Stage one: Denial. You check your phone every thirty seconds, refreshing the same website that says “Estimated arrival: 12:21 PM.” You think, “That’s twenty one minutes. I can finish this episode.” Then you hear a car horn that sounds slightly aggressive, and you decide maybe the episode can wait.
Stage two: The Bathroom Break. Suddenly, everyone in your household makes a run for the toilet because the news just said the wave might be three feet high. A three-foot wave in normal life is a Tuesday. But a three-foot tsunami is called a “sneaker wave” and it will absolutely ruin your flip-flop tan and suck you out to sea. So yes, you go to the bathroom. For good luck.
Tsunami Timer
Stage three: The Acceptance. You and your neighbors form an impromptu barbecue party on the second floor of a parking garage. Someone brings a ukulele. Someone else asks, “Hey, what time is the tsunami actually hitting?” and a tourist yells, “We don’t know, but the sunset should be stunning!” It’s the most Hawaiian thing that ever happened—panic, laughter, and a side of spam fried rice.
The Digital Countdown
Social media goes into overdrive. Your aunt posts a story of her cat sitting on a surfboard with the caption “Protect da baby!” Your cousin’s ex shares a meme that says “Tsunami? More like Tsuna-ME, ‘cause I’m outta here.” It’s a beautiful, chaotic mess. The actual time of arrival feels less important than the collective, sweaty decision to just wait together.
And then, inevitably, nothing happens. Or a tiny wave comes in, slaps a Sea Doo sideways, and retreats like it suddenly remembered it left the stove on. You look at your watch. It’s 1:15 PM. The whole ordeal took three hours of your life, and now you’re stuck in traffic again, going back down the mountain, with a cooler full of uneaten snacks and a story to tell at the next luau.
The moral of the story? Never trust a tsunami’s schedule. It’s like trying to get a Hawaiian rooster to cross the road on time—impossible, mildly annoying, and weirdly entertaining. So when someone asks, “What time is it supposed to hit Hawaii?” just shrug, hand them a bag of chips, and say, “Bro, it’ll get here when it gets here. Now pass the sunscreen.”
