To All the Girls I've Lomi-Lomi'ed Before

"DO ME!”

“No, do me!!!”

The last time I heard girls implore me with words like that was 45 years ago. It was during Thanksgiving break from college. I was at my favorite uncle’s place in Louisville, Kentucky.

Uncle Elvin had four girls, ages six through ten. I’d made the mistake of twirling the youngest one around -- my 185 pounds vs. her 40. She squealed with delight!

When I put her down, her three older sisters (read that heavier ones) each wanted a turn.

It involved a modicum of trust.

Whether they knew it or not, they were trusting me not to let go -- and not to get so dizzy that I fell on top of them.

* * *

The current supplicants are girls too -- albeit 45- and 50-year-old non-english-speaking Japanese ladies. The task at hand has little to do with twirling -- more so with trusting their nearly naked bodies to an all-but-complete stranger -- male stranger, no less -- each for an hour and a half or so. They would be strategically draped with a bath towel over their derrieres, but otherwise in their altogethers.

Knowing as I did, how shy everyone in Japan is when it comes to public displays of affection, I’m somewhat taken aback by their unfettered enthusiasm!

It seems Japan is enthralled with all things Hawaiian. It didn’t hurt that my Japanese wife highly recommends the experience.

I had met both of these ladies in Yokohama a year before their visit to Kauai. No doubt the fact that they are both massage therapists in their own right had something to do with their enthusiasm.

I had previously met them at the annual meeting of their Twelfth Dimension group -- 120 students (followers?) of their chiropractic leader. His agenda was to drag them into the 21st century by introducing them to what he considered were functional conventions he had picked up in his own world travels. Since my fiancée at the time was a member, I was invited as her guest.

Some of the traditions of this group are impressive. Each year they got together and rened a large hotel ballroom for the weekend. If there is another member you have reason to be grateful for, you buy them a huge bouquet of flowers. Each flower-laden person then invites the person or persons of interest to the podium and relays the circumstances for which they are thankful before presenting the proud, embarrassed recipients with their bundle. This one tradition takes up most of the first morning.

The afternoon consists of a presentation by the leader. He thoughtfully provided me with an extremely good-looking translator. Her English was impeccable.

I was somewhat shocked to hear him say, “You should never say ‘no’ to a child.”

Immediately my hand shot up -- not knowing how egregious this act would be considered by virtually all 120 of his students. Turns out it’s all but a cardinal sin to interrupt or even question a sensei -- and then to do it in front of his students!

This is one of the traditions he hopes to change. He paused mid-Japanese sentence.

Let me take you back in time to this exchange . . .

Before turning to me, he addresses his followers. “Look and learn,” he says. “This is what I want you to be comfortable doing --

"Interrupt me. Ask questions. This is the fastest way to learn.”

Turning to me, he says, “You have a question or comment?”

I say, “Did I hear you right? You’re saying you should never say ‘no’ to a child?”

“You heard correctly. Is there a problem?”

“What if your four-year-old -- armed with a crayon in each hand -- starts walking with determination towards your freshly-painted living room wall? You’re saying you wouldn’t say ‘no’ to him?”

“I would not.”

“You’d just let him scribble all over your wall?” I press.

His audience is following this exchange like they’re watching a Chinese Ping Pong tournament.

“Well, that’s what he intends to do!” I say. “How do you plan to stop him without saying ‘no?’”

It feels kinda weird -- everything going through my translator -- but no one seems to mind. All heads turn back to Sensei.

“I’d ask him what he was planning to do.” Sensei says. “He’d probably say he wants to draw something. I’d ask him if he would like to share what he drew with his friends. He’d probably say ‘yes.’

“Then I’d suggest that if he were to draw on a sheet of paper -- which I would be more than happy to provide -- it would be easier for him to show his friends.”

Instinctively the audience turns to me. They seem to have dropped their knee-jerk reaction to my intrusion, seeing as how their Sensei seems to be enjoying the exchange.

“OK, you got me there,” I say.

“Let’s up the ante. Let’s say there’s a pot of boiling water on the stove -- the handle is sticking out over the edge. Your son is reaching up to grab the handle. You’re not going to say ‘no’ now?”

“No.”

“But your son could sustain third-degree burns over much of his body!” I exclaim.

“To be fair,” Sensei responds, “he wouldn’t do that. If you have been consistent with him, he will already have gotten used to the idea that sometimes consequences can be painful. He would test the water, so to speak. It’s only when you don’t allow him to suffer the consequences that he will be unsafe outside of your sight.”

That evening in a different room in the hotel, 20 or more members meet to sing karaoke. A bevy of snacks is constantly being replenished by hotel staff on the coffee tables in front of couches and chairs.

I find myself sitting beside Immu-mama -- one of the ladies who would later come to Kauai. She has a lovely smile. I’m without a translator, so smiling is our only means of communicating -- that is, until she gets up, turns around, faces me, then kneels down in front of me and gently takes my foot in her hands.

One rule you can count on in Japan -- you always take your shoes off when you enter a house, or in this case a room in a hotel. It took awhile for everyone to get shoed up again when 120 folks left the main banquet room earlier today!

That’s why I’m shoeless.

I have never had a foot massage.

Immu-mama -- I only learn her name after the evening is over -- lovingly massages my right foot for five minutes or so before switching to my left -- looking up every so often to make sure I am enjoying the process. When she’s done, she returns to her seat beside me as if nothing unusual has occurred!

I later learn that this gesture is one of the techniques Sensei has been instructing his group to employ. His reasoning is a bit convoluted, but intriguing, nonetheless.

He wants his group to expand. This means his members will have to tell others about it. He reasons that most effective word-of-mouth advertising would be if someone asks one of his members about the group, as opposed to his members proselytizing like Jehovah’s Witnesses.

He tells his followers, “People will want to know more about you if they like you. When you first meet someone, they have no reason to like you. A smile is a good start, but it’s not enough to really engage a person. You need to be able to offer them something they normally wouldn’t expect to get from a stranger.

“Everyone likes a good massage! It can be a simple chair massage or a foot massage. It’s always better to ask, but then if they say yes, you need to know how to give a good massage! As a practicing chiropractor, I can teach you.”

And that’s exactly what he does. During local gatherings, where 10 or 12 members come to one of the two offices he maintains, much of the time is spent massaging one another, then giving each other feedback as to what could make the massage even better. I unwittingly become the recipient of both Sensei’s instructions and Immu-mama’s implementation of this technique.

Some of Sensei’s followers become professional masseurs and masseuses, but at this point, they’re limited to chair and foot massages. Before getting back to our two Japanese women, I should tell you how I got into massage.

* * *

At the time, there weren’t many computer consultants on Kauai. It’d only been a couple of years since Hurricane Iniki stripped the Island of birds and leaves. It knocked down virtually every one of the 5,200 telephone poles on the island. Tourism was suspended for more than a year.

To this day, I don’t know how Margaret got my phone number. She’s the head massage therapist at the pricey Princeville Hotel. She also teaches therapists at other expensive resorts on the island, like the Hyatt, the Hilton and the Sheraton. Because tourism was still on the rebound, she found herself with more time than appointments. Her solution? Offer to teach newbies the art of Lomi Lomi massage. It’s indigenous to Hawaii.

In order to attract students, she needs a website. That’s where I come in. She knew it could be expensive, so before we even discuss price, she offers: “Would you be willing to trade your time working on the website for an $800, 40-hour Lomi Lomi workshop?”

From what she had spec’ed, I knew I could put her site together in less than an hour. I figure $800’s worth of anything for an hour’s worth of time sounded pretty good.

She likes the site. The class starts in three weeks. There are 10 students, including me. We pair up.

Has to be the luck of the draw.

I end up with the most stunning 19-year-old girl, eager to learn. We are eight girls and two guys, plus Margaret. I have a bit of a leg up, so to speak, since I helped Margaret prepare her handouts. I didn’t feel right about trading her an $800 value for what I would normally have charged a couple hundred bucks. Since I had color copiers at my shop, helping her with handouts was the least I could do.

All the girls wear bikinis. Much easier to take off and put on when it comes their turn on the tables.

The vibe is early hippie -- truly a new vibe for me. Very little in the way of modesty makes it into the room. Initially, students disrobe behind towels held up by their partners. After the third or fourth switch, towels are too much hassle!

An odd situation develops with one of the girls. She’s an honest-to-goodness Jewish American Princess. Margaret pulls me aside after class halfway through the week and says, “You gotta talk to her.”

“Me?” I say. “She’s the preacher’s son’s partner, not mine!”

“Tell her she won’t get her certificate unless she allows him to practice on her.”

“I’ll convey the message,” I say, “but I don’t think she’ll listen.”

Later that evening I call the Princess and inquire as to whether she needs someone to practice on before tomorrow’s class. She invites me over.

Her position is that she signed on to learn how to give Lomi Lomi massages, not get them.

As the evening progresses, it comes out that the reason she doesn’t want to be on the receiving end is because she doesn’t think it’s right for her partner to see her nearly naked. Having seen how cavalier the rest of the class seems to be with nudity, I’m feeling some empathy for her.

She turns to face me. With a determined look in her eye, she points two index fingers at her Farah-Fawcett nipples protruding through her T-shirt and declares: “Nobody sees these puppies for free!”

My empathy wanes.

Somehow I manage to convince her that if she wants to be certified, she’ll have to tuck “those puppies” under a towel -- otherwise the whole week will be a bust -- pardon the pun.

Margaret has a stream that flows behind her house. At the end of each session, we all jump in to get the oil off. I’m not much of a party animal, so what transpires after the final day’s instruction takes me by surprise.

All eight girls -- including the Princess -- go topless! My partner flings her top up at the wrong angle -- I guess you could say it got away from her. Last time we see it, it’s headed downstream.

I offer to buy her a new suit, which I do, after a nice meal at a north shore restaurant . . .

* * *

Fast forward to Mariko.

Mariko’s my wife. Prior to her arrival on Island, I had been practicing my new-found Lomi Lomi skill on all eight of Margaret’s female students. Margaret insists that each student give her a massage before she’ll sign their certificates.

Apparently my skill set impresses her. She calls me on numerous occasions to see when I’ll be up north with a couple hours to spare.

Turns out you need 500 hours of documented massages before you can turn a certificate into a license. You can’t charge for these. You can accept donations to help defray your travel and other massage-related expenses. Quality oil isn’t cheap, nor is the price of a good massage table. There’s sheets and towels to buy and clean. Gas is over $4 a gallon in Hawaii . . .

* * *

One suggestion for finding willing victims is to frequent yoga groups who routinely do their thing on the beach early in the morning. Worth a try . . .

I join a group on a nearby beach. During introductions I mention my need for 500 hours of Lomi Lomi victims. An attractive, slim blonde accosts me as I’m leaving. Theresa already has her number written down. Am I doing anything at 10 on Wednesday mornings?

She becomes a regular. For the next six months, Wednesday mornings are Theresa’s. In the first session, I’m careful to explain what the towels are for. As she strips down to nothing she says, “I don’t need them if you don’t.”

I don’t say anything about donations. She gives me $60 each session anyway.

* * *

My next regular is Edith. I meet her under strange circumstances. One of the girls in the same building I live in had previously had a boyfriend -- Neil. They’re still good friends. Neil has subsequently met and has been dating Edith. She’s from Germany. He’s put her up in the apartment where he lives in a house that he built himself.

Things are progressing to the point where apparently there is some question as to whether Neil is soon to become a father. He isn't sure he wants to be a father. Edith is quite sure she wants to be a mother. This raises the question of whether either of them is interested in getting married . . .

Neil talks with his former girlfriend. She suggests he might want to talk with me.

Apparently, what he wants me to do is to have a little chat with Edith for the express purpose of determining whether -- in my humble opinion -- I think she’s worth marrying!

I meet them both at a county golf course.

Neil makes introductions.

Edith eyes me warily.

I suggest that the two of us go for a walk.

Most of the time I just listen.

Apparently his offer is that he will support her -- in his basement apartment -- for as long as she wants.

She is a bit incensed. It’s her position that he should either marry her or dump her.

When we get back to where Neil has been impatiently waiting, I give him a thumbs up. He accurately takes this to mean I approve.

Before I leave them to hash it out, I say, “Edith seems to think that if the two of you got married, it wouldn’t be on an equal footing.”

“That’s not true!” Neil protests. “All I’ve ever said is that someone has to be the one who calls the shots.”

“Hmmm . . . Do you have a quarter?” I innocently ask.

Without thinking, Neil immediately fishes out a coin and hands it to me. “What’s that for?”

“Why don’t we flip for it?” I propose. “Heads, you call the shots. Tails, she does.”

At this suggestion Edith starts nodding in the affirmative.

I say, “This way you get what you want -- ‘someone to call the shots’; and Edith gets what she wants -- a feeling that even this decision is fair and balanced.”

“Waaaiiiiit a minute!” Neil literally backs away from Edith and me. “It’s my house. I’ve gotta be the one to call the shots!”

Edith looks at him almost pityingly.

Then she looks at me with a look that says, Didn’t I tell you?

It pretty much becomes a moot point when Edith miscarries. With the loss of their child, she decides to move out.

* * *

We run into each other at Big Save (Hawaii’s local competition to Piggly Wiggly). During our golf course discourse I had mentioned my recent Lomi Lomi workshop. She mentioned she was a Reiki Master.

Mid dairy isle, she asks if I’d be willing to trade Lomi Lomi lessons for Reiki lessons. I have no idea what Reiki is, but figure Edith could contribute to my 500-hour requirement.

Reiki purports to be a transfer of energy from the do-er to the do-ee. The do-ee lays face up on the massage table, fully clothed. There’s no oil. No need. There’s no touching! The Reiki Master does a sort of mesmerizing move -- fingertips barely above the do-ee -- moving slowly from head to toe. Presumably the do-er senses imbalances in the energy paths and can absorb negative energy or convey positive energy to balance the do-ee up again.

I can’t attest to the mechanism. I can say I feel better after an hour’s worth. (It could be that I feel better after giving Edith an hour and a half of Lomi Lomi . . . She’s another no-drape girl.)

We exchange massage techniques for the better part of a year and a half.

It comes to a rather abrupt halt when she gets engaged to a lawyer who wonders how much sexual energy is being conveyed along chakra lines.

When I share this with Ananda, my roommate, who’s a licensed massage therapist -- she suggests the two of us give the two of them a couple’s massage.

We set up two tables.

She does him.

I do Edith.

They’re only three feet apart.

He gets so blissed out, he says to Edith, “You can schedule one of these any time you want!”

* * *

It reminds me of a phone conversation I had with my mom.

Her sister -- my Aunt Margie -- who was a nurse all her life -- was there for a visit.

When I explain to Mom that I had just finished learning how to do Lomi Lomi, and what all it entailed, she says, “You won’t catch me asking you for any such massage -- you can bet on that!”

When she explains to Marge what she’s being so dogmatic about, Marge grabs the phone and says, “Davy, you can Lomi Lomi me any time!” Nurses always seem to me to be more balanced . . .

* * *

Of course Ananda -- who to this day I consider to be my soulmate -- and I trade massages, if for no other reason than to pick up new techniques and get honest feedback.

I met Ananda through Margaret. Margaret wanted to tweak her website, but didn’t think she had anything else to trade me with. When Ananda and her then-boyfriend expressed interest in the workshop, but didn’t have the $800 apiece, Margaret discovered that Ananda had website-building skills. She put Ananda in touch with me to orient her to the underlying structure of the site that I had built. Consequently, she learned the same techniques from the same instructor.

When Ananda’s boyfriend of several years dumped her, she came to live with me. I will ever be thankful to him for dumping her!

* * *

The first time I give Mariko (now my wife, but then all but a stranger) a Lomi Lomi, she falls asleep halfway through it! She’s sleeping so soundly I can’t wake her!

This is a problem, inasmuch as I live in a shoe-box converted hotel room. I have to flip the bed up against the wall like a Murphy bed in order to make room for the massage table. It’s approaching midnight. On my third try, I manage to wake her. She slowly comes around so I can drive her home and get some sleep!

* * *

I’m a little nervous massaging Japanese women, having given Kumiko -- Mariko’s sister -- a massage a few weeks back. In the first half hour, she bolts up into a sitting position, all but yelling Japanese something-or-other. When I try to find out what’s going on, she pauses long enough to -- in perfect English -- say, “Don’t stop me! I have to do this!” -- then lays back down for the rest of her massage.

* * *

A missionary wife -- from the same strict denomination I grew up in -- had just survived cancer as well as a divorce and was celebrating both victories with a trip to Kauai. When she discovers I do Lomi Lomi, she starts taking her clothes off on the spot! (Another nurse. You gotta love ‘em!)

* * *

Which brings us back to the two Japanese ladies. Both are so excited after their time on the table that they want to open a massage shop in Japan that only offers Lomi Lomi!

* * *

Later that year, Mariko and I sign up for a Lomi Lomi couple’s massage workshop by two other instructors. There are 16 participants -- eight couples in all, although Mariko and I are the only boy-girl team. The others are all professional therapists of the female persuasion.

You know how sometimes you get the feeling you’re being watched?

About halfway through the first hour of Mariko’s first massage, I get that feeling. I stop and look around. All eyes are on us.

“What?!” I say.

They all turn to one of the instructors.

She says, “That’s the most loving massage we’ve ever encountered -- ever.”