When you think of Waikiki and the landmarks that assist in defining some of our history here in Hawaii, The Royal Hawaiian, the Sheraton Moana Surfrider, and the Natatorium are ones that come to mind instantly. Both historical hotels are privately owned and meticulously maintained. The Natatorium is the only publicly owned property of the three. It is owned by the city and county of Honolulu and to a larger extend the people of Hawaii.

As soon a culture loses its sense of its past it soon loses its sense of direction.

I was a child of the 1950s and a teenager of the 1960s growing up in Waikiki and Kaimuki. I remember, even from diaper days, going to  public baths every Friday evening to potluck with friends and family.
At these outings we were able to explore the beach, Waikiki Aquarium, Honolulu Zoo, Kapiolani Park, and one of my favorite places, the World War I Memorial Natatorium.
It was there that my calabash uncle asked me at age 4 if I knew how to swim. I honestly told him no. He picked me up and threw me into the saltwater pool. I gulped a few mouthfuls of seawater and dog-paddled toward the edge of the pool, where there were grooves in the cement that acted as ladders.
Uncle asked me if I now knew how to swim and I said no again. He threw me into the pool for the second time in my short life. I gulped some more water, swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out once more.
Did I know how to swim? I finally told him yes.
The natatorium had a tower with four levels of diving platforms. My dad told me stories about some of the great diving competitions he and my uncle participated in.
Growing up, I felt it took a lot of courage to dive from the tower's fourth level. The very first time I climbed up to it, I must have been about 7. I crawled on my hands and knees to look over the edge. I took a breath as soon as I leaped, but it was a while before I hit the water. I felt my feet touch the muddy bottom and as I rose, it seemed I was holding my breath forever. I learned to take a breath just before I hit the water from then on.
Occasionally, a barracuda would enter through one of the puka that flushed the pool. Someone would yell "kaku" and everyone would jump out. We used to dare each other to dangle our toes in the pool whenever one took up residence for an afternoon.
There was also a stainless steel slide at the tower's second level. After an afternoon of free slides, we liked to lie on the concrete bleachers that were always so warm from the sun.
When I was a teenager, a  young girl fell from the tower onto the concrete and died. City officials had the tower dismantled. From that moment, the pool went into disrepair and degenerated into the eyesore it is now.
My parents are no longer alive. Their ashes are scattered at sea a couple of miles straight out from the natatorium. On each of their birthdays and on their wedding anniversary, I scale the two fences at the natatorium. I walk to the wall past the pool and toss two lei, intertwined, into the ocean and watch them drift out to sea. There was only one time that the lei didn't drift away, but came back. I'd forgotten to have the florist tie a green ribbon around the lei. Green was my mother's favorite color.
Do I hope they restore the natatorium?  Yes. I won't have to scale the fences, but I can also lie on the warm concrete bleachers, close my eyes and dream about the good old days.