I’m riding shotgun back home from the orthodontist
in Dad’s old black Toyota.
A Stones song plays on the radio,
my dad sings along and I gently tap my knee to the beat.

As we round the familiar corners,
and pot-holed roads of Kaneohe,
I gaze out the window at the receding blue-green tide,
which leaves dark patches of coral exposed.

The blinker signal clicks gently
as we slowly turn into Heeia Kea Boat Harbor
and park in an extra-long stall
made for trucks trailing fishing boats.

Dad didn’t say we were stopping here.
Maybe he’s meeting a friend?
Maybe he’s desperate for a bathroom?
Maybe he’s buying a boat?
Maybe — “It’s your turn to drive” he says, as he exits the car.

No no no no no.
I can’t drive a manual on the highway!
I sink down and stay planted firmly in my seat.
I grab the cushion tightly in my fists
as if I could squeeze out the nervousness.
I’m not prepared for this,
no no no no no.

I try to calm myself,
reminding myself of the many back-road driving practices,
but all I can think of is
all the times I’ve stalled,
all the times I’ve rolled backwards down the hill.

“No Dad, I can’t,” I say.
“Well then we’ll be stuck here all night,” he replies.

Knowing my Dad, he’s not joking.
I get out of the car,
switch places with him,
adjust the mirrors,
move the seat forward,
put my left foot on the clutch,
right foot on the brake,
turn the ignition.
The engine rumbles and the car starts.

Now comes the difficult part,
a touchy balance of pedals.
Slowly remove left foot from the clutch
and simultaneously press down on the gas.

With too much of either, the car will
jump, jerk, stall,
as it has many times before.

But this time,
with a somewhat sudden start,
the wheels begin to roll.
Success...

...not yet
There is a stop sign at the exit of the harbor
and I begin to panic,
knowing that once I stop I’ll have to repeat
the daunting process of shifting again.

I don’t want to stop.
I want to ignore the stop sign,
pretend it’s not there,
continue out into the street.

But a car comes speeding down the highway,
and I am forced to press in the clutch and stop.
Regain composure.

This time, with slightly more confidence,
I flip the blinker on,
release the clutch, press down on gas,
and glide onto the highway.

Clutch in.
My dad’s gentle, confident voice guiding me,
my shaky hand on the worn-soft gear stick,
I tug it down into second gear.
Clutch off.

We gain speed and I have to shift again.
Clutch in.
Eyes on the road,
left hand resting on the steering wheel,
right hand now steady on the gear stick,
shift into third gear.
Clutch off.

Cool AC blows on my neck and chest,
warm sun shines through the car windows.
“You’re doing it,” says Dad,
with a proud smile across the gray-brown stubble on his face.

I am relaxed and in control,
cruising down Kamehameha Highway,
as we round the familiar corners
and pot-holed roads of Kaaawa.

I’m driving stick, back home from the orthodontist
in Dad’s old black Toyota.
A Stones song plays on the radio,
my dad sings along and I gently tap my knee to the beat.