She’s not the Queen of Sheba, although her fur is as soft as mink. She’s not Puss in Boots, despite her sassy attitude. And she’s definitely not Garfield, a comedic feline with a sluggish disposition. On the other hand, Pōpoki, is a complimentary resident member of the Marriott family at the beach resort on the island of Kauai. She awakens at the break of dawn to greet the early risers on their way to the outdoor cafe for a foamy cappuccino and buttery croissant. Her purring “Aloha” sets the stage for another perfect day in Paradise. And if she plays her cards right, this seasoned grimalkin will touch the heart of a cat-lover or two, who will stroke her back and rub her ears for awhile in exchange for the hospitality. Just gazing into those piercing green eyes as they blink an alluring “Mahalo” speaks volumes as it connects the spirit of Life deep within us all.

From the Land of the Dead, on a cliff by the sea, all is quiet except for the crashing surf below. At first glance, the place seems abandoned; lost and forgotten, an afterthought. Headstones lay helter-skelter, lacking order or symmetry. Some face down as though strewn by the wind in a game of Dominos. Piles of lava rock, crusted over in spots of frozen ash, dot the graveyard left as memorial markers for family trees. Some are inscribed with names and dates; others etched in a foreign language from immigrants migrating to a new world of promise, hope, freedom, and bounty. Remnants of broken bottles, empty jars, half-burned candles, and cherished mementos serve as reminders of loved ones. Red dirt stains the ground where weeds choke what few grass blades struggle to survive.

If headstones could speak, what stories would they tell? Would they recall how Chinese men, women, and children left everything behind in their native homeland in search of their dreams? Or that endless days of back-breaking work was worth a few dollars a month? That prayers were answered when cries were murmured? What if wishes came true and they danced here every night by the light of a full moon? Only the guardian of the graveyard knows for sure. It’s the lone cane frog; the sole living creature left behind to insure the deceased would pass safely into the spirit world. How symbolic!

Four years ago he was just a black bundle of fluff with a beak. Deserted by his island mother hen, he survived the only way he knew how. Across the road, the front door of a contemporary home opened and Gary, a slender gray-haired man, stepped out to head for the car. This little orphan rooster made a break, scurried over to Gary’s doorstep and tried to go inside. He saw a Safe Haven and knew it was his only hope of survival.

Thus began the life of Chuckie Whitetoe. Gary and Andrea adopted him to share their cliffside retreat on the tropical island of Kauai. Many islanders only dream of living in a condo with a million-dollar view overlooking Kalapaki Bay. Chuckie grew and thrived there. He’d relax on the lanai basking in the sunlight on the cushioned wicker lounge, crowing to his little heart’s delight.

In the evenings after work, Andrea would take him across the road where the grass was green and let him scratch for food. Sometimes Chuckie would roll in the sand to clean his colorful wings. But in the end, he always wanted to go back home where his head was combed and his feathers smoothed.

As time went on, Chuckie Whitetoe got lonely for female companionship. He set up a Facebook page and tried to get a little help from his fans in ordering a mail-order bride. Responses came as far away as Germany with all kinds of applicants sending cheesecake photos vying for his attention. In the end, he couldn’t resist a flirty little chick from Hanalei, on the north side of the island. True, she was a bit of a free-spirit whose parents referred to her as a “Party Girl”. But she adored Chuckie and told him the times they spent together were magical! It just goes to show you, never give up, be thankful for small miracles, and always……always, be “Living the Dream!”

“The breeze seemed to stall out for a while, so I gave this sailboat a little push with my big toe.” I was being creative with my camera as I snapped photos of my feet, leisurely crossed at the ankles. Fifty feet down to my right, Kalapaki Bay was a sea of calm. Usually waves crash against a cliff face and water spews upward across a pile of lava boulders, leaving tide pools in its wake. Not so today. Even the ocean was observing Sunday as a day of rest. A rustic sailboat bobbed on the quiet water, barely floating on a whisper of air.

It was a gloriously sunny afternoon. Gerald was dozing on the twin wicker chaise lounger next to me. Our view above the bay on the lanai from our cliffside retreat was heaven-sent rolling into our final week at the vacation condo. This is God’s love in action. Quiet waters; restoring the soul.

“What are you going to order from “Kick Shaws”? Everything in the world, man “. The line was ten people deep as Gerald stepped up to place our order from Chloe’s “Trucking Delicious” food truck. She flashed him an ear-to-ear dimpled smile. Her tattooed mom, Julie, was taking orders as fast as her fingers could write. We already knew we had to get the Kokobopo Cake (Kauai Beer Company’s signature dessert of chocolate porter cake, sea salted caramel filling, chocolate porter ganache) again since it totally blew our tastebuds away the first time we had it. Gerald fumbled with the name as he teased Julie before finally saying, ” Just give us that damn chocolate cake!” Peals of laughter followed.

The crowd was animated and excitedly chattering nonstop as patrons at outdoor cafe tables lined up their numbered table markers: 5, 3, 43, 22 so runners could deliver the food as fast as it came hot off the grills. Ours was on its way: Spicy Lobster Melt-spicy Langosta lobster salad, pepper jack cheese, sweet chili slaw. Yum! A refill of ice-cold beer set the stage in preparation for an amazing experience of culinary delight. Larry, the old hippie, acts as assisting manager. He stopped by the table to give Gerald an update on the local political ramifications of having a fantastic night for all parties involved. Arm-in-arm he and Gerald posed for a memorable snapshot of this first anniversary of Truck Stop Thursday at the Kauai Beer Company. “It has literally blown everything out of the water”, Larry shouted above the crowd.

Curls of woodsmoke drifted upwards from the beach as the sun barely peeked above the eastern horizon. It was one of those days when the aroma of barbecue pork arouses the senses and we had to catch a glimpse of its origination. Sitting on the edge of the Marriott Beach Resort, not far from the sand, was an imu pit that looked to be about three-feet deep and five feet long. It was obvious dinner was slow-cooking in the underground oven, producing an island favorite: Kalua Pork. Although we had heard about this technique, it was pretty exciting to see it evolve before our eyes.

Upon closer scrutiny, a sign was visibly posted at the cordoned off area which read “Private Function”. Just beyond, heat waves shimmered against a baby blue sky. There must have been at least a 200-pound sow covered in a heavy plastic tarp. The edges were buried in dirt. Apparently steam had raised the plastic into a taut dome. The aroma of salty meat infused with smoke struck me in the face on its way across the bay. It smelled delicious! Meanwhile, workers busied themselves moving about filling tiki torches, setting up tables, and stringing white lights. Tonight was the night for a traditional Hawaiian Luau.

Later on, outside the open doors to the lanai, the atmosphere of romance was infectious. The sound of the conch shell and the beating of the drums below was hypnotic. From our bird’s-eye view, hula dancers swaying to the music brought the evening to a thrilling conclusion. Aloha!

Daily sand sculpting happens on Kalapaki Beach this time of year. A slender man who goes by “Jeff”, in Hawaiian-print trunks, is focused on his next creation. Will it make us smile, scratch our heads, bring sea creatures to life, or inspire us? Whatever he chooses, it intrigues and entertains beach lovers of all ages. His style of sand art is pretty simple. Jeff mounds the sand into a solid base and then begins to sculpt. Upon close scrutiny, he persistently creates these masterpieces, stopping only long enough to chat with inquisitive onlookers. He works patiently all day on the warm sandy beach. And when energetic unmonitored children climb on top of the completed sculptured mounds to play “King of the Hill”, a few days later he begins all over again. We had the privilege of viewing three sculptures this trip: a mermaid, a tribute to the Year of the Ram, and Mahalo sign language. As I look across the bay, I catch sight of yet another hill of sand; a blank slate awaiting tomorrow’s inspiration.

“I’ve never lived anywhere else”, the energetic hotel valet stated without reservation. My eyes lit up as I blurted out, “Why would you want to? You’re already in Paradise.” That expression alone told him he was living somewhere special. He knew. Yet from his perspective, adventure lies ‘somewhere out there’. I could see the wanderlust in his eyes. “It’s just as costly and time-consuming for me to leave as it is for you to get here,” he added. Although he only appeared to be twenty-something, he spoke volumes beyond his years. To Kyle, living on a tropical island with the constant flow of tourists seeking excitement, thrills, romance, and serenity seemed ironic. Sure his Kauai zip code attracted single young women, but everyone has a dream. And his was to trade palm trees for snow caps, to get away from the daily grind and experience Life. I guess I’m pretty fortunate to live on the mainland where the scenery changes often and the seasons are as fickle as my moods. It’s a blessing to have the best of both worlds.

A middle-aged bikini clad woman stood offshore in waves reaching up to her waist just beyond the ancient mound of rugged lava rocks. She had a smile on her face that was as innocent as an eight year old child. “Come here. Look. See? It’s a giant turtle!” With one hand, she grazed the surface of the salt water before taking a step backwards. A crowd began to gather as beachcombers paused for a few minutes out of curiosity to watch for an indication she was not exaggerating. With each wave came a glimmer of intense emerald light. Suddenly a spotted head broke the surface of the swell and two dark eyes opened to peer at all the commotion. “He’s feeding”, I heard someone call out. Just about that time the turtle filled its lungs with air and dipped below the surface to catch the next wave which carried it to the fuzzy green seaweed growing along the base of the lava. Nearby snorkelers encircled the mound to watch the species underwater in an effort to capture photographic images of this intriguing reptile. I heard one shout to the other “He’s only got three flippers. One of them is sheared off.” Unlike other turtles, sea turtles cannot retract their legs and head into their shells. Still, its handicap did not seem to hinder its ability to streamline through the water. Touristy onlookers appeared mesmerized while a lively group of teenage boys merely shrugged their shoulders in boredom, having seen hundreds of sea turtles by now, and grabbed their psychedelic boogie-boards to ride the next wave.