island reboot

Another visit to our second home on Kauai is now behind us. Yes, it seems like we were just there, when this baby blog began. And yet a great deal of time had passed, making this a very different trip than the last one. Of course, everything is always different than it was before, every day and every year is different, because we are different; before and after cancer are significantly different. In some ways this trip was a bookend -- as distinct as the logistics and even the dispositions were, the soul of Kauai and its dialogue with my own remain the same. Actually, I'm going to call it a bookmark instead. While I accept that I can never really live there, I am surer than ever that I will always return and be anchored there, so this is no end. 

We were on the island just ten days this time, and we brought my mother. Phil and I had shared lots of alone time in the year before this trip, compared to many prior years, so the company would be okay. Mom had not been to Kauai for quite awhile, and her own life had been drastically rattled in the interim, so it was a rite of passage that called for a new room on the other end of the resort than we were used to. When we arrived on Thursday afternoon I was really happy with the spot, and my enchantment only grew as the days went by. Close to parking, to the pool and moreover the poolside bar and grill, and to the coolest bunch of neighbors we've ever had. Views from the patio:

We dined at the pool the first night: kalua pig nachos and sandwiches, and yep, that's still the only pig worth my eating. On pretty much anything. By sunset we were all ready for bed, though I stayed up perusing the local magazines, researching rates and times for various activities, and filling out a schedule of possibilities. At 10:00 I crashed. Hollow booms of tropic thunder and sparks of lightening woke me around 4am, and when the alarm went of at 6:00 it was raining in swatches, so mom and I viewed the coral light of the sunrise behind charcoal clouds from the shelter of the patio. The intrepid photographer went out to the rocks for awhile, and then we all saddled up to go shopping. The rain kept coming, but it was warm and delightful as we peered into art galleries and picked up menus around the fancy Kukui'ula shopping center. Phil and I bought shirts at a surf shop, but the Living Foods market was ridiculous for the staples we needed. On to familiar Koloa Town and Sueoka's grocery, where we stocked up on breakfast foods, beverages and snacks for the week. I waited in the rain for a fish taco from my favorite truck and jogged across the parking lot with it under my jacket, to an umbrella table where mom was eating Koloa Mill ice cream.

We spent the remains of the day close to home, just realizing where we were and what a magnificent balm it was. Around happy hour I found Phil at the smoking bench on the hill ten yards from our patio, watching whales and talking story with a fellow named Gordon. Gordon was celebrating his 72nd birthday with his pal Toby and their wives, Louise and Karen, who had known each other since the 7th grade. He was drinking a gin and tonic, and Toby soon showed up with a refill and a swisher. These guys clearly knew the value of a good time, and shared one tale after another to prove it. Quick with the clever barbs, immediately inclusive and kind, they were Lemmon and Matthau's wonderfully grumpy old men. They knew Los Angeles well, vacationed yearly in Palm Desert, and currently lived in suburbs of Portland and Tacoma. Their room was just around the corner from our own. "Come over and I'll make you a Ramos Fizz," said Gordon. They would be here all week.

After a cloud-shrouded sunset I asked Phil to stroll over to Stevenson's Library at the Hyatt for sushi and champagne. I stopped back up at the bench while he showered, and there were Gordon and Toby again. "How was dinner?" I asked, "Did you get that Kona Pie?" They squinted at me in the almost pitch black that is Kauai on a cloudy night. "How did you know we were going for Kona Pie?" they demanded. "Because you told me this afternoon," I casually assured them, stepping a little closer. "Oh, it's Robyn," they chimed in jolly unison. Hooray. We had found the vacation buddies Phil always longed for.        

A crazy-fresh tuna roll and trio of sliders (including a crab cake) at Stevenson's made the most splendid meal of the trip. Afterwards I had a slow romantic stroll with my husband through the lush Hyatt grounds and a snuggle on one of their beach swings. It was a pleasure to turn in early and remember the easy joy of waking up in time to brew tea and head up to the bench for sunrise.  Gordon and Toby met me there, that morning and every one after. Between the breathtaking sun shafts and the breaching whales, the fishermen, the turtles, and the steady banter, they were long sittings. Sometimes Phil took the camera gear down to the rocks, and sometimes not. We all met again nearly every day at happy hour and every night at last call. Saturday afternoon the wives Louise and Karen joined us, and the circle was complete. Saturday night a lady named Atlanta came on board; Sunday afternoon newlyweds Dan and Donna; Tuesday morning Mary Lou. A week-long block party. Views from the gathering bench:

Late Saturday morning Phil and I drove west to the annual Waimea town festival. We went for the ukulele contest, which we'd found the same weekend six years before. The clouds had blown off and mid-day was a bit of a roaster. Before the ukuleles, we walked a mile down the main road to check out the rodeo. It was a great photo opportunity, and an illuminating glimpse of locals-only territory. We seemed to be the only non-Hawaiians under age 60 in attendance, and while Phil was camped in front with his long lens stuck between the gate rails, I found an empty picnic table under a tent. I was happily chomping an apple when a group of women and children surrounded me, and began to not-so-passively comment on how unwelcome an interloper I was. Never mind the $5 I paid for entry, I could not assimilate in my floppy Hamptons hat and lack of cowboy boots hiding my albino toes. I got the message, moved to a spot under a tree and contemplated the complexities of pride and prejudice until Phil had the shots he wanted. Back at the festival main stage and concessions, the vibe was more welcoming -- there were prizes for visitors from farthest away -- but too hot too linger past the first five ukulele contestants.

On the way home we stopped for late lunch at the Port Allen brewery, where they serve a tasty salad of pineapple and mac nuts mixed with the greens, onion straws and papaya vinaigrette. Back at the base again, Phil went wandering for more pictures and mom and I strolled over to Shipwreck Beach. She marveled at the cliff jumpers, and then at a casual wedding (or maybe a vow-renewal) on the beach just steps from us, officiated by a familiar conch-blower and attended only by the photographer and us looky-loos. We would hear or see at least three more such ceremonies on the resort grounds throughout our stay. During happy hour on the gathering bench, Gordon proudly told us he was ordained to preside over our own renewal of vows should we choose to orchestrate such a thing this week. Quite the tender heart, that one.  

We threw together dinner in our room and were beckoned back outside around 8pm by a series of red luminaries drifting across the dark sky, mingling with the stars. I watched a few more of them set sail from some new ceremony on Shipwreck, while Gordon sang Burl Ives ditties to the smoking congregation. He was still singing at Sunday's sunrise, where a vast pod of spinner dolphins joined us. Then we went to the orientation breakfast to win a door prize. Even though I've heard the song and dance of all the local outfitters a half dozen times before, there are always only a few more families present than there are prizes, and once again, the odds were in my favor. We got the 2-for-1 mud buggy excursion. I'd never thought of doing it, but Phil was suddenly excited, so I signed the coupon and left him to book it.

After breakfast, I buckled down and get some grading accomplished. Let me tell you it was the best four hours of grading ever. Work is so much less work when the blue ocean coos above the laptop screen and bright birds twitter in the grass and palms rustle all around you in the breeze. I probably engaged with those student discussion boards far better than they were used to; I marveled at the possibilities of actually earning a living, and doing it well, in paradise. Meanwhile, Phil lit out for the Mahaulepu trail. He returned, red and exhausted, just as I logged out of class. While he caught his breath for a couple hours, Mom and I did some shopping at the nearby Poipu Village mall. Cocktail hour at the bench, and Phil could not be torn away from his buddies, so I took Mom to a sunset dinner at Brennecke's.

Monday's dawn meeting brought a parade of whales slapping and jumping really close to the rocks. I tore myself from the show for some more grading and course maintenance, and then cruised down the road to Allerton Garden and the Spouting Horn with Mom. 

I spent the afternoon on the patio with my fat March Vanity Fair. Sunset promised to be the clearest one yet so I carried Phil's tripod to the rocky westward lookout point, and later the photographer and I wandered back around the Hyatt again and indulged in stargazing. 

Suddenly we were halfway through the trip. These slow days staying close to the room and carefree, enjoying quiet reflective time with Mom, had been necessary and good, but I felt something slipping away. I put the screws to Phil to invest in some more adventuring with me before time ran out. The next morning he booked our mud-buggy tour for Wednesday, and then whisked me off to the Wailua River junction for the two little things I'd promised myself when we left the island last time -- I wanted, just once, to tour the storied Coco Palms hotel and ride the Smith's luau barge to the Fern Grotto. On the way we found the Poliahu Heiau, Opaeka'a Falls, and a grove of rainbow eucalyptus trees. Even though the Coco Palms tour guy had stuck a sign on the entry that said "sorry, no tour this week," I was completely satisfied.

Wednesday morning, Kauai ATV outfitters in Koloa. Mom dropped us off and the van drove us to the old sugar mill. I knew our tour guide, Shane, was a winner from the start. He gave us mud-ready shirts, shorts, helmets, goggles and souvenir bandanas, and a cursory lesson in maneuvering our hard-ridden buggy. During the lesson we watched another group in a zip-line prep class, and I was so happy we were on this excursion and not that one. Shane jumped on his lead ATV, and rode standing, looking over his shoulder at his caravan more than he looked forward, conducting us bumping and zigzagging through the dusty back roads, swerving into every muddy crater he could find. Phil drove with unchecked vigor, and I was doused in wet red dirt from head to toe after the first half mile. I loved it, laughing as I smeared the mud from my goggles so I could take in the views. Shane showed us places we would never see otherwise -- the top of the Mahaulepu Trail overlook, into the heart of a majestic acacia grove, through an old cane transport tunnel, the stand of Cook firs and the meadow where every famous tropical movie scene was filmed, a hidden cove where we hung our muddy feet over the dock and munched mac nut cookies -- every couple miles he pulled us over for a break from the jostling ride and sweaty helmets, and as we stood and stretched he cracked jokes and took pictures, gave us history and trivia, and gossip about the stars he'd taken on tour. I was sorry to see the three hours come to an end, but glad for the hose-off before the van took us back to town. Mom was there waiting, after her own adventurous solo drive to Hanapepe, and this time she and Phil grabbed lunch at Chalupa's truck while I got my Koloa Mill ice cream.

After a long shower and leisurely stint at the gathering bench, Phil and I went down to Poipu Park to shoot the sunset. 

On the way into Brennecke's for a late dinner we collided with Gordon coming down the back stairs for a smoke break before his dessert. "You guys are here! Why didn't you come to our table? Come join us! What're ya doin?!" When we declined, to leave he and his crew in peace, he opted to sing a few songs with Phil in the street, practice for the next night's poolside karaoke. We finally got our own table as Toby drove the foursome out of the parking lot, waving all the way down the road. By the time we finished our tapas, local rum samples, Keoki coffees and chocolate lava cake, and returned to the resort, our friends had retired, and we followed suit. Early to bed, perfect sleep in the cozy breeze-blown cradle, rocked by the pulse of invariable ocean waves, easy to rise in the first bloom of dawn...every replay of this ritual -- so steady even as it was fleeting -- was precious.

Unfortunately on Thursday morning Phil and I went to the Diamond Resorts "presentation." I had already done this two harrowing times before, once here and once in Orlando, and sworn it off forever. But the concierge had promised that it was different now -- that the management just wanted to hear about owners' questions and concerns and talk through property upgrades, there would be no hard sell. The hundred dollar gift card reward beckoned. And Toby had gone to his the day before and said it was no problem. Well, that's because Toby had been around long enough to say from the first handshake: "I'm not buying anything, period," and hold the line. I, on the other hand turned to mush as soon as the sales guy started drawing confusing diagrams and scribbling random equations. Incredibly, it was the same sales guy who'd stolen a whole morning of our life in Orlando. This time, the promised 50 minutes turned into two hours of misdirection, presumption, and haggling that made me want to seriously cry and also punch someone. I finally left in a fit, and after Louise and Karen let me vent at the gathering bench for a few minutes, Phil packed me into the car for a drive to the North Shore. Just a quick trip up to Hanalei Bay, not the full multi-stop day we usually spent on that expedition. I was skeptical but he prevailed, and it was a wonderful afternoon of claiming a free Hanalei t-shirt with my hard-earned gift card, sandwiches from the town deli, eaten on a towel on the shady back beach and followed by a walk in the lapping surf, pausing to gawk at the young surfers and snap the activity on the iconic pier.

Mood restored, we arrived back from the long drive in time for $2 Mai Tai night at the pool, the pre-funk for karaoke. Only a few groups were in attendance so we ruled the mic. I started with Copa Cobana. Phil went all-in with his Nat King Cole and Stevie Wonder and stunned the crowd. Mom showed up and I sang her Mrs. Robinson. Gordon joined Phil for The Great Pretender and then led our trio for If I Had A Hammer. The youngest guy at the resort, surely, surrounded by parents, aunts and uncles, killed it with some Rent selections and Bieber. Phil and a reluctant Toby closed it out with Tom Jones' Delilah. Mom was bonding with the group and I was smiling from ear to ear, so joyous. Too much adrenaline surge over the course of one short day perhaps. When the Karaoke hostess closed down I ran up the hill in the dark, to continue the party at our bench, and dashed my big toe right into a big rock. I heard a crack. I though, gee, I'm glad I've had three Mai Tai's, cause I bet that hurts bad. I started on the fourth drink as the crew came up and Karen shined a flash light on my toe. "No bone sticking out." We all sang Danny Boy into the dark sea and sky, a rough version as Gordon stalled to recall all the verses, and then everything started to swim. I announced that I was not alright. I tried to stand and sat right down on the ground, hearing Phil say, "You're in shock," and "Somebody hand me that beer can for the back of her neck," and everyone making a fuss. When I realized he and Gordon were carrying me down the path toward our room, I insisted I could walk, and with both their arms around me, I made it to the edge of our lawn. Then I heard Phil repeating "Can you hear me, baby?" and the third time I replied, "I was having the greatest dream." But I had been out for about 20 seconds, Phil said later, so really it was a bad dream. I got back to my feet and saw Mom rising off the couch in the room in front of us; as we met her on the patio Gordon and company calmly said goodnight and faded back into the dark. After peeling the sweat-drenched clothes off me and applying cool washcloths to neck and forehead, Mom had me in bed and was rubbing my back like a sick child's. I was mortified, but both she and Phil kept insisting that it was okay, that it has happened to everyone. "Can you feel your toe?" they asked, "Can you bend it at all?" Yes, it's not broken, just badly jammed. I fell asleep afraid of how it would feel in the morning.

At sunrise Mom told me I had to go up to the bench and face everyone to prove that it was all okay. I did, and was instantly embraced by Toby and Louise. "Is your toe broken?" Karen asked. "No, just my heart," I said sheepishly. They laughed about how it had for sure happened to everyone , and how I had done just fine, no problem. I apologized and asked if Gordon's back was okay. "Of course, it's nothing, dear, we'll never speak of it any more." And on we went with the business of sunrise watching. I resolved to just be grateful and to roll with it, as these fine folks had been doing for 70+ years. Why panic? People will fall down and people will help them up; the sun is still going to rise, for someone, every morning. And it was our last whole day here. It had to be spent well.

After elevating and icing the toe for a half hour, we wrapped it in gauze and Phil drove Mom and I to lunch at The Beach House, where we had the open, ocean-side dining room practically to ourselves. The salad and tacos were so-so, to tell the truth, but the guava-mango-puree- drenched carrot cake was amazeballs. We waited on the grass under a palm for Phil to finish his private shopping excursion and pick us back up, and then we all went contentedly home to nap on the patio and wander around the turtle coves. I was limping, but mobile enough. Phil and I planned to go back up to the lookout point for sunset, but a wall of gray was pushing into the sky from the west, so I went up alone to scout and found no sign of the sun. I felt bad for Gordon and his crew, themselves now at The Beach House for the most famous sunset dinner view on this half of the island. I parked myself on our former smoking bench, the one where Phil proposed, and said thank you to everything around me -- sea, sky, wind, trees, birds, whales, family, friends -- above all I dwelled on my gratitude for all the hours spent outside. I always take it for granted, how one just lives outside here, automatically, even though that is so different from how one lives at home, where days and days can pass only going outside to get to and from the car. Outside breaths, what a blessing you are.

Phil finally joined my revelry, and as he sat down, a pair of whales starting dancing just past the rocks in front of us. The most animated show we had seen all week. I looked away once to the westward sky, and a black cloud was devouring the blue-gray fast. Instantly, the sea began to churn around the whales and plump raindrops began to spatter. All the spectators ran for their rooms, but Phil stayed under a tree. "I'll ride it out," he called above the wind, as I began the careful trot back across the property to shelter. I kept my head up, open to the rain, and was soaked by the time I reached the room, but warm and blissful. My toe was tender, but I had ultimately gotten lucky. Lucky indeed.

I had saved a bottle of champagne for the last night, but my heart wasn't in it, so I gave it to Louise and Karen, who loved the gesture. Phil spent the evening at the pool with his bartender friend, Kolleen, and the young crooner from karaoke, Ben. He turned out to be a lawyer from the Midwest, and a cool guy for Phil to drag out his last party on the gathering bench with, after Gordon and Toby packed it in. I don't know what time Phil came to bed; I left the bench early, more interested in the last sunrise the next day. It was a beauty, and everyone was there to say goodbye. When it was just the six of us left we had a photo shoot and passed around hugs and contact info. It was a good slow morning icing the toe, packing the bags, eating the last yogurt and hard boiled eggs for breakfast. I returned the pool towels and signed the bill, and we hauled the bags up to the car. But our flight was five hours away, so we stopped at Hilo Hattie's to spend the remains of our gift card and took a little tour of Nawiliwili on the way to airport. Phil even got his last meal at The Feral Pig. And after a slight delay of our incoming plane, I got early boarding with the spectacle of my thickly wrapped toe. Not a bad leaving. Mahalo again, Island. Mahalo to the charming Gordon and Toby, and their beautiful and gracious wives, to all the fine neighbors, to my best love, to Mom. To warmth. Ever, Aloha.