My brothers, my mother and I were tickled when “Pauline at the Beach,” a film by French director Eric Rohmer, came out in 1983. We joked that we didn’t have to go to the Varsity Theater to see it, because we could see our own “Pauline at the Beach” any time, for free.
The co-stars were our mom and her best friend from high school, Auntie Pauline Kealoha.
They relaxed, just the two of them, on the golden sands of Sans Souci (French for “carefree”), also known as Kaimana Beach, on the Diamond Head side of the Natatorium.
Rohmer’s scene was set on a beach in Normandy, France, on the shores of the English Channel, or La Manche, depending on your nationality. His films are praised by critics for capturing the casual, natural, seemingly unacted spontaneity of real life.
But our “Pauline at the Beach” was real life.
My four brothers and I had enjoyed many small-kid summer days in these calm waters with the three Kealoha children and our moms while our dads were at work. But by the time Rohmer’s “Pauline at the Beach” came out, the youngest of us had graduated from high school, and our moms suddenly had all this free time.
My mom was surprised when Pauline suggested they go to the beach.
What for? she asked.
To do nothing, Pauline said. Just lie there in the peace and quiet.
For years the beach had been a chore: schlepping food, water, towels, toys, sunblock and beach chairs, cleaning sand off the food, watching us kids to make sure we didn’t drown and that we washed off all the sand before we got in the car. Finally — poof! — we were all gone.
Now they could claim the beach for themselves.
These two women who had nagged us for years about roasting in the sun were letting themselves get dark tan. Worry wrinkles were replaced by a smooth glow. Their black, Asian hair was getting sun-bleached. They looked a lot younger than women in their 40s.
They drew the line at bikinis. Both were slender but self-conscious about what they insisted were their flabby bellies after all those pregnancies. So they wore one-piece bathing suits. But I had to admit, my long-haired mom looked pretty sexy in her low-cut black maillot with the bows and her big-brimmed, black straw hat. And Auntie Pauline, with her tawny skin and hair — well, she was always a babe.
On a recent Friday morning, the sands of Sans Souci were crowded with families, but I noticed a couple of dark-haired, tanned women sitting alone at the far end of the beach, engrossed in conversation.
They looked like sisters, the way that best friends sometimes can. Like my mom and Pauline, they wore one-piece suits.
I introduced myself and they told me their names: The one in the royal-blue swimsuit was Namahana Lota, and Kaui Dalire, Miss Aloha Hula of the 1992 Merrie Monarch Festival, wore turquoise.
“Have you been friends your whole lives?” I asked.
“No. We just met,” Namahana said. “Nah, kidding!”
I told them they reminded me of my mom and Auntie Pauline.
“Oh, that’s so sweet!” Namahana said. “I hope someday my daughter says, ‘Mom, that reminds me of you!’”
An Aiea resident, she said she grew up in town and used to bring her kids to Kaimana, “and my parents took me as a child. My grandparents took my parents.” Her children are in their 20s.
Kaui, from Kaneohe, said her five boys range in age from 12 to 18, and she mostly took them to beaches on the Windward side.
Sans Souci is where the two friends meet to catch up.
“With no kids in tow!”
“Yeah, we gossip, haha!”
I remembered how my mom and Pauline could talk for hours. They told each other everything.
When we finally saw Rohmer’s film, we were surprised that his Pauline was a 15-year-old girl visiting a beach resort with her older, married female cousin.
It was slow-moving and kind of boring, but no matter: Rohmer’s title had long since worked its magic, helping us to see how our lives, too, could be the stuff of art, and to appreciate Pauline and Mom, mistresses of the art of living.
“In the Lineup” features Hawaii’s oceangoers and their regular hangouts, from the beach to the deep blue sea. Reach Mindy Pennybacker at mpennybacker@staradvertiser.com or call 529-4772.
