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.

A hushed silence fell over the sanctuary as the mature, frail senior pastor steadied himself when he rose to the lectern and slowly opened the Holy Bible. With enduring precision, he straightened his spectacles across the bridge of his nose before clearing his throat. Then in a soft feeble voice lacking volume, he began to share the story of the Nativity.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. For to us a child is born, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. The zeal of the Lord Almighty will accomplish this.”

At times you could almost feel yourself leaning forward in the pew to hear the whisper of God. It was as though the entire congregation was holding its breath, afraid to emit one single vowel that would interrupt the flow of words radiating the spirit of Christmas.

“I see you two are working on your tan.” The Slovakian accent came from over our shoulders as we were walking hand in hand across the muted grey slate patio at the beach resort. We turned in unison to be cheerfully greeted with open smiles by Andrea and her mother. Regaining our composure from the aftershock of being recognized from behind took a split second before we settled into charming introductions and comfortable conversation.
(Andrea and her husband are the discerning owners of our luxury condo, residing above us on the second and third floors as their own year-round permanent residence.)
Although Andrea’s mother (Matka) spoke no English, we discovered she was visiting her daughter for the winter months to escape from the cold, snow, and harsh weather of her native homeland. The wrinkles on her eyes were unique and lightly creased as if they were made for her. In unfeigned fashion, her universal smile was as refreshing as a couple of Mai Tai tiki cocktails sipped poolside. She went on to point to her right forearm while Andrea translated her message: “Matka was working on her tan as well.” It just goes to show you, the inner child in all of us is willing to leave our cares and winter coats behind to head for a paradise of luminous sand, sparkling blue water that stays summer warm, and golden rays of sunshine.

The slender European stood sentinel at the water’s edge one foot barely touching the base of a black lava boulder, the other steadying himself against the shifting sand. Wave after wave broke ashore turning soothing colors of turquoise, aqua and finally sea foam green. His short red swimming trunks were marked with a tiny striped flag, no doubt proclaiming pride of his native homeland. As he raised his hand to shield his timeworn eyes from the reflecting sun, he squinted at the horizon. Following his gaze, I saw a tiny silver-haired pinhead bobbing up and down on each incoming wave. This Old Man of the Sea who radiated wisdom and experience stood there protectively keeping watch on his cherished partner, the love of his life, as she slowly and methodically swam toward him.

A speckled rooster crowed as he strutted around the beach chairs with head held high acting as though he were “King of the Island” and we were all expected to clap our hands in applause at being in the mere presence of him. Slowly and methodically a hunchback wiry old man with a weather-beaten brow sauntered toward the cedar shelter, his gait slow, wearing nautical swim trunks. A full-face snorkeling mask was dangling loosely around his neck. Each step reminded him of how he had taken his vitality and physical strength for granted only a few years ago. The crashing waves of high tide seemed more of a challenge this morning than he initially thought.