Seaduction celebrating Valentine's Day in Waikiki
HONOLULU (KHON2) — If you're looking for a fun way to spend Valentine's Day, you can do so right along the beach in Waikiki at the Aquarium for their Seaduction event.'We're excited to celebrate love, friendship, or simply a magical night under the stars at the Waikiki Aquarium at our enchanting Seaduction event,' said Elizabeth Churchill, the Executive Director of Friends of the Waikiki Aquarium. 'Whether you're planning a romantic evening with your Valentine, a fun outing with your Galentine or a group of friends, it will be a night to remember. It's also a great way to support the Waikiki Aquarium.'
Churchill says the evening will feature live music by harpist Megan Levin, a champagne reception, delectable cuisine from Chart House Waikiki, and a fascinating glimpse into the mysterious mating rituals of the Aquarium's marine life.
It begins at 5:30 p.m. with a champagne reception and time to explore the galleries, with dinner to follow at 6:15 p.m.
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There will be tables for two arranged throughout the Aquarium's galleries, fronting exhibits such as Barrier Reef, Moon Jellies, Reef Predators, Weedy Sea Dragons and more.
'Tables for Two includes welcome champagne in a special keepsake, a bottle of wine, and three-course dinner service within the galleries,' Churchill said. 'General admission seating will be available on the Aquarium lawn, where everyone can enjoy a beautiful sunset over Waikīkī and an evening under the stars, all while watching the harpist play. Lawn seating includes the champagne reception and a buffet dinner, also by Chart House. The evening's menu will feature a culinary experience by Chart House Waikiki, which recently reopened after an extensive 9-month renovation. The refreshed space honors its 50+ years of history as Waikiki's only waterfront restaurant not located in a hotel.'
Admission per table of two is $300 and general admission is $75 per person. To make a reservation online, visit fowaquarium.org/seaduction.
Download the free KHON2 app for iOS or Android to stay informed on the latest news
If interested in proposing during this romantic outing, call or email the FOWA membership office at (808) 302-5917 or membership@waquarium.org for more details.
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She said he hated old concertgoers wanting to wax nostalgic with him about the glory days.I figured Dad, like me,always had big dreams hounding him down. Time spins like a vinyl, and after doing a few of these record shows and hearing every tale Mom knew, I began reaching out to Dad'sold friends and work associates from his promoting prime. Yet I heard the same thing I already knew: Dad was a 'workaholic.' 'And how exactly did he fall out of promoting?' About this I'd heard different stories. Mom had always said he'd lost it all on a bad concert run with Joe Cocker, and that he was distracted chasing a woman nicknamed 'Little Red' who never reciprocated my father's interest. But I'd heard more than one old associate say that Dad had also been outgunned by a hotshot New York promoter namedTony Ruffino who today gets the credit for putting Birmingham on the map for big rock bands. One old rock buddy who used to hang up flyers and do other promotional work even said that Richard tried to go rogue and represent Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks on his own, and for this the record biz blacklisted him. 'But what was he like as a person?' I'd ask these strangers who knew 'the old Richard.' That was always harder for them to answer. 'He was a private guy,' was the best answer I got from a man named Wendell, a partner in an early booking agency my dad founded and later sold. 'He didn't talk much about what was going on in his head.' I became desperate, looking to our family albums and VHS tapes for answers. But here, too, Dad was the invisible promoter, so frequently on the other side of the camera capturing/directing holidays and trips instead of being in them. A backstage man, even in his personal life. Wendell suggested I visit the iconic 2121 high-rise in downtown Birmingham to see my father's old office, where he built his Peace Concerts empire nearly six decades ago in what was then called 'the penthouse,' room 1727. When I told Mom about the idea, she smiled and said Richard used to point out the 2121 building in their earlier days, telling her he worked at the top in an office with a view. So I drove a half-hour into town to see for myself, uncertain what Wendell thought I would findso clarifying there. Riding the elevator up, my reflection rippled in the scratched, stainless steel doors in front of me, looking like a leaner, taller ghost of my father. On the top floor, I saw only three suite numbers: 1700, 1710, and 1720. I rang the bell at 1700, where a woman with graying blonde hair and sleepy eyes answered. I explained I was writing something about my relationship with my father and trying to hunt down his old office. Albeit bemused, she was nice enough to let me in and give me a quick tour. She explained that this suite connected to 1720 but there was no room #1727, not even 27 separate offices on that floor. The place had clearly been redesigned since my dad last stepped foot there. It was hard to believe that any rock concerts were ever planned in this now drowsy, overly air-conditioned space. But what I did see, everywhere I looked, were plate glass windows waist-high to ceiling. It was the kind ofspace where an overachiever could dream big while watching the world spin down below — exactly like something I would prefer, for I need a window nearby to write. 'I'm sorry I don't know any more,' the office worker said before walking away. I snorted a laugh and had to accept that I would never know my father like I wanted — that a history of objects can reveal but never resurrect — and also that, to some degree, he'd been there right in front of me. That private but friendly guy always working, always dreaming — that was my dad. A dozen years after my father's passing, the days of selling rock files are done. My mother eventually sold what was left in the file cabinet to a local collector who's creating an archive of the Birmingham music scene with the hopes of turning it into a museum. The archivist hauled away that clanky metal thing that, although lighter from fewer files, still had to be hand-trucked out by two strong one day, Dad's papers and accomplishments could be on public display. Mom kept a few favorites, including that black-and-white poster of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, forever frozen in their 20s, forever beautiful, boldly staring back at the viewer like wild-haired rock gods. Mom displayed it in her living room, a reminder of when she and Richard were young. Over the years of sellingrock documents, the parent I got to know was my mom. Even though she frequently griped about Dadnot being more involved in child care and housekeeping, I could tell part of her still loved him — the version of Richard before the disease of depression stole himfrom us. That's why she kept selling these rare items, not for the money, which she didn't need, but to keep his memory living and moving,just like the music they both craved. Remembering is also reacquainting. Although I thought I never played for my father again, that's not entirely true. I never played for him in person. While writing this essay, a memory returned to me: I used to keep in touch with Richard over the phone in the early days of his decline, when there was still some little spark of the old dad inside him. I must've been practicing guitar during a call one evening (a habit I still have) because he grew silent, listening to me play. I stopped plucking the strings, anxious. 'You sound good, son,' he finally said. 'Sound really good.' 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