After our ill-advised hike, I was tired, I was hungry, and all I wanted to do was to sit in the shade while we waited for our bus.
It was at this point we encountered Pierce Brosnan and Keely Shaye Smith wrapping up their day at Kēʻē Beach.
“I think that’s Pierce Brosnan,” I whisper to my wife, who was rummaging through her pack to find our towels. I try not to make eye contact so as not to draw their attention. She stares directly at them.
“Who’s Pierce Brosnan?” she responded.
It’s important at this stage to mention the pop culture gap that exists between my wife and I. In this case, she has never seen a James Bond movie. She has no idea of the superstar status Pierce Brosnan had in the mid-90s and early 2000s for his role as the titular secret agent. And she isn’t ashamed by any of it. She doesn’t apologize for who she is. It’s one of the reasons I love her.
But the pop culture gap can be hilarious sometimes. And inconvenient, like right now.
“James Bond?” I say. ”I still don’t know who Pierce Brosnan is,” she says.
I frantically start to rattle off movies he’s been in so we don’t embarrass ourselves if his back catalog somehow becomes relevant.
“Mrs. Doubtfire, Thomas Crown Affair?” Blank stare.
“Mamma Mia?” ”Ohh. Yeah. He looks older.”
“No shit. It’s been over 10 years.”
My wife shrugs. “Do you want to go say hi?”
I’m immediately hit with a wave of anxiety. I hesitate. “I don’t want to bother him. He looks like he’s having a nice day with his wife. If I were a celebrity, I wouldn’t want to be bothered when I’m at the beach.”
She grins. “You’re afraid to say hi.”
“Maybe. But I still would want to be left alone if I were a celebrity.”
We go to wash our legs off at the foot shower near the beach entrance. As we clean off the mud caked on our legs, Keely Shaye Smith approaches us.
“Where did you get your water shoes?” she asks my wife, who lights up at the question. “They’re sharp.”
We had purchased them several years earlier for a trip out to the Devil’s Pool at Victoria Falls in Zambia. We had survived, and brought them along here for the river crossing earlier.
“Amazon,” my wife replies, “but I don’t remember the name.” She begins pulling her leg back like she’s stretching out her quadriceps in an effort to read the rubbed out name on the bottom of her water shoe. Tries again with the other shoe. No luck.
She asks me to do the same. I bring my leg in like I’m doing half a butterfly stretch, but standing up. I glance down at each sole and find that the brand of the shoe has also been rubbed off.
Pierce Brosnan watches from a respectable distance. He is late 2021 Pierce Brosnan, so he is sporting a sweet beard and mustache combo, and his hair is almost completely white. He looks like a movie star coming off the beach because he is a movie star. He’s the one who’s sharp.
My wife unlocks her phone, determined to find the water shoe name. She scrolls for what feels like forever, but is probably only a few seconds. I try to fill the silence by explaining that it was probably an knock-off brand that may not be sold anymore, but looking for water shoes on Amazon would probably bring them up.
“I would love to get some for my husband,” Keely Shaye Smith says. She means Pierce Brosnan.
Then my wife remembers I bought the shoes, not her. I spend another minute or so scrolling through the purchases I made for South Africa to see if they come up. Finally, they do. The shoes have been discontinued.
“It’s these,” I say. Keely Shaye Smith writes down the name of the discontinued brand in her phone.
We are keeping Pierce Brosnan waiting. He walks up to us, and signals for his wife that it’s time to go.
“This couple has such nice water shoes,” she tells him. “They don’t look like water shoes, they look more like regular shoes.”
“Oh yeah?” he says. Pierce Brosnan looks down at our feet.
“We should get going,” he says.
I stare at Pierce Brosnan. He stares at me. There is something unspoken between us. He is looking to see if we recognize him. I break eye contact to grab my backpack.
“It was very nice to meet you both,” I say. Pierce Brosnan imperceptibly narrows his eyes, as if still trying to decipher whether we know him.
“You too,” he says. Then, he turns and walks away.
Back at the hotel, I find out two things: it’s Keely Shaye Smith’s birthday, and Pierce Brosnan loves meeting his fans. I sigh and put away my phone.
“What was the name of the couple we met on the beach? The famous ones?” my wife asks. She’s on the phone with her parents and has already forgotten Pierce Brosnan and Keely Shaye Smith. I love her.
“Pierce Brosnan?” I intone, unsure if the reminder will stick.
“Oh yeah,” she says. On the other end of the conversation, her father is slightly bewildered by the revelation. “Yeah, they were very nice,” she adds.
“They were very nice,” I say to her, but also no one in particular.
Pierce—if you’re reading this, I’m sorry we kept you waiting, and I hope you liked the shoes.