​​Laarni 
Gedo

The sun fell behind the horizon and the marina, with its lightposts as spotlights, transformed into a stage while the boats, which suddenly became danseuses, continued their tethered performance of The Nutcracker in complete discord. A few plied to Dance of the Militrons, their masts bobbed up and down. Some nervously en arriered through A Pine Forest in Winter. Others swayed to Waltz of the Snowflakes and creaked like stiff, old knees as they chassed between the sides of the slips. I sat down on the dock and watched―. It was Act I one December night at the Waianae Harbor.