MAJ-KWA
By Michael H. Kew
Rainbows will always reflex me toward the nearest camera.
Stern male voice from unseen loudspeakers:
“THIS IS A SECURE AREA. NO PHOTOS OR VIDEOS ARE ALLOWED.”
On the gray ferry over turquoise water from Ebeye to Echo Pier, a few dozen Marshallese and I have just arrived. En route, the sunrise was electric. Unlike most ferry rides on most islands, no one captured it.
Oddly, despite the abundance of imagery and footage of Kwajalein Island and Roi-Namur freely viewable online and elsewhere, you’re forbidden to take photos. When you’re inside the United jet, this is difficult to enforce. Turns out it's easy to enforce when you’re out in plain view on the Ebeye ferry.
“REPEAT. THIS IS A SECURE AREA. NO PHOTOS OR VIDEOS ARE ALLOWED."
Arcing over the docked Marshallese cargo vessel Kyowa Stork and the Worthy, is a perfect double rainbow. I can’t resist an iPhone-snap or five. And minutes prior, as we approached, the early morning sunlight had cast everything—especially the big white radar domes amongst palm trees—in a weirdly scenic sci-fi hue.
Also irresistible.
Immediately upon entering the security checkpoint building I’m intercepted by a fattish 40ish bearded white guy in glasses, black boots, black shorts, and a collared white shirt.
"Sir, you've been spotted."
He grabs my passport and asks me to wait while the others proceed through the gate from the ferry. Five minutes later I’m summoned by an armed detective (short goateed Hispanic-looking man) in black boots, black shorts, and a collared blue shirt. He looks serious as he flashes his badge and introduces himself before prodding me into a small side room where he poses several questions. I show him my phone snaps and erase them while he carefully watches.
“I was told you also used a high-resolution camera.”
The Canon RP is unsheathed and as he squints at its LCD screen I scroll through the photos, deleting “everything with the domes,” the Worthy, the Mystic, the sunrise, the dock, even the puffy white clouds above.
“Are these civilian sailboats?” I ask before nixing images of the anchorage.
"Hopefully." He grins wanly.
I mention my previous mild obsession of the Kwajalein/Vandenberg missile-testing connection per proximity in my ex-home county of Santa Barbara.
"Years ago I wrote about Vandenberg for my first surf-travel book Crossings and for The Surfer's Journal."
"People surf there?"
"Sort of."
"Are you going to write about Kwajalein?"
"Sort of."
He grins again.
"Go ahead and wait with the others. I'll be out shortly."
The checkpoint room is sparse and charmless with a broken ATM and two old vending machines accepting $1 bills for a small selection of candy and potato chips. The red-tiled American Eatery is closed and has been for months due to staffing issues which seems odd as there are many Americans and Ebeyeans who could work here.
Large windows allow sunlight and a view of coconut trees. Trucks rumble past hauling Matson containers from the Kyowa Stork. Ebeyeans awaiting the flight drowse on the hard benches, tend to babies, stare at cell phones, cough into their hands, drink Coke, crunch on Flamin’ Hot® Cheetos.
My iPhone pings with a voicemail from my veterinarian back home informing me that the ashes of Tank, my 18-year-old cat, are ready for pickup.
Rainbow Bridge for him.
Covert tears are shed.
Today is my mom’s 80th birthday. Coincidentally eight months later she too will pass while I’m writing these words.
The detective reappears and requests my contact info.
“You won’t be getting anything in the mail. This is just to document that I talked to you.”
“Will I ever be allowed back?"
He laughs.
“There are only two ways in and out: the airport or this dock. Everything is extremely controlled.”
"What kind of security issues have you had here?"
"There’s a saying that if one talks about security issues, one wouldn’t be in the security business."
He hands me my passport which had been scanned, scrutinized, and filed. Again I apologize, pleading ignorance, insisting I am pro-security, pro-Army, pro-this and pro-that.
“You’re free to proceed to the terminal.”
At the security office counter, a Marshallese staffer ‘checks’ me in as I’m the only American departing. She gives me a green Fly Out Pass (No shopping or food court privileges) with an ‘approved route’ map.
“The other passengers are foreigners," she says, "but you may walk to the terminal. They will be escorted by bus."
"Foreigners? Aren't they Marshallese?"
"They are."
"My surfboard bag is heavy. I’ll take the bus too. Can I get some local-style food anywhere?"
"You can, sir, but the other passengers cannot."
"It's local?"
"Yes, sir. Subway and Burger King open at 11."
