Flash: Freezer

Tucked away in a studio apartment just a few streets back from the main beach boardwalk, I sit listening to the sound layered underneath—a kind of anxious hum spreading across the island like a low vibration. People are talking about the big one, the massive tsunami that the scientists say could strike any day now, triggered by a distant earthquake far across the Pacific.

They say it could be bigger than the one in ’61 that swept over Hilo, or the one in ’44 that left Kauai devastated. It's hard to imagine something like that. I've lived here most of my life, seen a few scares, but never the real thing. The fear doesn't come naturally to me, like to others. I can't picture the water rising or the streets flooding, the familiar shapes of the island disappearing under a wall of water.

Instead, my mind fixates on the little things. The everyday. I imagine, first and foremost, the power outage. The lights flickering, then cutting out, leaving everything in eerie darkness. And then my thoughts move to my freezer, filled with the treasures I've accumulated from my weekly, almost daily trips to the Ala Moana food court and other local specialty shops.

I have this habit, you see, some might call it an indulgence, others an obsession. I can't help myself from wandering through the aisles of the gourmet shops where the air smells like freshly baked bread and sweet spices. I always end up with far more than I intended. Slices of lilikoi cheesecake from the Royal Hawaiian Bakery, chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, tubs of locally made ice cream in flavors like Kona Coffee or Mango.

Carefully wrapped packages of frozen lau lau. Edible small treasures. And let's not forget the artisan poi filled sweetbread or the rows of manapua. My freezer is always packed to the brim, a careful Tetris arrangement of sweet and savory, ready for whenever I need a moment of joy.

But if a tsunami comes and with it the power outage, what then?

All of it would go to waste: the ice cream would melt, the cheesecake would spoil, the poke would turn, and the bread would dissolve into sludge. My little happiness would be gone in an instant, washed away like footprints on the sand.

I start to wonder what I would do in that situation. Could I eat my way through it all, one indulgent bite at a time, before it's spoiled?

Even thinking about it, I know the answer. No, of course not. Even if I tried, there would be no pleasuring, no savoring of flavors, no appreciation for the craft behind each bite. You would be surviving, pure and simple. A frantic attempt to rescue what little I could from the creeping tide of disaster. The fear builds in me, but it's not fear of water, waves, or flooding, or dying. It's a fear of losing these small, precious moments that make up my everyday life. I overhear a conversation on the beach, in line at the shave ice stand, at the small farmers' market by Kapi'olani Park.

All the same, “Did you hear about the tremor in Japan? They say it could send a wave our way,” someone says.

I hear an old uncle reply, his voice low rumble like distant thunder.

“It's not a matter of if, but when.”

The words settle in my stomach like a cold stone. I imagine the sea pulling back, revealing the dark, rocky bottom, the fish flopping helplessly on the wet sand, and then the roar as the wave comes rushing back in. And then again, my thoughts go to my freezer. I picture myself standing there in the dark, the power out, holding a flashlight, looking at all the things I love melting away.

Days go by and I find myself checking the news more and more often, scrolling the apps, watching the Pacific like a ticking clock. I listen for the sound of sirens in the distance, for some message of the roar. And yet, what bothers me more than anything is realizing that I'm less concerned about the wave itself than I am about what's in my freezer.

The thought unnerves me. What kind of person worries about their dessert supply in the face of a natural disaster?

One night, it comes. I wake to the sound of the sirens. The emergency alert is blaring from my phone and I scramble to check the names. The screen glowing with warnings, an undersea earthquake, a wave forming, heading directly towards the islands.

I feel a rush of panic, but instead of reaching for my emergency bag, I go straight to the kitchen, to the refrigerator and freezer. The hum of the compressor is still loud in the sudden silence of the early morning. I stare at my stash, my cakes, my ice cream, my poke. I feel a strange mix of stillness and absurdity.

I almost laugh, wondering which spoon I should grab first and start eating. There's nothing to be done. What should I do?

Then I hear the roar, its distance at first, the wind rushing through the palms. It grows louder and louder, a deep rolling sound like a freight train barreling down the tracks.

For a moment I freeze, but then something clicks. I close the door, turn away and head outside. I stand there barefoot again on the concrete, cool, staring blankly at the street, caught in the flicker of a world coming undone, neighbors scattering, fleeing to their cars or frozen in place, listening to the low, rumbling dirge of the approaching wave, its slow, grinding hostility.

I feel the sharp edge of thought cutting through all the noise, and in the end, it's going louder and louder behind, the hum of the ordinary. The wave will come, and with it, all things will fail. There's no solace in pretending otherwise. I exhale, tasting the thick, warm air that clings to the skin, suffocating, without mercy.

A strange calm spreads through me, the realization that everything now is just a matter of time. It's inevitable, and so is the darkness that follows. The ground trembles, the distant roar is louder and louder. I close my eyes. I surrender to the pull of the abyss.

And then, there's only water.

It tastes like salty sorbet.

// Zero Strike