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by Rebecca Locklear

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Fall 1965, Oahu, Hawaii

The bottom line: I was a good kid. I’m not kidding.

I followed every rule, obeyed every command, and did everything my parents and teachers expected me to do. My older sister was even better – a model of perfection in every way. An alpha-angel.

But there was one instance. One time when a bit of curiosity led us to defy a clearly-written warning – and a military one at that.

My dad worked for the Air Force and we moved around. One of those moves deposited my family off-base in a mountain community on Oahu where double rainbows appeared on cue every afternoon.

Fourth grade in the mountains was my first experience being one of a few haoles – or white kids, at school. I watched as native students speaking pidgin gathered in cliques to taunt each other before school and during recess. And yes, I walked away from them when they laughed at me for wearing sandals. You see, kids went barefoot everywhere – even to school. I tried, but couldn’t do it. My feet were tender that first year on the island. Clearly, I didn’t fit in.

After walking home from school and changing out of my dress, my mom always insisted I stay out of the house. She taught piano lessons in the living room and didn’t want to be interrupted. That directive left me free to wander.

Relishing that time of day, I stacked pillows and boxes to jump over in our backyard or talked with the hemophiliac boy over our chain-link fence. Occasionally, I ran out of things to do and searched out my sister. You know… it could have been my sister who was the bored one and insisted I tag along. Yes, that was it.

On those “nothing to do” afternoons, my sister and I might skirt around the few neighborhood houses and traipse off to scale a nearby hill. On clear days we could see mountain edges jutting like shoulder blades above the rainforest canopy. We’d race down the hill to a tall, metal fence that cut through the undergrowth. Like explorers, we’d follow it for a while, wondering what might be going on way in the distance on the other side.

One day we came across a military sign attached to the fence. I don’t remember exactly what it said, but it was something like, “Stay out or you will be shot.”

We decided to go in.

After kicking away brush for quite some time, we found a place where part of the metal fencing material had ripped open along the lower part of a post. With our knees sunk in decaying leaves, we pushed the wire aside until we could squeeze through to the other side.

That first time, we stood up for a brief moment, then crawled back to the safe side. Though we looked cautiously about, there was no need to scan the area. There was never anyone around. All was quiet except for the whistling of birds in branches overhead.

From then on, we often made our way to the fence after school and slipped through the opening. It was exciting to do something forbidden.

One time, from a hidden vantage point, we caught a glimpse of an Army jeep bouncing along the dirt road that switch-backed higher into the mountains. Another time, a big, old Army truck rumbled along with a load of GIs in the back. I knew their mountain war games would soon be war reality for them in Vietnam.

When hunger took over or when an afternoon rain shower made us shiver, we snuck off toward home. I thought we’d continue these secret forays forever. Not so.

Late one afternoon, while snapping off wood roses for our mom while on the forbidden side of the fence, we heard a kind of snort and shuffle in the distance. I had never heard that sound. It wasn’t friendly.

My sister immediately reacted. “Let’s get out of here!” She took off at a run through the ferns, yelling at me to hurry up.

I tore after her, but all I could think of was that we’d just given away our position. Our location! Soon, I’d be surrounded by twenty-five M16s pointing directly at me. Then I imagined myself in a dungeon, reaching up to a bit of light, yelling, “I’m not a spy!”  More than likely, I’d just be caught and shot.

But those thoughts dug into my brain for just a moment. Hearing snarls and grunts coming our way, I snapped into reality. Flailing my arms to keep branches from my face, I went for broke: moved faster; yelled louder.

Reaching our small fence opening, my sister jammed through and held the wire for me. It snapped back into place. We raced up the hill until we reached a familiar tree and scrambled onto a low branch. Only then did we look back.

Monster-like wild pigs squealed in rage as they repeatedly charged and crashed into the fence where we had just emerged. Their tusks ripped the ground. The fence shivered from the impact of their bodies.

My sister looked at me, wide-eyed, as she caught her breath. I followed her up into higher branches.

After a while, sounds of pawing and snorting lessened as the pigs shuffled away. Quiet returned to the rainforest.

No soldiers appeared.

“Wow,” I whispered, “an about-face from Charlotte’s Web. Do you think we could have kicked at them or…?”

My sister rolled her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.” She took a deep breath. “Listen up,” she commanded. “Never tell anyone about this. And I mean anyone. Keep your lips zipped.” She pressed her thumb and first finger together. I did the same, and in that “lips are sealed” gesture, we swiped across our lips.

The very next day, I reverted to being a really good kid.

As for the fence?

I never went near it again.

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