December 31, 1942 (Thursday) and Friday, January 1, 1943 (Friday)


The cure worked, thank God, so that I felt in shape for a good New Year’s, this morning. Started off to town in Oliver’s “Brown Chariot,” but it gave up the ghost amidst loud clanking after a few miles. We all piled out and hitchhiked to Pearl Harbor to catch a cab into town.

Was disappointed to find that Beeza hadn’t returned from Maui for the party. Patu picked up Wally Jones and myself and we headed over the Pali for Wilcoxes at Kailua.

We (Wally and I) felt quite lucky to be invited to this party as it was undoubtedly not only one of the best, but the wildest New Year’s party in the islands. The Wilcoxes’ “beach house” was a perfect house for a big party — big grounds, tennis court, beach, and a good large house with a built-in bar. Everyone brought their own liquor, and contributed to the sizable pool. I brought two bottles of scotch while Wally brought four bottles of champagne. With few exceptions, all of the guests were kamaainas.

Party started off slowly and roared through midnight at full steam. At 3 a.m., I grabbed off one of the few beds and had myself a little sleep till six. Most of the revelers had little, or no, sleep though. About six-thirty everyone was out on the lawn watching a good fistfight between Duncan McBride (formally of S.F.) and Jimmy Glover (rising Island financier and politician), the latter having made himself generally unpopular with everyone by his loud, bragging coarseness. (His recent overwhelming victory at the polls — an island senatorship — seems to have affected his good sense.) McBride handed Glover a pretty thorough smearing, to everyone’s secret satisfaction. After a few more stupid tricks by Glover, he was packed off to his home. (His dumbest stunt was to get into a tangle with his diminutive host — “Brotha” Wilcox.) By 10 a.m. the party was going full blast again with the aid of Wally’s potent milk punches and the champagne (supplemented by other guests). At one o’clock in the afternoon the celebration shifted to the nearby racquet club, where Wally was pushed into the pool in all his clothes by a frivolous female. We later returned to the beach house, and when we left at 5 p.m. the party seems to be reaching its third state of complete saturation, though by this time the majority of the guests had gone home. That was my first and last (for a while anyway, I hope) 24-hour party.

On the way home with Wally and I, Patu stopped off at a friend’s house where she created a commotion by making a scene over this McDougle fellow she is so in love with (unfortunately, from all appearances, unreciprocated). Jones and I carted her off and drove her home, while she wept copiously and Wally, out of pure sympathy, accompanied her. 36 hours of hellraising and no sleep (in their case) was beginning to tell.

No sooner got to bed at the Halekulani than Vandermade arrived with Marion and Jean and “Morsey” (RAF). They soon left, and we lapsed into unconsciousness.

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