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Hang Loose On Waikiki

By Donna Carroll

Waikiki Beach, Honolulu is where it seems as if every female under age 25 who owns a bikini and was born and raised in Tokyo is oiled from stem to stern and has become an instant sand bunny.

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Marriages are initiated on the sands with love at first glance. A tall blonde stockbroker from Southern California has locked eyes with a muscular consultant from Boston who has sunburned knee caps and fish belly white legs. It is a magical Waikiki bond with endless potential.

Hawaiian music flows with the waves, skin sizzling to a lobster red, the number 4 sunblock pure folly for the rays. A honeymoon couple toasting with mai tais in paper cups is entangled in a long kiss as a surfer catches a wave and rides the crest standing on his head. No one seems impressed.

Waikiki, like central casting, offers everything from treasure hunters with metal detectors to beachboys, who learned to swim before they could walk, and have a surfboard growing out of their big toe.

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