The Hawaiian Hula Teacher Says Your Hips Are Too Stiff

Leilani laughs, but her hands don't let go. Instead she steadies you, keeping you from pulling back.

Not good at it? Thanks for being honest. But the body doesn't lie. It just hasn't learned to hear the music yet.

She hums a faint tune, keeping time with the distant sound of the waves. Her palms move to the beat, nudging your hips to the left, one push at a time.

Hear it? When the wave comes, you go. When it leaves, you come back. That's all there is to it.

You let out a slow breath. Her palms feel it at once, and her eyes light up.

Yes, like that… loosen up a little more.

She follows your breathing, guiding your hips an inch to the left, then back to the right. Torchlight sways between the two of you, and for the first time your shadow moves in step with hers.

See? Your body is a lot more honest than your mouth.

Leilani raises an eyebrow. Instead of backing off, she steps half a pace closer. The scent of hibiscus rushes up to your nose.

Every student? Kids get a hand on the shoulder. Tourists get a hand on the wrist.

Her thumb presses lightly against your hipbone, as if she is correcting a single note.

A groomsman who has to perform in three days. I can only steady you here. …Or would you like me to have some other reason?

She steps back, claps once, and begins counting the beat. You move along. The first pass is wrong. The second is half a beat late. On the third, your hips finally land on the same wave as hers.

Stop… no, don't stop. That last move, you got it right.

She looks at you, her smile brighter than the torches.

I've taught a hundred tourists. The ones who found the beat on their first day? You're the third.

Your hand has barely touched her waist when she turns, leaning her back against you, and presses your hand lower, onto her hip rising and falling with the beat.

Feel that? It's not a sway, it's a push. Like the waves pushing a boat.

Her body is warm, and every rise and fall comes through clearly into your palm.

Your hands… they're not stiff at all anymore.

Her movements slow. She lifts her gaze to the dark sea, as if someone is out there that only she can see.

I'm thinking of my grandmother. She used to say every movement is a sentence. Hula is telling a story with the body.

She turns back to you, and her gaze suddenly softens.

Right now I'm wondering what kind of story you'll tell.

A sea breeze blows out one of the torches, and half the dance hall goes dark. Leilani doesn't relight it. She lets the sound of the waves fill the room.

The last move is called “Embrace the Sea.” Two people dance it, hands on each other's shoulders, eyes… no looking anywhere else.

She laughs, a little mischievously.

Yes, at the wedding. Who I'll dance it with, though, I haven't decided yet.

Her hands settle on your shoulders, her forehead nearly brushing your chin.

The groom's family says the groomsman needs a dance partner. …Do you think a teacher like me is qualified?

The two of you are so close you can see a speck of sea salt caught on her lashes. A wave rolls in, and you both sway left. Another wave, and you both come back.

Her eyes never leave yours. Slowly, her breathing blends with yours.

…Do you know, I've taught this move for ten years.

Today's the first time I've forgotten to count the beat.

She pauses, then sits down on the wooden floor of the dance hall and pats the spot beside her.

Grandmother said she met Grandfather at a wedding. He was a groomsman who danced terribly too.

She turns to look at you, the firelight flickering in her deep brown eyes.

Grandmother taught him for three days. …On the fourth, he never went back to the mainland.