I awakened at 2:00 a.m. to the sounds of silence. The overhead ceiling fan had ceased to move and the room was black as pitch. I got out of bed to make my way down the hall, but in my blindness had to retrace my steps. Gently I placed my hand on Gerald’s shoulder and shook him awake. “I can’t see. Something’s wrong.” He grabbed the flashlight off the bedside table, clicked on a beam of light, and flashed it around the suite. “The power is out”, he concluded. Raising the nine foot wall of window blinds confirmed his assessment. The entire Bay Area was in total darkness. The only evidence of the Marriott Beach Resort’s existence was the illuminated tiki torches along the cobbled walkway. Across the bay, Nawiliwili Harbor was only a shadow dimly lit by the crescent moon above.

As we stood there on the sheltered lanai in bare feet, we marveled at the sight before us imagining the early days of this Hawaiian settlement on Kauai. Captain James Cook arrived in 1778 when Nawiliwili was a center of island life, a home to fishing and taro farming. No hotel had yet been built. Just a beach, the stream, and the ironwood trees that grew on the hill above the beach.

We discovered later the entire island was without power just 23 minutes into the new year. Some areas were in total darkness for almost five hours due to a transformer’s automatic shutdown. A control system at the Eleele location detected a fault. The cause of the fault is still unknown. Some say it was due to antiquated equipment.

The teenage cashier at the roadside attraction in Kilauea shrugged his shoulders as his mouth curved into a half-smile when we ordered our favorite flavor combination of Hawaiian Shave Ice. One side was Banana, and the other Coconut, packed solid over two heaping scoops of Macadamia Nut Gelato in a red scalloped bowl. Tropical choices, right? Except when you think about the “presentation” when it’s all said and done. “We’re from the Midwest, you know”, I offered in casual conversation as he upended the yellow bottle of banana-infused syrup lacing it back and forth like a pendulum in motion. “And they’re hoping for a White Christmas”, I continued as if leading him down the garden path. Gerald gave me a quick jab with his left elbow and winked in my direction. Uncertain if he was clueless or just plain over-worked and exhausted from the tourist flow that day, the cashier finally looked me in the eye and asked, “Will that be all? If so, that’ll be $11.40 please.” I snickered when he handed me the finished creation surrounded by a cloud of white napkins. As Gerald completed the transaction, I scooped a spoonful of the coconut cream shave ice into my mouth and replied, “Thank goodness I’m not the one eating the YELLOW SNOW!”

“Is that another empty bottle of tequila I see on the wet bar?”, I wondered to myself this morning. Granted, when you’re on vacation it’s pretty easy to slip into cocktail hour any time of the day. After all, no matter where you go, waiters and waitresses are racing back and forth carrying trays of impressive cocktail creations featuring wedges of tropical fruit with bright paper umbrellas resting on the rims. Some drinks have names you will never hear again (i.e. “Agony or Ecstasy”. Seriously?) while others become popular stand-bys when you have no idea what you want to drink.

If there’s one thing we discovered on the island, it’s that tequila is always popular. We stumbled onto one of our favorite brands, Sauza, at the local Safeway Supermarket in Kapaa. To our delight, it was the same price we pay when we find it featured on sale back home. “How is that possible,” you ask, “when gasoline on the mainland can be under two dollars a gallon and on the island a real deal is when it’s down to $3.85 a gallon?” We wondered the same thing, but decided to go with the laid-back island perspective of “don’t ask, don’t tell”. Especially if it means the store can change their mind and suddenly make a price adjustment.

Since you’re probably still curious about the “Agony or Ecstasy” cocktail, let me tell you IT IS INCREDIBLE! Gabrielle, bartender at the oceanside Oasis On the Beach, has truly made it an art form. She gently crushes a wedge of lemon and lime together before adding habanero tequila, elderflower liqueur, a splash of grapefruit juice, topped off with ginger beer. All this is shaken, not stirred. The rim of an old-fashioned cocktail glass is dipped in a mixture of smokey-chile Alaea salt crystals. The garnish is an artist’s creation of chilled grapefruit peel splashed with sriracha sauce. Served over ice. Stir. Now sip it. The slow burn is followed by the smooth silkiness of tequila culminated by a crowning finish: a kick of ginger.

Tequila is a very sophisticated product; sip it, don’t swill it. When we weren’t indulging in the “Agony & Ecstasy”, we found it refreshing with a glass of sparkling water and freshly squeezed lime. We liken the aroma of Sauza tequila to “Mexico after the rain.” It goes extremely well with Kauaiian rainbows!

“Please Remove Your Shoes. Mahalo”, read the welcome sign placed gingerly outside the front door of our vacation condo. Cultural traditions can be charming, especially when you understand their underlying messages. The Kauaiian natives had a rhyme for their reasoning, namely red dirt. With half the island roads being flanked by vibrant powdery clay, and the other half of the old sugar-cane dirt roads left in their natural state, it’s relatively easy to track adobe dust into the home. My husband had no problem complying to their request since he lives by that motto daily. I, on the other hand, was raised to always keep shoes on my feet. (Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that during my childhood I seemed to stub my toes on practically every piece of furniture in the room as I was passing through it. Or that I managed to tumble down a flight of unforgiving hardwood stairs in my stocking feet.) In any event, since I had no desire to do housework on vacation, I thought “Why not?”. Upon closer consideration, I discovered this Hawaiian custom was directly related to showing respect as well. Home is considered to be a sacred space. It is filled with the fruits of the Spirit; namely kindness, gentleness, love, and peace. I knew I had adapted well the day our landlord popped in to acknowledge our gratification. As she took a sidelong glance at the shoes cascading down the stairway, a look of amusement spread across her face.

A young couple stood at the water’s edge, ankle deep in sand, both bending over struggling independently with their own contoured surfboard. As we rambled by cutting through the waves and kicking sand up on our heels, Gerald nudged my elbow and said, “Look. Did you see that? She’s fallen out of her top.” I turned back to see, and there she was exerting all kinds of frustrated energy trying to get that surfboard to cooperate against the waves. Her bikini top had slid down under one breast which left it dangling like a piece of ripe fruit begging to be picked. Her partner seemed oblivious to her failed attempts of coercing the massive board into the water, let alone her bare breast flashing around for all the beachcombers to admire, since he was involved in his own tug-of-war with the tide. Suddenly she looked down, screamed obscenities, and raced ashore to restore things to their proper order. The last we saw of her, she was standing under a palm tree making amends as her partner stood at the seashore harnessing two surfboards between him. Four words of wisdom flashed through my mind for women who plan to take up surfing: one-piece bathing suit.

A storm was brewing and we were out in the middle of nowhere, heading north beyond the Pacific Missile Range Facility at Barking Sands. Gerald had driven past neglected sugar cane fields and dark murky ditches filled with unrecognizable buzzing insects. Just beyond the turnoff to Polihale State Park, he slid the Mustang into second gear and turned the wheel toward the rocky cliffs above. We had no choice if we were going to escape the ominous bank of dark clouds fast approaching. I followed his squinted gaze to an abandoned tunnel carved into the rocky ledge overlooking the sea. “Are we going up there?”, I stammered. “We may have no choice”, he replied in a calm steady voice. Around each turn the landscape announced it had been awhile since anyone had been on this route. Tall marsh-like grasses choked the uneven road to a single lane. Casting my eyes outside the passenger window, blurred images slowly became collections of worn out cars long forgotten since the 1960s. A faded yellow Volkswagen Beetle lay helplessly on its side, tires flattened, windows a kalideoscope of shattered glass. When we slid by a row of hillside bunkers hidden on a grassy knoll, we began to suspect we were in a restricted military area. A quick glimpse told us the accordion tube snaking around back had a cooling function behind it. For what purpose we wondered, but drove on. Finally we reached the cavernous opening. Brush and broken limbs obscured its entrance. Looking closely, it became apparent the darkened portal had been crumbling into a decayed state that warranted splintered wood remnants and tree limbs haphazardly camouflaging the endless abyss. This was not an option for refuge.

Meanwhile, the sky was becoming more foreboding by the minute. The sun no longer shone, but vanished, eclipsed by bitter gusts of wind and sand. Dried debris from a nearby Monkeypod Tree began moving around in a whirling motion. Time was running out. “Think fast!” I exclaimed. “Hang on!”, Gerald ordered as he swung the Mustang around and in a turbo-boost of power sped back to the poorly marked, dirt sugarcane road.

Overhead some clouds appeared static, others highly dynamic. As we passed a white van parked on the side of the road, it was unclear if the churning dust was coming off the road or falling from the sky.

Two miles further when it looked as though we had a few moments to spare, we couldn’t resist pulling over at the Kekaha Beach. In a flash, we jumped out of the car and began shooting panoramic impressions of extremely dangerous and ferocious clouds hovering over the ocean. Yet, ironically still delicate and beautiful in contrast to the golden sandy beach.

Suddenly the sky became a cloudburst of smattered rain. Torrential horizontal raindrops pelted the windshield. Thoroughly drenched to the bone, we sped away on that flat stretch of Highway 50. Although objects appear larger than they are, all that remained was the distant reflection of turbulent storm clouds in the rear view mirror.

“The whales are out! I’ll bring some binoculars to your table,” exclaimed the casually dressed blue-eyed waiter in flip-flops as he offered us two menus. It was “Happy Hour” at the Beachwalk Restaurant and Grill on the east side of the island and Markus wasn’t referring to the side effects of their signature Bloody Mary cocktails. He was all-Kauaiian native with his ivory-carved octopus medallion choker and long dark hair tied back into a knot at the nape of his neck.

Humpback whales can be seen from shore at any number of locations around Kauai, but peak season is during the winter months of January and February when most of the calving occurs for them to mate and birth their young in the warm, tropical waters. It was a little premature for their inaugural appearance, but we still caught a glimpse of their water spouts on the horizon.

Presently, we had a nice balcony front-row seat for watching seaside activities. When the humpback whales refused to make another appearance, we simply observed a class of elementary schoolchildren participating in Field Day activities as tag-team cheers exploded from the sidelines.

Roosters with bright red combs and plumed tail feathers strutted back and forth demanding attention until an ambitious tourist tried to capture their images on film. Only then would they kick up their taloned feet and strut away crowing a “cock-a-doodle doo” in defiance.

By now the famed fish and chips entree had appeared and we both sunk our teeth into the depths of pinnacle exclamatory utterance, practically rolling our eyes back in culmination. If this wasn’t a taste of Heaven, then we had no idea what was.

We sat there until the afternoon delivery of sweet onions, fresh garlic, and garden produce arrived and our appetite had long been sated. Five bamboo swizzle sticks scattered topsy-turvey on the signature cocktail napkins were all the evidence left remaining of an afternoon spent in open-air tropical bliss and latter day delight.

Dogs love to play at the beach. Running through the water makes them very happy. As a master grabs a frisbee and tosses it across the shoreline to be retrieved by a shaggy red Irish Setter, it’s enough to pause a pick-up game of sand volleyball. Heads turn. Everyone waits to see it happen. When it does, you hear “Good boy!” as the dog races back, tongue dangling, and tail wagging ready to go again. I watched as two terriers fought over a piece of driftwood a guy tossed into the ocean. The smaller of the two was more aggressive, obviously the Alpha Dog, since it would clamp its teeth around the stick and shake its head back and forth until the larger one backed down and relinquished it. Napoleon complex? I thought all dogs loved water, but upon closer scrutiny, I saw a ten-year old girl cradling her pet spaniel as she stood waist deep with salty waves splashing her mid-section. This dog had a mortal fear of water and had no intention of entering the unpredictable ocean. I wonder if she assured it all dogs instinctively know how to “doggie paddle”. At least, I thought they did. On the other hand, maybe this species of man’s best friend tended to sink like a sack of bricks when submerged. I’ll have to ask “June” the next time I see her.

Farther up the bay past the mound of black lava rock, a strange object came into view, undoubtedly washed ashore overnight. Debris of some sort lay flanked on the sand left behind by high tide. Its size resembled a small boat, but was shaped more like the curve of a single engine plane, except it had two grooved pipes protruding from it. Small, grayish-white crustaceans or barnacles of various sizes, as well as swarms of flying gnats, added to the mystery that sent our minds spinning with sinister tales of Barnacle Bill. A cloudy dense jellyfish, looking like a pile of goo with a lingering odor as though it had rotted days ago, still clung to the rim of the debris further substantiating our ideas of a watery grave. What was the untold story? Without revelation, during the night the sea slipped in, hoisted the plank upon a wave, and ferried this mysterious object back out into open waters. Here today and gone tomorrow.