A Generous Spirit

A flaming, orange ball of sun briefly kisses the horizon before slowly, but inexorably, dropping beneath the horizon. The loud pwraaaahh of a conch shell resonates through the air, and several onlookers sigh in pleasure. “I can see the green flash!” one woman cries out excitedly, just at the moment the sun dips out of sight. Now there is nothing but open ocean, extending all the way to Japan, some 4,000 miles away. This signals the end of another day in paradise.

I’m standing with twelve or so people, including my partner Susan, in front of an old style Hawaiian beach house with a glass of chardonnay in my hand. The old beach house, surrounded by million dollar condos, is a remnant of simpler times. Ten yards in front of us there is a low, curving rock wall, and below that, waves crash on the rocks. Several tall palm trees arch gracefully up into the sky. It’s a spectacular setting. Everyone is dressed casually in shorts and beachwear. Some of us have lived on Maui for years; others just got off a plane yesterday. I hear someone telling a new arrival, “It’s always 80/80/80 here. The air is 80, the water is 80, the land is 80. Everything is 80!” The newcomer, a pretty young woman with a nose piercing, looks a little dazed, having suddenly been dropped into this magical scene.

Off to my left, sitting on the bluff, stands an eight-foot tall wood sculpture. It shows a beautiful mermaid, with an array of carved turtles, fish, and an octopus converging around her tail. Her slender, naked torso, full breasts, and beautiful features, make her seem unbelievably life-like; she seems to be rising up out of the ocean behind her. It was carved by my friend Dale Zarrella – sculptor, painter, and lover of life.

Dale is the reason all of us are here. Every few weeks Dale holds a gathering where he invites friends to share food and the spirit of aloha. He loves to cook; he loves to entertain his friends. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, Dale is doing his usual, effortless dance of cooking food on the barbecue, disappearing back into the kitchen to prepare more food, and greeting people. He finds time to talk to each new arrival, and no matter how busy it gets, he is always fully present with each person. With his kind and gentle face and soft-spoken manner, he embodies a true spiritual presence.

They are a fascinating group of people. Dennis and his wife Michelle are fixtures at Dale’s parties, and have been collectors of Dale’s art for years. Susan is off talking to Ian, a tall thin man in his fifties. Like Dale, Ian is an artist, teacher, and natural-born philosopher (what interests me is that Ian won the World Championship in freestyle skiing).

Jay makes his usual dramatic entry, talking about his 93-year-old mother, who was a marine in WW II. He runs Public Television on the island. Charles, an American radio disc jockey, famous for his show The Big Mattress, is already holding court on the couch with one of the new guests. Uncle Les, a Hawaiian musician, storyteller, and naturalist shows up, giving everyone a big hug and a smile. All these people love to talk, and Dale quietly stands back, allowing everyone to play their role.

We all sit family style around the long picnic table under the big lanai with its corrugated tin roof, eating off paper plates and with our drinks in plastic glasses. The smells of barbecue and fresh ocean breezes greet our noses, and the sound of crashing waves provide a soothing backdrop for our conversation. However, once the conversation turns to politics, it’s not long before everyone forgets their surroundings and gets caught up in the heat of the moment.

“Bernie is just what we need right now,” Jay says.

“I think Bernie is going to do it,” Charles says with certainty, thumping the table.

“I like Bernie too, but he doesn’t have the experience Hillary has,” Susan counters.

“How could you vote for Hillary? Another asks. ”She’s in bed with all the big corporations!”

“Rubbish!” Susan says. “Just because she’s taken some money from them doesn’t mean she works for them!”

And we’re off. Everyone has something to say. I sit there, enjoying how passionate and animated everyone is, without any of the rancor that can enter conversations like this. It’s like improv. Dale sits at the head of the table with a quiet smile on his face. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about politics,” he finally says. Everyone laughs, but it’s like trying to stop a freight train.

Meanwhile the sky has darkened, and our surroundings are lit up by several strings of colorful bare bulbs that stretch out to nearby palm trees. It’s like being at a festive carnival, with the added magnificence of the moon glittering on the ocean waves.

The conversation switches from politics to art, to entertainment, with everyone expressing strong opinions. What I like about Dale’s gatherings, is that there are always new faces in the group, friends of friends, or people he’s met. Sometimes he’ll invite up to 26 guests, doing all the work himself. I’d be a nervous wreck.

“What are your favorite movies?” asks a new arrival.

Susan, a real film buff, jumps in enthusiastically. “Oh I know, the one with . . . who was it, Peter?”

Fortunately, I know her tastes. “Uh,” I say, searching for the words. “Johnny Depp?”

“Yes, Don Juan de Marco!” Everyone cheers.

“That’s one of my favorites too – with Marlon Brando!” someone chimes in.

“I think Newsroom is one of the best TV shows ever,” Charles says.

“Yes!” Susan responds, smacking the table with her hand. They high five each other, thrilled to share this in common.

Eventually the conversation shifts, and Dennis starts telling us about his early years at Genentech, the famous biotechnology firm. “I was working on insulin,” he says. “In 1978 I toured a factory where insulin was made from pigs and cattle. There was a line of box cars with frozen pancreases. It took 8,000 pounds of pancreas glands to make 1 pound of insulin. We needed to find a new solution. At the time it would take 56 million animals per year to meet the demand for natural insulin.”

“56 million?” I ask.

“Yeah, no one thought we could find an alternative. Bob Swanson, the founder said, ‘I don’t want to hear that word, impossible.’ So we were in this high stakes race to create synthetic insulin.”

“You were in on that discovery?” I ask in amazement.

“Yeah, there were only 12 employees at the time. I was number 5. We hardly slept. We kept the experiment going 24-hours-a-day.”

Then Dennis launches into complex descriptions of gene splicing, DNA sequences, and plasmids that leave my mind spinning. The outcome is that on August 21, 1978, Dennis and his colleagues came up with synthetic human insulin, a world-changing event.

We’re all absorbing this, when Uncle Les pulls out his ukulele and starts strumming. As he looks up to the sky, he effortlessly strings together familiar Hawaiian songs, playfully modifying the words to suit the mood. Everyone around the table joins in, and the air seems filled with the spirit of aloha. We talk story for hours.

Where else but on Maui, could I be sitting out in the open air a few feet from the Pacific Ocean with my partner Susan, listening to Hawaiian music, with a group of caring, fascinating friends? Then I realize, none of this would have happened without Dale. I glance over at him, sitting on an ottoman at the end of the table with his arm around the shoulders of one of his grandkids. I feel so grateful to have met this man, whose joy is in bringing together the people he loves and cooking for them. Like his art, he freely offers it up to the world. To me, it shows an extraordinary generosity of spirit. In Hawaii, we call it the spirit of aloha.