“‘Have a glass of champagne for me, and a safe flight.’ With that being said, Gigi turned toward Concourse B, flung her red monogrammed canvas bag over her shoulder, and took two steps as Robert kissed her on the cheek.  Walking away was never easy, especially blinking back the tiny tears at the corners of her eyes.  Here she was, at midlife, starting over again.  It’s one thing to chase a dream at the age of 20 when the possibilities seem endless.  It’s quite another to imagine those same unfulfilled hopes at 44.  ‘Isn’t that what life is all about?’, she could hear her daughter, Jocelyn, whisper in her mind.  Gigi reminded herself those were words easily spoken from a younger version of herself sitting comfortably in her happily-ever-after life married to her childhood sweetheart.”

“Are you two catching the next flight to San Francisco?” We both looked up simultaneously to the uniformed man standing before us. “If so, it’ll be awhile before the ticket agent opens up so I can check your luggage curbside,” he continued with a grin, “if you’d like.”  There was something strangely familiar about this middle-aged man who approached us in the open-air terminal. His thinning hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and dimpled chin caught me searching my mind in general recognition. 

This morning I indulged in a true spa experience. The waterfall shower head covered me in a sea spray of raindrops as I nourished my hair and skin in a mango nectar organic blend of natural ingredients known as Mālie, grown exclusively in the Hawaiian Islands. The semi-enclosed shower area was a blend of cool mint sea glass with dove-grey stone granite from floor to ceiling. Soothing jazz melodies drifted softly in the background, helping melt away the stress of the past few days, removing me further and further away from reality. The thirsty white towels were fluffy and warm, the contemporary lighting compassionate. Using one towel as a bathrobe and another as a turban, in bare feet tinged with a subtle French pedicure, I gingerly stepped onto our private secluded oceanside terrace for a breath of fresh tropical air. It seems I wasn’t the only one enchanted by this hypnotic spa experience. Gerald created his own private collection of open-air discreet photographs; some imparting lustful images with a playful spirit for appreciating later on. Good Morning, Mr. Dorna.

The shadows became long as the sun sank into the waves on the distant horizon. Candles flickered, chairs were stacked, and the last dinner was divine as the moon lit a lamp in the warm Winter sky. Across the table, with the ocean behind him, Gerald relaxed leaning slightly backward to catch the breeze that circled over him on its way across the beach. I love the color of my husband’s eyes. They remind me of intoxicating sea breezes and deep tropical pools. I am completely mesmerized.

As the waves come and go, the hypnotic rhythm clears the mind of faraway thoughts and personal loss. Contentment seeps in bringing appreciation of time standing still. I stare and stare, my mind totally blank in musing. “Do we really have to leave?”, I finally whisper. “It’ll be alright”, he assures me nodding his head. “You have me at your side.” Blinking back a tear, with a sigh of relief, I realize that thought alone puts me mentally at rest. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this unencumbered. The water has apparently washed away the weight of losing my father. Feeling his love by letting go along with basking in the love of my husband brings tranquility to the soul. Rest in peace, my dear father.

The tour book boldly proclaimed the landing site for Captain Cook was “located in the Lucy Wright Park and just across the Waimea River from Russian Fort Elizabeth.” Still, as we cruised through Waimea Town, our attention was drawn instead to the ridge where a couple of magnificent homes were perched on a bluff overlooking the most breathtaking panoramic view of the coast. As my husband made a right turn where the road steeply grades, we began the ascent of exploration. “What about Captain Cook?”, I inquired. “We can see him from up here,” he explained matter-of-factly. Now I’m not a fan of heights, let alone a winding two-lane road without a shoulder. It’s at times like these, where the view outside the passenger side window drops several hundred yards into the craggy canyon, that I get a little squeamish and lean toward the middle of the car. Don’t worry, I can still see the view of the town below at the ocean’s doorstep spreading exquisitely across the horizon.

Further north on Highway 50, we pulled over at a Lookout Point chosen by five other vehicles. As we grabbed the binoculars, the overcast skies released a light mist. Through the lenses a razor sharp image of muted canyon walls came clearly into focus. Murmurs of awe and steps of bravery set the stage for photogenic backdrops. One Asian man stood dangerously close to the edge coaxing his petite wife in Chinese to join him for the optimal extreme snapshot. Her gentle demeanor would have no part of it as she timidly took a step behind me. The more he cajoled, the more firmly her feet lodged into place. Finally exasperated, he struck a Superman-like stance and hammed it up for the camera. Then making peace with his elegant wife, he found an impervious point for immortalizing the moment. Minutes later, we did the same. Now where is Captain Cook?

Look through those boxes tucked in the back of your closet, the ones marked “my childhood” and you’re bound to find a sea shell or two. Whether they were discovered along the sandy beach on the hike taken during that endless week at summer camp, or the carefully planned family vacation to a tropical paradise, the memory is enduring.

Check out that retired couple holding hands. See the fragile white mother-of-pearl clam shell cupped in the palm of her hand? Perhaps she felt healing of mind, body, and spirit within her grasp. Gaze past the sand volleyball net. The energetic teenagers chase each other before diving into the water to emerge with a treasured sand dollar. This is a “keeper” simply because it holds the energy of the ocean. Then spot the children building sand castles, while burying the feet of their parents. They pause to hold a spiral shell to their ear to hear the waves rolling onto shore.
Is it any wonder we covet these mementos to enrich our lives bringing beauty, wisdom, and balance into our everyday life? Perhaps that is the legendary Message in a Bottle.

The sound of bass runs deep in foot-tapping rhythm. Leaning against the nostalgic late 70s rusty red Mercury Cougar, a couple of gals wearing bandanas and smoking a Camel, have the engine turned off and the music cranked up. “I love this song!”, one of them squeals in between lyrics, body swaying in motion. “The 70s rule!”, the other responds making the peace sign with her right hand. The fisherman on the dock looks over and nods his head, reminding himself to make sure he gets his grandson back home before the crowd turns into a mob scene.

It’s an age-old dilemma. Without exception, every town has had to deal with it at some point or another. Whether it’s the parking lot at the mall, or cruising the downtown strip, people gather for socialization. The only difference on this tropical island, in the middle of the Pacific, is the backdrop is gorgeous and the sunsets are breathtaking. The fishing’s not bad either.

Look at me, now look at you. I have style and panache. Choose me and I’ll lift your spirits, make you smile, and dance with élan like your mother did before you. Behold, the Second-Hand Jewels. Age is irrelevant to fashion. It’s pointless. Especially now when fashion is versatile and timeless. If you don’t believe me, check out any gently-used clothes closet boutique where the owner is hands-on and in-house connecting with customers. Essentials are as simple as classic tees, flirty skirts, and black dresses, complemented with a jacket or two thrown in. The thrill of discovering a designer label hidden within the garment heightens its allure. Flashy belts, jazzy scarves, or chic hats become the icing on the proverbial cake.

Down the coast on a two-lane road sits a town as old as the island. It is known as Historic Hanapepe. When you turn off the beaten path, within a few short blocks, you’ll find a diamond in the rough. Rows of original store fronts house skilled artists, creative entrepreneurs, and musical geniuses. On this particular night the satiny glow of the outdoor market lights appeared hypnotic creating a romantic atmosphere of Time standing still. The street musicians rendered notes with hearts of soul. Their quiet style and distant music left us yearning for a bistro table and a bottle of wine so we could linger awhile longer. A treasured gem? Undoubtedly.