Page 112 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“You think we’re intruding?” I whisper to Cam, suddenly unsure about this whole endeavor. “These people have been through hell. The last thing they need is cameras in their face.”

“They want their story told, Reece. That’s why they said yes.” Cam’s voice is steady, confident. “And we’re not here to exploit them. We’re here to listen.”

Before I’m able to respond, the door swings open and a lanky teen boy freezes mid-step, his eyes going comically wide.

“Holy shit! You’re Reece Dare!” he yelps, then immediately clamps his hand over his mouth. “Sorry about the language,” he adds, glancing nervously behind him.

I fight back a grin. “No worries, man. I’ve said way worse on camera.”

His face lights up as if I’ve handed him the keys to a Ferrari. “I’ve seen all your videos! The double-back flip into the foam pit while eating a burrito? Legendary! And the vid where you spent twenty-four hours in that shark cage? My friends and I tried to build one in my cousin’s pool with PVC pipes!”

“Keoni, who are you talking—” A woman appears in the doorway, her eyes tired but kind. She gives us an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. He gets excited.”

“Mom! It’s Reece Dare!” Keoni bounces on his toes. “He’s YouTube royalty!”

Cam shoots me a smirk. “Royalty, huh? Should I bow, Your Majesty?”

“Stop encouraging him, Morales.”

Keoni’s attention shifts to Cam. “Wait, you’re his girlfriend! The girl from the waterfall video!” His cheeks flush slightly. “My friend Marco rewatched that video fifty times.”

Great. The kid’s seen me with my tongue down Cam’s throat. Not the first impression I was going for.

“Come in, please.” The woman—Hina, according to Kai—ushers us inside. “Don’t mind the mess. We’re still figuring out how to fit all of our belongings.”

“Mess” is a generous description. The space is meticulously organized out of necessity—every inch serving multiple purposes. A couch that’s clearly a pull-out bed. Plastic bins stacked as makeshift shelves. No photos, no knickknacks, nothing but a general vibe of a life put on hold.

The air inside is stuffy, tinged with the sharp scent of fresh carpet and the lingering ghost of a delicious meal that was cooked hours ago. An air conditioning unit rattles in the window, fighting a losing battle against the Hawaiian heat.

A curtain serves as a room divider, and through a gap I spot a little girl with two perfect braids, her dark eyes wide with curiosity as she peers at our equipment.

“Nalani, come meet our guests,” Hina calls softly.

The girl—maybe six or seven—steps out cautiously, holding a stuffed turtle against her chest like a shield. She lingers slightly behind her mother, half-hidden, her small fingers curled into her mom’s floral-print dress, ready to duck out of sight if needed.

A man emerges from the kitchen area, wiping his hands on a towel. “Pono Akana,” he introduces himself, extending his hand. His grip is firm, his eyes scanning mine—he’s sizing me up. “Kai says you’re filming a documentary? About Lahaina?”

I gesture to Camila, who’s already adjusting her camera settings. “Actually, she’s the documentary filmmaker. I’m her assistant.”

Pono’s eyebrows lift slightly, a flash of respect crossing his features. “Good to hear Kai wasn’t making things up. He said you wanted to tell real stories, not just get disaster footage for clicks.”

“We want to understand what families such as yours are facing,” Cam says, stepping forward with a voice so tender, my heart surges. “The struggles that don’t make the headlines. The reality of rebuilding—or trying to.”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of reality to share,” Pono says with a hollow laugh and tired eyes. “Come sit. We don’t have much space, but we’ve got stories.”

We settle into the cramped living area—Cam and me on a worn loveseat that’s seen better days, the Akanas clustered together on the pull-out couch. Keoni perches on the arm, while Nalani tucks herself against her mother’s side, turtle still clutched protectively to her chest.

Cam sets up two cameras on tripods with smooth efficiency. The first positioned to capture the family, the other angled to include both us and them in the frame.I’m impressed.

“Reece, in that one video—” the boy starts eagerly.

“Keoni, no. Let them prepare before you bombard Mr. Dare,” Hina says.

“No worries.” I grin at the kid. “Shoot me a question.”

“Did you actually jump your motorcycle over a swimming pool full of snakes? Or was that fake? My friends and I have a bet.”

“Rubber snakes,” I clarify. “My insurance wouldn’t cover real ones. But don’t tell anybody—ruins the magic.”

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