreneur out of New York, and Sunita, a foul-mouthed Indian comedian from Florida. The five of us were quickly deemed the Sorority Sisters.
The only problem of a retreat on O’ahu is, well, the incredible view. As much as I enjoyed listening to the work of my fellows, in moments I’d find my gaze drifting to the waves through the window. My attention would go along for the ride.
On the other hand… that view, that ocean. A simple change in attire and, suddenly, I would find myself playing mermaids like a kid again, enjoying the beautiful turquoise waters. This helped during the moments when my head was flooded with self-doubt (or as the mainstream scribblers would say, writer’s block). Luckily, my fears would drift away from me in the gentle waters of the warm and salty Pacific.
As the week continued, my confidence began to outbox my doubts. I shared my anxieties about being a beginner with more and more writers. Many were more established than I—poets, authors, and freelancers, all of whom helped quench my never-ending thirst for answers to questions like How did you get started? What’s your writing practice like? When will I know that I’m actually a writer?
At the end of the week, everyone shared their work in the Chapel, a wood-floored room with a peaked roof. Three walls of windows overlooked the ocean; a magical mural filled with mythological figures and a giant nautilus loomed from the fourth wall. I performed a slightly subversive piece about my journey at Camp MokulÄ“’ia, sharing stories about the Sorority Sisters (friends to this day), and how proud I was that I had grown so much in such a short period of time. It was funny, vulnerable, and a little over-the-top, just like me. After the applause, laughter, and tears were over, I was left with a new feeling, a kind of soft glow, radiating from the inside out.
Sometime in the middle of the retreat, Emi—the Japanese woman married to Bernie, the Chinese fiction writer I met while soaking wet—approached me during lunch. We were wrapping up our meals of turkey sandwiches and carrying our trays to the door.
“Hey, Christina,” she said. “I’m sorry about what Bernie said. I think it was just surprising to see someone like you coming to a place like this.”
And as easy as the waves brush against the North Shore sand, I smiled and replied, “Don’t worry about it, Emi. We writers got to stick together.”
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Christina Fang is a Taiwanese American writer who recently moved to Chicagoland after living in Thailand for eight months. Her Substack, Heartquake, is filled with fun, awkward, and insightful stories about adventures. She is getting ready for her third O‘ahu Writers Retreat—were she now serves as event coordinator or, as Connie Hale calls her, “our retreat fairy.”