Bleachies Beachies And Blasters On A Summer-in At Waikiki

The city of Honolulu long ago became almost exactly what tons of vacationing Americans wanted it to be—Miami Beach, the Jersey Shore, and Santa Monica all swept under one gigantic muumuu, with a breath like a pineapple factory and a Shrine ring for a heart. Since the 1930s, thanks to skillful promotion and advertising, it has been the custom of middle-ground mainlanders to give their wives the big break of a trip to Hawaii, which basically means Honolulu. They arrive in great, happy swarms with leis encircling their necks to eyeball level and rum-and-fruit drinks the size of old Diamond Head held blearily aloft in their hands. They marvel that the Pacific Ocean really is bluer than Possum Pond back home, roast themselves to a glistening pink, browse through the stores for coral jewelry and listen to the incessant hotel hula chant of "ha-loo kan-ah a-woo a-la," wondering whether it translates into "Welcome to our exotic land" or "A Samoan will cut off your treetops."

Meanwhile, unknown to the standard brand of tourist, there is another Honolulu. It has nothing to do with grass skirts and steel guitars, and it ignores everyone on Oahu who has committed the sin of aging beyond 26 years. Almost as if Diamond Head burped them up, there are at present about 20,000 coeds, hippies, beachies, blasters, bleachies and just plain beach bums strewn all along Waikiki Beach having a delicious summit meeting of copper-toned tummies, (see cover).

Waikiki has become one of the youth cult's grand rites of summer, a seasonal byproduct of the Easter invasion of Fort Lauderdale, a summer-in, a pop festival, a massive bikini-clad protest against work, war, marriage and worry. Per square beer can, there may be more gloriously pretty young girls bursting forth in bikinis on Waikiki—and more guys stalking them—than anywhere else on Earth right now. In one of history's big fake-outs, they have convinced Daddy back in his hardware store and Mamma back at the bridge club that they are in Honolulu to surf, and perhaps to take a few courses at the University of Hawaii. But ho, ho, ho.

The famed Hawaii surf—the big waves—curls onto the island only in the winter months, at Makaha, Waimea Bay, Sunset Beach and on the Banzai Pipeline on the north shore—far removed from Waikiki in both time and distance. Right now that surf is about as high as the one in your bathtub. And the big wave rider who wants to hang 10 might as well take his board to the calm, glassy waters of the Lake of Lucerne.

So, what's happening? Well, for those in their late teens or early 20s, Waikiki is the beginning, or the middle, in a series of dropout summers given over to beach reclining, ocean tiptoeing, booze cruising, picnicking and romance seeking. And for those nearing the dangerous cutoff point of 26, the scene is marking the closeout of a fantasy, a final prelude to all of the unimaginable miseries that the mainland holds: a steady job, a wife or husband and children.

"It's O.K. to be old," said a girl from Lubbock, Texas a few days ago, as she sat with friends on the white sand at Waikiki. "You just can't look old."

Although Waikiki Beach stretches for a mile in front of row upon row of hotels, and there are scrumptious chunks of bronze flesh as far as one can see in either direction, one particular point has become In—an area around the Moana Hotel trash can. There is nothing especially different about the Moana Hotel or its beach or its trash can but at least four years ago this spot was declared the In place by Waikiki's In-place declarers. Every day in the summer, hordes of beauties—primarily from New York, Texas and California—gather there to spend the idle hours with young men who have the proper In look.

The trash-can look is very important. For example, the girl must wear a bikini, must be deeply tanned, must be beautiful and must never, never, for God's sake, be fat. Preferably, she should have long, silken hair, but short hair is being accepted now. If she has long hair, she must never, as she once did long ago—like last summer—keep her hairbrush stuck into the hip of her bikini. "A chick with her brush in her bikini just hasn't been around here," says a veteran of six Waikiki summers named Jabo Jerog. (Despite this edict, the brush-in-the-hip look is still very much in evidence. Some people are always slow to get the word, even at the trash can.) And a one-piece bathing suit is so out of the question for a girl that fun-lovers around the trash can have to pause and give serious thought to whether they can remember what one looks like.

There are some equally important rules for the guys. For one thing, he must never wear a new swim suit of any kind. He must never be fat or pale. Actually, if he is really hip, he will wear a pair of $1.50 plaid underwear shorts instead of a swimsuit, and they will be slightly faded. Finally, and above all, he must never under any circumstances have a haircut that suggests he might be in the armed services. "There really are a lot of service creeps around," says a California coed, one who no doubt remembers Korea as the big war and thinks Vietnam is somewhere near Duluth.

A regular trash-canner named Sandy Gilbert from the island of Maui, a lush, short blonde dish who giddily admitted that she had attended six different boarding schools on the mainland but always came back to Waikiki for the summer fun, tried to explain precisely what a girl looked for in a young man. "No one is looking for a surfer," she said. "Surfers are kind of Out. I mean, who wants to devote your life to surfing? You know, you just sort of want to have fun and not get married or anything. You don't want anyone too serious, but you don't want a beach bum either. There really are a lot of nice fellas around to date who aren't real grim and just like to spend the summer here having a good time." Sandy grinned. "Occasionally, one of the girls will get married and move off to Phoenix or someplace."