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.

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.