You’re driving past the airport in Honolulu, sandwiched between rusted shipping containers and massive warehouses that look like they haven't been painted since the Nixon administration. Honestly, it feels like you've taken a wrong turn into an industrial graveyard. But then, tucked right at the edge of the Ke’ehi Lagoon, you see it.
La Mariana Sailing Club isn't just a restaurant. It’s a time capsule that refused to be buried.
While Waikiki turned into a polished, high-end shopping mall for tourists, La Mariana stayed weird. It stayed dark. It stayed covered in dust and pufferfish lamps. If you're looking for a sanitized, corporate "Aloha" experience with $25 avocado toast, you’re in the wrong place. But if you want to know what Hawaii felt like in 1955, pull up a chair.
The Woman Who Built an Empire with a Shovel
Most people don't realize that this place was literally hand-built. Annette La Mariana Nahinu—a Brooklyn-born force of nature—founded the club in 1955 with her husband, Johnny Campbell. They didn't have a construction crew. Annette reportedly cleared the land herself with a shovel and a rake.
Think about that for a second.
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She took a strip of "virgin territory" that everyone else thought was a swampy mess and turned it into a sanctuary for boaters who couldn't afford the posh yacht clubs. She started with 13 boat slips and charged fifty cents a month.
The restaurant we see today is actually the second version. In 1975, the state gave her just a few days to get off the original land. Instead of quitting, she moved the whole operation 50 feet up the shore to a former junkyard. She rebuilt the thing piece by piece. That's the kind of grit that keeps a place alive for 70 years.
It’s Actually a Museum of Dead Tiki Bars
Here is the thing about the decor at La Mariana: it’s mostly stolen—or rather, salvaged—from the ghosts of Honolulu’s past.
When the legendary tiki bars of the 50s and 60s started folding, Annette was there like a vulture with a checkbook and a lot of heart. She knew these places were disappearing, so she started buying their guts.
- The heavy carved tikis? They came from the Kon-Tiki Room at the Sheraton.
- The koa wood tables? Scored from the original Don the Beachcomber.
- Those lamps and glass floats? Some of those were salvaged from Trader Vic’s and the Tahitian Lanai.
When you sit in a booth at La Mariana, you aren't just at a restaurant; you’re sitting among the wreckage of a bygone era. It's the last standing museum of Polynesian Pop in the islands. It’s crowded, it’s cluttered, and the lighting is so dim you can barely see your drink, which is exactly how a real tiki bar is supposed to be.
Let’s Talk About the Food (and the Drinks)
I’ll be real with you: you don’t come here for a Michelin-star culinary experience.
The menu is old-school surf and turf. It’s simple. It’s "uninspiring" to some, but it’s nostalgic for others. You’ll find things like:
- Ahi Poke: Usually fresh and reliable.
- Mahi Mahi: Often served garlic-style, which is a crowd favorite.
- Burgers: Juicy, standard, and they hit the spot after a few rums.
- Coconut Shrimp: Exactly what you expect it to be.
The drinks are a different story. The Mai Tai here is legendary, not because it’s the most complex mixology creation in the world, but because it’s strong and served in a setting that makes it taste better. People also swear by the Zombie.
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Is the service fast? No. Not even close. But why are you in a rush? You’re sitting next to a marina at sunset. There’s usually someone playing the piano—regular locals often step up to the mic and belt out Hawaiian classics. If you’re looking for efficiency, go to McDonald’s. If you’re looking for a vibe, order another round and wait for the sun to drop.
The Fight to Stay Alive in 2026
It hasn't been easy. Since Annette passed away in 2008 at the age of 93, the future of the club has been a constant question mark. There were legal battles over her will, disputes about a $1 sale that supposedly happened (or didn't), and the ever-looming threat of the state lease expiring.
Then came COVID-19, which shuttered the place for two years. Everyone thought that was it. The "For Sale" signs felt inevitable. But the staff—many of whom have worked there for 10, 20, or 30 years—refused to let it go. They treat this place like a family home because, for them, it is.
As of now, the trust is keeping Annette’s wish alive: to keep the place going "as long as we could, in the fashion she had built." Climate change and rising sea levels are the new villains in the story, with water creeping closer to the floorboards every year, but for now, the pufferfish lamps are still glowing.
How to Visit Like a Local
If you’re planning to go, don't just show up and expect a table right away, especially for dinner.
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- Location: 50 Sand Island Access Road. Don't let the industrial surroundings scare you off.
- Timing: Go for lunch or an early "pupu" (appetizer) hour around 3:00 PM to 5:00 PM if you want to avoid the heaviest crowds.
- The Gift Shop: It’s worth a look. They sell legitimate tiki mugs, often designed by local artists like Gecko, which are actual collectors' items.
- Parking: It can be a nightmare. Uber or Lyft is honestly a better call if you’re planning on having more than one Zombie.
Why It Still Matters
In a world that is becoming increasingly "copy-paste," La Mariana is an original. It represents a version of Hawaii that was built on kitsch, rum, and a very specific kind of post-war optimism. It’s gritty, it’s a bit rough around the edges, and it’s hidden away from the glitz of the tourist traps.
It matters because once it's gone, it’s never coming back. You can't "recreate" a place that is literally built out of the remains of ten other dead businesses.
Next Steps for Your Visit:
Check their current hours before you head out, as they can be a bit old-school with their scheduling. If you’re a fan of history, spend ten minutes walking around the bar area to look at the nameplates on the tikis—you're looking at the history of Hawaii's nightlife carved into wood. Grab a seat by the window, order a Mai Tai, and just breathe in the salt air.