Ruminating on a Winter Solstice

Today, as I write this, is the Winter Solstice, shortest day of the year. Tomorrow the days start to become longer. It is the pivot point on our planet when rotations of Earth and Sun change directions, north and south. We also have a glorious full moon, all resulting in extreme, or, king tides.

I entered water yesterday, paddled out at Cowell's on a day that appeared as though it were 1996, 2016 or perhaps even 1886: low tide, no wind, waves breaking at various peaks maybe up to 6-ft at times, and major sets washing through at longer intervals, carrying riders all the way to the beach in front of the Dream Inn.

The references to 2016 and '96 are years when so much sand washed in from farther up the coast during winter swells that you could stand out in the middle of the water at low tide and see your knees above the drink.

The 1886 reference is the year following the introduction of surfing to the mainland by three Hawaiian princes, at the San Lorenzo River Mouth which is part of the same Santa Cruz main beach cove; the timelessness of recurring tides and spin of the planet.

The shallow sand bottom is key to making waves, and it's been a couple of years since the ocean gods have bequeathed to us this gift, the notion of a perfect wave.

It's not that good yet, but if the sea continues to churn with strong winter swells it might well be epic.

I saw friends in the water yesterday whom I hadn't seen in a while, riding along on waves that just kept coming. The mood is, be here now. Tonight you can relive the experience, talk and think about it, but the moment, that precise convergence of action and experience will be gone, in some ways as if it never happened.

The stoke lasts, echoes of those moments, for a while. If too much time is unfulfilled between sessions -- weeks seem like months and months like years -- you forget, you lose the sensation of being stoked. You wonder if you can still do it. Still catch it, then hold on to it.

I think this is the purpose of surf movies, to remind us, to feed us the feeling through vicarious observance. The speed or glide, the footwork, the immersion of "man" and ocean, oneness with the wave.

On the other side we remember the wipe-outs, the hold-downs, the cuts and bumps and broken bones,  the collisions with other surfers that could have been avoided. The more experience the less chance of  these encounters.

Surfing at its core is a respect for the ocean and waves, a savvy that you learn of how to stay out of trouble, maintain yourself in the midst of a roiling and ever-changing sea that is indifferent toward you, yet engaging with you.

Forty Years in Santa Cruz

Vanessa and Molly on our front porch on Walk Circle

Forty years in one place. That should be some kind of record. It is a bitter-sweet story.

August marked the 40th anniversary of my residence in Santa Cruz: 1978-2018. Forty years ago I pulled into what was then a small beach town in a Volkswagen bus, the most ubiquitous vehicle in town, with two daughters ages 8 and 3. I was 31.

Their mother had died in an automobile accident two years before. I was a single father. My move was a break from my past. I literally isolated myself from a community of friends that were tied to my life growing up, a complete reboot.

The number forty has stuck to my brain ever since Sister Gualberta explained to our fifth grade class that it was a recurring and significant number. Jesus fasted for 40 days and 40 nights. Noah was afloat on his ark for 40 days. Forty is the traditional Hebrew number for a trial duration.

If the last 40 years were a trial period for living in Santa Cruz, I would have to claim success. I'm still here, although my two daughters, Molly and Vanessa, who arrived with me have moved on. So has their younger sister, Bryna, who was born in Santa Cruz.

They have found lives and started families of their own elsewhere. But they grew up, were raised in the same neighborhood where I put down roots in the Westside of town. My parents moved eight times while I was growing up. I was searching for a place to stay.

At Linda's funeral, I requested that Jackson Browne's rock n' roll dirge, "Before the Deluge," be played in the church, Our Lady of Assumption in Claremont. That is where we had taken our vows eight years before at the young and idealistic ages of 21 and 20.

Now let the music keep our spirits high 
Let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal its secrets by and by
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky

Idealism is a powerful attraction that initiates most of the pure and better things that happen in the world. It seems to be the property of youth. We were young and we were idealistic, and yet I found myself on the verge of fainting into the front pew when Linda, in her white gown and deep-set blue eyes directed toward me, came marching down the aisle clinging to her father's arm, organ music at crescendo. What was I doing?

Ours was not a perfect marriage though we were together since age 15 through a tumult of adolescent passion, fun, furry and break ups. If she were still alive I know we would be close friends, even if our marriage had not lasted. Based on the first eight years, I fear it may not have.

It's one thing to lose a spouse and quite another to lose your mother at a tender age. I can remember the joy and struggle of a young couple trying to find their way, sharing and confiding, loving and arguing. Linda's daughters, Molly and Vanessa, were robbed of memories of her due to their ages of seven and two.

This was not altogether clear to me at the time, as were many things. Looking back, their loss seems more tragic than mine. My heart aches for them. Linda would be so proud of them.

I did learn quickly that a single father receives far more compassion and assistance than a single mother. I was an anomaly to be pitied. A young man with two daughters. I found more help than I wanted, not to be ungrateful, but it was obvious.

One year after Linda's death I found myself backstage for a Jackson Browne concert in San Jose. He is a small, wiry guy, intense. He was about to go on stage dressed in a long-sleeve shirt, Levis and sneakers, just him and his piano.

I wanted to tell him about Linda and his song being played at her funeral. I had learned that his wife had committed suicide the same year. "Jackson Browne," I said. He looked at me and I raised my hand for a bro handshake. Our palms clasped right before he walked from behind the curtain onto the stage.

I was a distraction. He had a show to perform. Although I wrote an extremely positive review of his concert, I wished I had been in the audience to receive his song facing him instead of from the wings of the stage. I wished Linda could have been there, too.

The following year I made my move, which I consider my best one ever. I rented out the house that Linda and I had purchased, at her insistence, in San Jose. It provided a small income for me.

I pointed my life toward the coastal mountains, a dividing line between what would become known as Silicon Valley and the Monterey Bay, the oldest natural harbor refuge in California, a mere 30 miles distance through winding forested mountains, to a nearly 100-year-old enclave of mostly rundown beach cottages on narrow streets of concentric circles.

Within those circles, literally on the very same "curve," so near that one could practically hear a whisper from one house to another, I would unexpectedly meet the woman who would save my life, become the mother of my two daughters, and with whom I would have a third child and spend the rest of my life.

The first local piece I wrote was about my new neighborhood whose history tracked a record of old Santa Cruz from the early 20th Century. The "circles" were designed for an annual religious retreat. Nearby is where the circus pitched its big tent when it came to town. A lost elephant was not uncommon. Today I attest that love can be found there.

My second piece was an assignment for Good Times, the popular entertainment weekly. I was asked by the editor, Mark Hunter, to write about my experience as a single father. That was probably the first and only such article I have ever penned on that subject. I had an unfair advantage. Too many women are abandoned with their children and not recognized for their strength and courage.

That was 40 years ago, a new beginning of a lifetime.

Note: Linda Lombardi Samson passed away 42-years ago today, Sept. 13, 1976. She was 29 years old. She died in an automobile accident on her way home from Lake Tahoe. There were five people in the car: Her husband Kevin, daughters Molly and Vanessa, and her friend Jenny Mackintosh. All survived except Linda.

From Silence of the Oranges ©2018 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir

Rain from Lane Keeps Fallin...

Hanalei Bay August 24, 2018

Rain was heavy last night and early this morning, lingering tropical moisture stirred up by Hurricane Lane. Islanders here on Kauai were wearing smiles of relief.  Lane, at one point a category-5 hurricane, threatened their homes and livelihood but turned southwest just in the nick of time.

"We had our windows boarded and were ready," said Leonard the plumber who lives in the community of Lawai. He was inside that same house, which belonged to his grandfather, when Iniki stormed the island in 1992. "The roof blew off," he said. 

The island came to a standstill on Friday as just about everything closed down except gas stations, the hardware store and super market. Government employees were told to stay home with their families.

"You have to have your priorities," says Leonard. "I'm not going to work in this situation. The company may not be here tomorrow but my family will."

The family tradition is deep here on Kauai, although things are changing. Leonard's 24-year-old son moved to Oregon for college and job opportunities on the mainland, as many children of islanders must do.His son had never experienced a hurricane while growing up on Kauai. The islands have been lucky. The combination of high mountains on the Big Island and Maui and the northwesterly Tradewinds have helped deflect and degrade Pacific hurricanes.

But as one old-timer who has resided on Kauai since the early '60s noted: "You never know."

The state of Hawaii to date has received more than 50 inches of rain from Hurricane Lane. That is the third highest volume of rain from a cyclone ever recorded. Most of the rain has fallen on the Big Island.

More rain, heavy at times, is forecast for today, 30-percent chance tomorrow. The residue of slow-moving Lane is still with us.

A Real-Deal Hero

"We admire them, we envy them, for great qualities that we ourselves lack." Mark Twain about heroes.

John McCain was a hero for the United States of America. The maverick Senator from Arizona was destined for that moniker from birth. He came into the world wrapped in a Navy blanket. He cut his teeth on toy anchors. His first word was "service." The US Navy lineage of his ancestors goes back to the pre-Viking Period.

As a Navy fighter pilot in Vietnam his motto was "one more sortie." Regardless of how many missions and strikes he had performed. Just one more, he figured, he hadn't yet given it his all. He was still conscious.

As a prisoner of war he refused release because he had buddies who were still in cages. He was tortured to unconsciousness by the enemy for his guile.

As a US Senator he crossed the aisle to make deals. He was always expected to do the unexpected. A principled maverick. He made close friends and familiar enemies and could still spin a good yarn and laugh about it afterward.

As a candidate for President of the United States he demonstrated his quirkiness by choosing a loud-mouthed cheerleader from Alaska as a running mate -- a real yahoo doozie. He later regretted it and admitted his error.

He lost his run for President to Barack Obama, whom he looked upon as a rookie who hadn't put in sufficient service for the office. Yet he stood up for Obama when others challenged his character, setting the record straight and defending his opponent as a decent family man.

The low point came during the 2016 Presidential race when one of the candidates from his own party said McCain was not a war hero, because he was captured by the enemy. This candidate had never served his country in the armed forces, or anywhere for that matter. A typical chicken hawk.

This candidate, regardless, was elected President of the United States. Perhaps because he is a maverick. Americans like mavericks. Not all mavericks are heroes.

McCain's final days were spent imploring his colleagues in Congress to work together. For the good of the country. To accomplish something. Friends, he said, we're not getting anything done.

I didn't vote for John McCain, not just because of Sarah Palin although that was good enough reason. Yet if anyone exemplified the qualities of a true American hero, he did. He certainly had great qualities that most of us lack.

Thank you, Senator, for your service.

Kupuna Means Wise Elder

Kupuna is the Hawaiian word for elder. It actually means more than just being a senior member of the family. Kupuna also denotes wisdom from life's experiences and it's a title of respect. Where I come from, an elder male is considered a "curmudgeon" or, if you're lucky, a "geezer." An elder woman is simply an "old lady," who is probably driving too slow in that Cadillac in front of you.

Believe me, I have at times earned the curmudgeon title and have made a point of attempting to not fall into the habit of complaining about everything from the latest political spat to whining about my sore lumbago.

Here on the island there are many advantages to being kupuna. The state gives handsome discounts to senior residents for taxes and other government-sponsored charges, including golf at municipal courses ("munis"). Foodland, a major grocery chain on the islands, offers a 10% kupuna discount on Thursdays.

A couple of months ago I was checking out at Foodland in Princeville early on a Sunday morning. I turned my head and the dark-skinned kupuna gentleman behind me said to me: "Happy Father's Day." It was the first acknowledgment of Father's Day to reach my ears.

That made my day, one kupuna to another. "Same to you," I said. We were both smiling and the lady at the check out was wearing a big smile, too.

"Ohana," the Hawaiian word for family, is a familiar majorative word on the islands. Families are celebrated daily when referring to the people, older and younger, in your circle of friends. "Uncles" and "Aunties" are not necessarily kupuna but familiar adults. Kids are called "keiki" which has a friendly ring.

Following a surf session recently I was talking story with a fellow kupuna surfer who was born on the island. I told him that our daughter and two grandchildren lived here, and we were considering moving here permanently. He said his daughter could not afford to live on Kauai any longer because of the rising price of homes and that he and his wife were considering moving to Oregon where his daughter and grandchildren now resided, the exact opposite of what we were considering.

As I sit back in my beach chair beneath the monkey pod tree, I reflect on the concept of family. Our children are like seeds that sprout and grow into their own person. Some seeds grow nearby, others are spread widely seeking their own fertile ground, creating Ohana with their friends as I did.

We want to be close to the children of our children because they are special in that they come from our seeds that we have nourished and we want to see them grow and flower. We all cannot live on an island but we can live in our own paradise. And there are many ways to stay in touch.

My kupuna wisdom may be faulty but my intention is sincere. My resolution is to not bark and complain about the tailgater driving behind me. Just pull over, take a deep breath and smile.

Dodging Hurricane Hector

So Hector came and went. He barely missed the islands coming within 200 miles of the big island of Hawaii. He was a category 4 hurricane at times spinning across the Pacific Ocean with winds of up to 155 mph.

We all watched the satellite feeds daily as Hector tracked on an eastward path toward the Hawaiian islands. We knew it would be close, especially for the people on the Big Island who were already dealing with the continual eruptions of the Kilauea volcano displacing many from their homes. If Hector was going to inflict damage it would be on the southern most island of Hawaii.

"Are you prepared?" The question came from television newscasters and front pages of all the newspapers across the islands.

Prepared means you have 14 days worth of nonperishable food and two gallons of water per person. Expect island-wide power outages. Have a safe place to go. A flashlight. Stories still circulate here on Kauai about Hurricane Iniki in 1992 that literally tore up the landscape and coastal areas of parts of the island.

One condo resident talks about how her window curtains were sucked outside the windows by the hurling high winds.

"It looked like it was going to miss us," says one old-timer, "then it turned south at the last minute and hit Kauai."

"Many people evacuated the island," says another. "The only store open immediately afterwards was a hamburger stand."

These islanders remained and are here to this day. And doubtless so are many others. It's one of the hazards of living out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on the farthest archipelago from any continent in the world. It's more grist to share when you talk story about it later.

Study a map of the mighty Pacific and the Hawaiian islands appear as a row of tiny dots on a huge mass of water. You wouldn't see them if they weren't labeled.

As Hector approached we checked our inventory of nonperishable food, which consisted of a few cans of tuna and beans. I picked up six gallons of water on one errand-run across the island. If I pick up something every day our stock will accumulate.

Because of the excellent weather news forecasts and satellite technology, we pretty much figured it was not going to reach the islands unless... and with Mother Nature there's always that "unless," something strange happens, as it did in '92.

The day of Hector's potential arrival the sky over Kauai was clear and blue, more so than in weeks. It was a beautiful day. It reminded me of the day following the 7.9 Loma Prieta earthquake on October 11, 1989 that destroyed downtown Santa Cruz and parts of the greater San Franciso Bay Area. That following day the weather was gorgeous, albeit there was a ton of open cracks in the Earth, collapsed buildings, piles of rubble and people displaced from their homes.

You could say we dodged a bullet. You could also say that everyday that we survive we dodge a bullet. Life really is that resilient and that fragile. The horrifying fires back in California no doubt caused more damage this time, with less warning.

We were lucky out here in the middle of the Pacific. This time. It's hurricane season and there are currently two new storms building in the low western Pacific.

My New Old Surfboard

                                                         

I purchased my first Hawaiian surfboard at the Hanalei Watersports Swapmeet on Saturday. A golden yellow Bruce Jones log, single fin, thick in the middle 9'6", well-ridden with scars to prove it, a relic among the the long and short guns and wide paddle boards lined  side-by-side across the lawn in front of the old Hanalei School building that now houses a surf shop, clothing boutiques and a sports bar cafe in the center of Hanalei.

The swapmeet takes place on the first Saturday of the month and the boards start showing up as early as 7am and by 9 the grass is covered with boards and surfers and watersports enthusiasts of all ages milling about talking story. I came looking for the perfect board. I felt as though it would be here waiting for me. I was not in a rush. It was probably 10 am when I got there, following the usual Saturday tai chi ritual on the beach. I was centered with chi. I was prepared to deal with four bills tucked in my board shorts. And there it was.

Last month I checked the swapmeet and didn't see anything. Craigs List, nothing.

I bought the board from a guy named Michael. He tells me it was his log and I can see he has patched every ding on the board, says he's glad that I am getting it because he can see that I truly appreciate the style. I tell him I'm glad he's good with the deal. I feel I'm getting off cheap for $250.

"That's a great board," says one of the guys hanging nearby: "Bruce Jones was an epic designer."

Maybe he's a plant, working with Michael but I doubt it and it doesn't matter. "Is Bruce Jones from the island?"

"He was from California. He died recently and will not be shaping any more boards."

It's definitely a California-style longboard. I google Bruce Jones and discover he was my age, contemporary of Hobie Alter whose shop in Dana Point I remember from the early '60s. Bruce rode his first wave at nearby Doheny, which is where I rode my first wave at about the same time.

I am convinced it's all connected and it's all about timing. When our paths cross. You cannot force it. It's like a wave that comes thousands of miles across the ocean with your name on it. You know it's coming but you don't know when. Bruce died of a heart attack at age 68. I feel blessed to still be around and the current proprietor of one of his classic boards.

The next day I take "Old Yeller" out to Kalapaki on the other side of the island. I receive a few comments such as, "You've got the right board today," and "That's a nice longboard." I explain to one of the guys that I got it at the swapmeet in Hanalei yesterday. "How much?" "Two-fifty."

"That's a good deal," he says. "I think a lot of guys are riding hydrofoils and selling their old boards believing they will never use them again.. I don't know," he adds and I agree. There's something about getting back to basics when the time is right.

                                                       

Going with the Flow

On Sunday we picked up our granddaughter and her friend to drive to the other side of the island for a Keiki Ukulele Competition, the final event of a week-long celebration of Koloa Town Plantation Days. There seems to be some sort of festival or celebration every week on Kauai.

We thought it would be fun for the kids to watch and maybe even participate in the children's ukulele event. Our two Keiki each brought their own uke with them. Such a useful, portable instrument. Ukulele virtuoso Jake Shimabukuro calls it the "instrument of peace."

Kauai basically has one two-lane highway around the island, although it does not complete the circle due to the magnificent Na Pali coast mountains. Only a couple of miles before reaching our destination we were forced to stop. The traffic was not moving. Nobody was going anywhere, except the few who chose to make a "y-turn" and head back. There is no alternative route to Poipu where we were headed.

We opened our windows and made ourselves comfortable. Lush green overgrowth on both sides of the road hemmed us in, although a break in the flora opened up a pasture where a beautiful chestnut  horse galloped up to the fence and looked straight over at the girls. The horse seemed responsive to the kids' voices. He was frisky and the girls loved it.

The big question was, What is causing this traffic jam, as more vehicles continued to arrive and the string of cars, vans and trucks became longer behind us.

Some got out of their vehicles and walked to the front to find out the problem. No radio reports yet. One guy returned and reported an accident and subsequent investigation that would take another hour and a-half. It was nearly noon. Luckily we had packed sandwiches.

Soon people were wandering around the parked cars, many like us had food and were even sharing with others, an impromptu lunch party.

This kind of delay, or interruption, is common on the small island with few roads. And people tend to make the best of it.

I remember my Hawaiian music instructor telling me, "Mainlanders have a hard time when plans change. They need to learn how to go with the flow."

We hung for more than an hour then decided to turn around. We were going to miss the Keiki ukulele competition which would soon be over. Instead we were making up rhymes and talking story.

We turned around and found the old road back to Lihue which was like driving on the island 50 years ago. The foliage was so green and thick and tall it nearly engulfed us. "Isn't this beautiful," I kept saying.  From the backseat a small voice noted a line of red dirt going up a nearby mountain. "Can we hike that trail?"

We passed the Menehune Pond some 100 feet below us. "We can't see the Menehune because they will turn to stone," another backseat voice informed us.

Keiki's paddling out at Lydgate sea water pond.

We flowed onward with popular Lydgate Park in mind where we knew we would find a large outdoor playground Every Kauai Keiki has spent time climbing the elaborate wooden structures, crossing the bridges here.

Upon arrival I stepped out of the car, grabbed one of the kid's ukuleles from the trunk and broke into a couple of Hawaiian vamps. Sometimes I'll see an ukulele and I cannot help myself. It's part of my flow.

Five minutes on the playground and these girls were ready for the beach and a jump into the rock pond at Lydgate. There are two ponds, both protected from the roiling surf by a half-moon shape of boulders that waves splash against but rarely cross. The smaller pond is for little Keiki and the larger one attracts all ages of swimmers, snorkelers and waders.

Our girls had boogie boards and were riding tiny waves at the shore of the larger pond in a flash. Watching their smiles and total involvement in the moment was as pure and bright as the yellow sun.

There were shade trees above the beach and a cool easterly breeze drenched our warm bodies that were soon aching to dive in. Schools of luminous reef fish swam among us, evoking shouts of fun and wonder. "I saw a long blue fish!" "I saw a whole bunch of them!"

Kids see everything whether we know it or not. Their glistening bodies are in perpetual motion, human fish,  little mermaids and mermen.

Grandma and grandpa unabashedly joined the frolic unable to hold still under the alluring and refreshing conditions, going forward, finding the enigmatic flow.

On our way home we heard the radio report of the accident that had changed our plans, and the plans of many others, including a 27-year-old woman who had lost control of her SUV and crashed. She had been medevacced to the Wilcox Medial Center and then to Queens in Honolulu. There were no other injuries. Her status is unknown.

A Moment's Pause for Our Hero

Tiger and his kids, Charlie and Sam.

Let's take a moment to pause from contentious politics following this past weekend's most memorable event that had people around the world on the edge of their seats.

Consider the history, the media coverage given one person, the scandals and now the nearly complete, full redemption of arguably the most well-known man in the world.

Tiger Woods.

The name echoes across oceans. Fans and curiosity seekers far and wide flock to get a glimpse, whether they are in his presence on the golf course -- as many were the past four days on the eastern coast of Scotland -- or fortunate enough to see his visage on a TV screen at the top of the leaderboard of the oldest organized tournament on our planet: the 158th British Open

Astonishment. Forgiveness. Congratulations.

Locked in embrace with his 11-year-old daughter, Sam, with his 9-year-old son, Charlie, at his side, Tiger found comfort after four grueling days of golf that saw him emerge, and for one brief moment, rise to the lead on the final day.

"Hopefully you're proud of your pops for trying as hard as I did," Tiger told the eager press afterward. That's what  I told my kids, he said. That's what he wanted to talk about. They had never seen their father at the top of his game. They have only witnessed the pain and heartache of a fallen hero.

He tied for sixth place, his best finish in a Major golf tournament in five years. At one point it looked as though he was going to win, do the unthinkable yet expected of a great American hero: Charge victorious to the finish line.

Ironically, his playing partner that day, Fancesco Molinari from Italy, emerged the victor, playing steadily while all the attention was on Tiger.

We hunger for a hero. We have his back. We want to see him come back. But what has he given to the world that makes him so popular and so loved?

Try hope. Pride. Invincibility when he was at the top of his game. Then the fall. Personal issues. Indiscretions. Injuries. And now redemption.

Yesterday Tiger rose from the ashes and proved that he is not a quitter. He still shows signs of greatness. He showed humility among his peers and toward the press, qualities that were missing when he was dominating the game.

Simply ask anyone who watched the ancient game this past weekend that had grown men whacking a little white ball across a barren, windblown coastline -- many who wouldn't have paid attention otherwise. They wanted to see Tiger succeed.

Tai Chi/Over the Rainbow Medley

Saturday morning has become a ritual. Head down to Hanalei Bay for Tai Chi on the beach with blue bay waters in the background, an ever-changing sky overhead and verdant mountain peeks with white waterfalls behind us. Today the displaced Hanalei Canoe Club is holding an event and sleek outrigger teams move steadily over calm waters.

Grand Master Skip Rush leads the Tai Chi session every Saturday morning, following which he and his lovely wife Donna head over to the nearby Farmers Market. I believe there is a local Farmers Market every day of the week somewhere on the island.

"Gotta support the farmers," a local man says "They've had it rough since the flooding." The taro patch in Hanalei became a lake for a while as the low-lying areas including homes, businesses and churches went underwater.

In his white martial arts garb, Skip presents the  timeless image of a sage, his body moving gracefully while capturing chi power from Earth and Sky. "Place your palm on your stomach with your thumb touching your navel," he tells our small group. "This is where your chi is stored."

Watching him and attempting to replicate his motions adds a fifth dimension to this picture. Is he levitating or am I? We are waving like windmills -- hands, hips and whatever else we can keep in motion. The oldest martial art, he says. The mysterious feigns and motions become scintillas, echoes of the past, present and future.

Surfers and morning beach-goers pass by with hardly a notice. We are part of the diverse landscape. Perhaps we are invisible.

My neighbor Rick and I attend Tai Chi together. It's the strangest thing. At one time, nearly 50 years ago, we worked at the same daily newspaper. Today we are neighbors.  During the in-between time we engaged in separate but not all-together different lives unknown to each other. His Santa Cruz days were prior to mine. His wonderful wife Marcie was also employed by that same newspaper at the same time.

We connected through a third party known by Rick and Marcie whom we met at a random open house. He thought Barbara and I should meet them. It's amazing how many stories Rick and I have about people we both know. So much to talk about.

Rick (Carroll) authored an excellent book (IZ: Voice of the People) about Hawaiian singer Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (aka IZ), famous for his popular song medley, "Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World." Anyone who would like to know more about Iz, such as how he fits into the Hawaiian Sovereignty movement that has changed the perception of Hawaiians and their culture empowering a very visible comeback for their people should read this book.

Every Tai Chi session is different. Some days Skip will offer verbal instruction and other days, like today, the lesson is silent while the forms speak to us and demonstrate how to capture chi and move  like a martial artist in slow motion. "He's a healer," a local surfer told me.

He always finishes our session with a few parting words.

"In my office I have a sign with a quotation by Lao Tsu," he offers today. "It says, 'Help me to have patience... and hurry.'"

Dat Always Da Case

Life on the island unfolds in many a mysterious way each day, which is never the same and yet always the same.

We are still reeling -- and I couldn't sleep last night -- from the birth of Mayu our new grandson yesterday in Moloa'a. Listening to Isabel, our daughter the mother, talk about the birth I was overwhelmed by the details of a woman bringing a child into the wold. I cannot imagine what that feels like but I know from being present when my three daughters were born that the event is miraculous.

Isabel described pain and convulsing throughout her body as the little guy made his way out, both a complete letting go of her bodily organs while struggling to keep things moving. No artificial inducements. She says that she left her body for a spell, not recognizing a close friend who assisted with the home birth after the baby had arrived.

Being in the same small, intimate room just hours afterward, I had the sensation of being in a church or temple, not a medical clinic and the smell of disinfectant. There was a calmness and feeling of completion as Mayu lay quietly on the bed under a swaddling blanket. He is so small, even at nine pounds, that he was nearly invisible on the bedspread. His older sister, Viva, 7, was present to witness his arrival. "I saw him come out," she exclaimed. You could see her young mind calculating the whole experience. "She was quiet and watched," said her mother.

One more day of carrying the little guy in her belly would have meant going to Wilcox Medical Center in Lihue. Hernan, Mayu's father who held Isabel during birth, said that 45 weeks is the maximum duration for a pregnancy before medical attention becomes necessary, at least as a precaution. As it was, the birth, on the day of a full moon in this setting, was perfect.

He was born in a sac or membrane that contained the amniotic fluid, referred to as a "caul" birth. This is rare and, according to some, a spiritual sign. The cushion of water seemed to have protected him. I pulled the cover down and made a quick study of Mayu's tiny, impeccable body and swelled with emotion.

Barbara and I agreed that we were so fortunate and happy to be there.

Looking out the window I saw green, the color in its many shades that is Hawaii. I took in the wafting breeze and heard a chicken clucking.

Then last night I couldn't sleep thinking about the whole thing. Life. Nature. Family. Children. Parents. Grandparents. The moon. The Way. The tides. Forever changing. The ocean. Sunrise. Sunset. Waves. Forever waving.

This morning I went to the hardware store in Princeville to buy a screen-roller tool to repair our screen door. A woman stocking a shelf asked if she could help me. I told her what I was looking for and she said, "Aisle 11." I searched and searched aisle 11 and finally found the hook where the screen rollers would be. It was empty.

As I walked toward the exit door I passed the woman and told her what happened. She replied, "Dat always da case."

Born Today

Welcome, little guy. A baby was born today, child of Isabel Bryna and Hernan Descoines. Following a night of heavy rain on the island and on the day of a full moon, he chose to enter the world amidst a small gathering of loving welcomers in his own candle-lighted home. We are so grateful and happy to have him join our family and the family of life on our precious planet and beyond.

Fanning the Breezes

Last night the rain came again. Hard. Loud. Enough to wake us up, and it continued into morning. Now the birds are chirping their curious language, perhaps discussing the morning's find of uncovered seeds. A cacophony of birdsong. According to what I've read, the centipedes come alive when it's wet, seeking moisture. We humans try our best to stay dry.

The rain was somewhat shocking since we were under the impression, based on local comments and a couple of dry weeks, that summer had arrived.

We purchased two ceiling fans for our condo which did not have a single permanent fan when we moved in. There was a portable fan in our two bedroom closets. This seemed odd because the place is about 40 years old and most everyone tells us they keep their overhead fans going 'round the clock, not only for cooling but also to keep air circulating inside and help prevent dampness and mold.

We thought we would pick up a couple of ceiling fans at Costco or Home Depot and that would be it. Hardly. First we consulted with a local electrician referred to us by a trusted island source. During our consultation with Richard the Electrician we learned that there's more to a fan than spinning blades. He referred us to Kilohana Lighting in Lihue that specializes in lights and fans, essentially calling what you find at Home Depot accelerated planned obsolescence.

Kilohana Lighting turned out to be a gold mine, featuring room-after-room of indoor-and-outdoor lamps and ceiling fans. This is where the subject of ceiling fans becomes a puzzle of options and features. You learn about drop lines, ceiling mounts, energy use, remote features, blade shapes,  sizes of blades, reverse flow, ratio of fan size to room size and, of course, wobble. You want to avoid wobble in a ceiling fan unless you're going for the very primitive island look, for example a hidden tavern in the jungle that Hemingway might have frequented.

We made two visits to Kilohana Lighting, by which time we had met the entire friendly staff, and took one last look at Home Depot for comparison -- as well as reading several online reviews of fans purchased there. The reviews helped to seal the deal at Kilohana and made Richard the Electrician sound like a guru. We decided on a sleek three-bladed 60-inch ceiling fan that resembled a nostalgic airplane propeller for our high-ceiling living area.

We went to purchase and pick up our chosen fan, only to change our mind and decide on a different fan altogether. The three blades on this fan resemble pods from a palm tree. We found a second fan for our bedroom that happened to be on sale for a price much lower than anything we found at Home Depot. "I don't know why the owner would sell this fan at that low price," said Susan the sales person.

This morning we are stoked and feel lucky to have fans sweeping air around our little island refuge.

We fell in love with our condo because of it's location which includes being in the path of the prevailing trade winds. The "trades" are the saving grace of the islands, nature's way of tempering the heat and humidity. Our lanai faces Northwest, the direction from which the trades blow. Nice. We can only imagine what direction a hurricane might come from, but let's not go there. Our complex, Puamana, survived Hurricane Iniki which destroyed parts of the island in 1992.

We have met two women who were residing at Puamana at the time, one who claimed she remained in her condo during the tumultuous storm. "I felt safe," she said "These places are well built." As a former boss of mine used to say: "Your lips to God's ears."


The Baby Grandson

Barbara, Viva & Bryna (w/baby)

One reason we are here is to be close to our daughter who is overdue to give birth to her second child.   The baby is a boy. He is to be born at home. Listening to the heavy rain last night I couldn't help but wonder how the midwife could drive to our daughter's place in the blinding rain, should she go into labor. This morning we learned that contractions have begun, yet not so consistent that birthing has started. Our scattered family have been on alert for a couple of weeks, sending texts from the mainland: "Is he here yet?" The new mother's oldest sister sent the message: "He must be very comfortable where he is."

Puttin' on the Ritz, Island Style

Photo by TGI

Saturday night on Kauai is not complete without an international fashion show. Has the tiny island become the Paris of the Pacific? You tell me. I was as surprised as anyone, perhaps most of all because I attended the happy event in the first place, as the default guest of my lovely fashion-conscious wife in the Grand Ballroom of the elegant Marriott Hotel in Lihue, the finale of the Fifth Annual Kauai Fashion Week.

I was instructed to wear long pants, clean white shirt and Alihi beads. Right. She said dress was formal. What does that mean for Kauai? For me it meant the finest from my closet: my cleanest aloha shirt and shorts and a pair of very attractive "locals" flip-flops (aka slippahs), which I had scored at Long's last year for $3.99.

Barbara, of course, threw together an outfit to die for, sleek tropically-flowered dress and enhancing appointments that only women know about.

We arrived at the very very impressive porte-cochere entrance of the hotel in our understated white island cruiser '03 Sentra topped with soft racks and tinted nicely with the famed red dirt. We actually giggled when the valet asked if we were going to the fashion show. How did he guess? The Sentra was driven away quickly by the valet and I wondered if I would ever see it again. Most guests were arriving in late model SUVs producing, if nothing else, a fashion statement of contrast.

To my delight, I was not the only male in attendance, although I would put the ratio at 1-25. Guests were certainly dressed above the level of  beach wear. There was a palpable buzz of anticipation among the throng as though they knew something that I, for sure, did not. Music was in the air and moving from the lush gardens into Grand Ballroom was breath-taking -- the blast of air-conditioning stole mine, anyway.

The fashion show itself was like watching an exotic movie that you somehow missed the first time around and just happened to be present for this gala screening. We found seats about six rows back from the elevated runway, which stretched out into the middle of the ballroom and back.

The show began with well-dressed ladies of Kauai, one after another. smiling and waving and receiving generous applause from the crowd. A string of men in suits followed the ladies, obviously locals, based on the hoots and hollers they received, especially when they would turn toward the audience and throw double shakas with their hands. This was only the warm up.

The evening proceeded with fashion and entertainment, the latter of which featured wonderful dancing including  individual hulas performed by a young man and a young woman. Each of the two youngsters were by far the most compelling hula dancers I have ever witnessed, head-to-toe. Their facial joy was enough to make your heart sing.

The parading of fashion by eight designers, including from the Philippines and Lebanon, was the central focus of the show. At one point Barbara looked at me and asked how I liked it. "Watching beautiful women in alluring and exotic clothing marching back and forth in front of me is nice," I replied, attempting to understate the obvious.

The evening of fashion simply rolled out in front of my mesmerized eyes that would normally have been closed by this time of night.

I commented later to my wife, "I saw fashion tonight."

She said it was the best presentation of fashion  that she had ever seen.  The Pacific Rim influence and island local color made it a night to remember.

Adventures in Paradise

Lolling in our little sun-warmed swimming pool skyward I see a set of scudding white clouds and the feathery fronds of palm trees swaying in the breeze. It feels as though I am at the edge of the world and the sky has never been bluer. The northerly trade winds cool off my wet skin which doubtless is receiving more sun than it should yet just enough for me to loaf comfortably and contentedly. There must be a difference between comfort and contentment but I don't know what it is. In this state it doesn't matter. I tell myself that's why the tropical birds are singing merrily. My wife would say, "He's  just spacing out, again."

We were told last year that living on Kauai was like living in a Third World country. According to the woman who said this, this meant being stranded by unexpected road closures and stores not getting necessary supplies, among other inconveniences including the laidback concept of "Hawaii Time." The clock ticks slower, or not at all. Tomorrow might mean a week from Tuesday, especially if you need a repairman.

This woman is from Oakland, Calif., and she has resided on the small island for seven years. "You just have to get used to it," she said. "I was driving the freeways of the East Bay every day to work and the tension had become unbearable." She and her husband retired to Kauai. She now teaches pilates at the community center. "Life is so much better here," she said.

Barbara above Hanalei

We took note, but one cannot fully understand the meaning of such words until you have experienced life on a tiny tropical island in the middle of the Pacific from your own home base there. We are still visitors, or part-timers, since our main residence is Santa Cruz, Calif. And there is a strong connection between our home town and the island. Many Santa Cruzers spend time here or have bailed from the mainland to live here. "Can we bail, honey? I ask, but the answer is inconclusive.

Natural Disasters

We purchased a condo in Princeville earlier this year, understanding that we would need to vacation-rent the unit to make our ownership work. Since our escrow closed, nearby Hanalei has flooded, including closure of the only road north of Hanalei Bay. The Kilahuea Volcano on the Big Island of Hawaii has erupted wiping out neighborhoods and also displacing residents, as well as spewing volcanic ash as high as 10-thousand feet to be disbursed as "vog," or volcanic smog, into the atmosphere.

Fortunately for us, Princeville, which is on high ground, was spared from flooding. More than 50-inches of rain within 24 hours poured down the mountains above Hanalei creating a delta of water ways through the valley wreaking havoc to homes, roads, churches, parks, agricultural fields and more. The Hanalei Canoe Club lost most of its canoes to the great Pacific. They were simply washed out to sea.

Since settling into our condo about four weeks ago with hopes of preparing it for vacationers, we have encountered minor tropical inconveniences such as ridiculously sized centipedes and cock roaches. A neighbor referred to the latter as "747s" since their wing spans are remindful of those jumbo jets when they come in for a landing in your hair. There are no snakes in Hawaii, but the centipedes, with their 23-pairs of legs and venom-filled pinchers, can grow up to  three inches thick and a foot long. And they scoot like a mini fast-train. I chased, captured and killed three in one day while employing a series of Tai Chi moves that nearly killed me.

Our house inspector revealed how he was awakened in bed by a centipede crawling up his arm inching toward his throat. "I grabbed it and flung it across the room." But not before being bit on his finger which swelled up like a banana. If you're bitten on the face or neck it's like  having a spike driven into your head," said another friend who's been on the island for more than 30 years. "it's inevitable."

Hawaiian centipede originally from South East Asia

Long time residents love to tell you about about Hurricane Iniki in 1992 that destroyed most of he island and set the chickens loose. Listen to he locals and they will also fill you in on the treacheries of the seas full of rushing, spiraling currents that surround the island, and about the many deaths each year of those people,  mostly tourists but not all, who are swept away unexpectedly by said currents. Just as many people succumb to the slippery, high-ledged trails that traverse the exquisite mountains. You won't read about these accidents in the tourist brochures, yet they do show up in local newspaper reports. Apparently, unsuspecting visitors from places like Kansas and Wisconsin either can't read the many posted warning signs, or believe their water skills to be Olympian.

On the upside, tales of island localism and stink eye toward visitors are becoming less common. Aloha is making a comeback. The politics in  the state of Hawaii are as blue as the surrounding ocean and a sustaining connection for its people.

Kauai Real Estate

Since our youngest daughter and granddaughter reside on the island we have made frequent forays to the island for the past couple of years. During one visit we made a connection with a couple from California. They like to travel, a common trait we have discovered of many islanders. They offered to rent their home to us during their away-time, which turned out to be two-to-three times a year for up to six weeks.

Granddaughter Viva

This opportunity allowed us a chance to explore and familiarize ourselves with the island from a local's perspective. Being in the business of real estate, Barbara cannot keep herself from poring over multiple listings of places for sale. So in addition to visiting local markets, beaches and trails, we spent a commensurate amount of time peeking into open houses and learning what's for sale and at what price, and how islanders decorate their bathrooms.

Real estate value on Kauai has been going up over these past couple of years. This does not mean that it's necessarily a good investment. Hawaiian real estate is notorious for its ups and downs and does not follow normal trends. Recall the Third World comment.

One of Barbara's many brothers (she has three), has been for years a frequent visitor to Mexico. He's a hustler, not in the sense of illegality, but he has an enviable ability of knowing how to make a buck. Big bucks, I should say. He has purchased housing in Mexico over the years with the motto: Never invest more money than you can afford to lose in a Third World country. Easy for him to say.

Using that formula, we borrowed some money against our high-equity, low-principle mortgage on our small, modest house in Santa Cruz, telling ourselves that the funds would go toward building an addition onto it, while continuing to visit an exhausting number of open houses on Kauai when we were there. Were we kidding ourselves? We hired an architect and structural engineer to prove that we were not. We were rewarded with beautiful, albeit expensive, plans rolled up like a Dead Sea Scroll. We went so far as to secure a building permit for our addition, a process similar to riding the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the nearby amusement park while having your money fly out of your pocket.

Still, paradise beckoned.

The Art of Coincidence

Having more than 70 years of life experiences under my belt (and yes, the belt is a size or two larger for it), I am of the philosophy that some things are meant to be. What exactly this means, I do not know, but I have found that coincidence is more than a random happening, not predestined but perhaps in alignment with other mysterious forces. Yes, I took drugs during the Sixties including the one that Aldous Huxley claimed to open the doors of perception. I also read the Don Juan trilogy by Carlos Castenadas.

My first experience on Kauai was on a gifted honeymoon in 1968.  We were mesmerized by the simple beauty and intimacy of the island, which at that time had one traffic light. I returned for the first time in 2006 to find a busier island and areas that were once jungle now developed, as well as coastal locations, like now-renowned Breneke's Beach, scrambled by at least one major hurricane. Breneke's was difficult to locate but there was the same two-lane road that circumvents most of the island and the immense natural beauty of the landscape that will bring almost any red-blooded human  to tears.

When our youngest daughter decided to settle here a few years ago, we decided to make frequent visits. Unlike the other islands of this archipelago, Kauai offers us a sense of familiarity, or perhaps it's just cozy desire. There is no freeway or thoroughfare. When here we attend yoga classes at the community center in Princeville, through which we have met nice, like-minded people from all over. It's as much a social- as a fitness-gathering. Our daughter, a legendary free spirit, issued the following  caveat: "Don't come here for me. Come here because you want to be here." Her mother just looked at me.

Princeville

Princeville is located on high ground on the eastern side of Hanalei Bay, which is the signature location of the north shore of Kauai known for its astounding beauty at the foot of a range of peeked, luscious green mountains featuring numerous waterfalls that tumble down to magical Hanalei.

Lava rocks mark foundational elements for Fort Alexander

Voyages in 1778-1779 by English Captain James Cook to the Hawaiian Islands aroused scientific and economic ambitions of the Russian Empire. Subsequent voyages by Russian navigators produced detailed accounts of their findings, which included the anonymous native Hawaiian people. The archipelago was deemed a strategic location for supplies and economic dominance of the Pacific by a Russian-American company that attempted to build a fort on the bluff on the north shore of Kauai that would be named Fort Alexander, after Russian Emperor Alexander Andreievich Baranov.

The Hawaiians, who were no slouches, defended their island. The Russians were thwarted and all that remains of the would-be fort are a circle of lava rocks assembled for the foundation. Bunkering that defined the perimeter of the fort is sill visible, although covered with grass. The Regis Resort Hotel sits adjacent on the bluff.

Scottish adventurer Robert C. Wyllie arrived on Kauai in 1844.  He accepted an appointment by King Kamehameha III as minister of foreign affairs with the intention of having the Hawaiian Islands recognized as a sovereign nation. Wyllie also had personal ambitions and acquired large tracts of land that included the bluff above Hanalei. He named his estate "Princeville" in honor of Prince Albert Edward Kauikeaouli Leiopapa a Kamehameha, son of King Kamehameha IV and Queen Emma.

Paradise Found

There have been nights when I wake up, jump out of bed with my headlamp on and shake my pillow  in fear of a creeping centipede or dive-bombing cock roach. I'll be overwhelmed by the heavy floral fragrances wafting from the natural botanical garden that is only our condo landscaping. I may sneeze a few times, slide back between the cool sheets and try to convince myself that there is no way I could be allergic to paradise.

Aloha nui loa. Until we meet again.

Inside the Terrarium of Kauai

Shades of green and waves of gold begin to form as major swell follows a night of tropical rain. Surf skier is out early to ride the the leading edge of waves heading toward Hanalei. Landslide closed Kuhio Hwy last week.

Waves today are forecast at 20-plus feet at north facing surf breaks on the Hawaiian Islands. Here on Kauai we have been pelted with rain for more than a week, with the largest storm and biggest waves starting last night.

Even when the rain is falling in buckets people want to be outside doing their recreational thing, whether it’s surfing, hiking, golfing or simply strolling along the footpaths. It reminds me of home in Santa Cruz where recreation is taken seriously at every opportunity. I’ve been in the water once over the past eight days, and that was just for a refreshing dip at Kalihiwai beach with family and friends. The water was remarkably brackish from all the runoff. Water quality? Who knows.

Examples of the effects of these storms are the five landslides that have closed main roads on the
island over the past four weeks. The result has been closed schools; people stranded and not able to get home, some stuck in their cars for up to seven hours.

A few hardy souls have still been getting waves. I say, good on them. I’ve spent a few hours honing my golf swing at the Wailua Golf Course and Princeville Makai Course driving ranges. I hope to get out for a round as soon as the current storm passes. I don’t cotton to playing golf through puddles and driving rain. I’ve also taken advantage of a couple of the yoga sessions offered on the island led by seasoned teachers and at very reasonable rates.


I have not mentioned the high quality time we’ve had with our daughter and granddaughter. That’s another story that I hope to tell.

Just being on Kauai is like being immersed in a giant terrarium of lush greens and bright flowers (. The air is thick with sweet fragrances and warm enough to always be in shorts and flip flops. Aloha!

The Roar of the Tiger

Anyone with a passing interest in golf, or American sports, is now confronted with the Tiger Effect.

UPDATE: Tiger Woods stunned and enraptured the sportsworld with his showing in last week’s Valspar Championship in Florida where he finished a close second place, his highest finish in nearly five years. NBC Sports says they had more TV viewers for the final round than any non-major tournament since then. The resurgent golfer attracted more TV viewers last week than all the majors in 2017 except The Masters. His comeback, if he continues to play at this level, could well be the sports story of the year.

Last week the odds were 10/1 that Tiger will win the Masters Tournament at Augusta National in April, the first of the four majors this year. His monetary value is beyond comprehension. He attracts viewers as nobody else. People want to see him win. It’s as though their dreams are riding on Tiger.

Tickets for a single-day pass to the Masters Tournament in April are going for  $3,000 because Tiger is in the hunt. He's back. They say. Las Vegas says the odds of him winning this year's Masters are 16/1 following his performance at last week's Honda Classic in Palm Beach, FL. Fans are tingling and money is jingling. The Tiger Machine at work. Tiger made the cut and finished even par for the four-day tournament. His drives led the field in length. Still, there is a stable of young, talented stallions including 22-year-old Justin Thomas itching to win and doing it. Should they fear the Tiger, they are not showing it. Money says maybe they should. Fans want to see him
come back, especially if they're willing to pay $3,000 to watch him play in person. But then, he is Tiger, once the most dominant and well known athlete in the world.

Tiger finds his ball outside the ropes.

It is a homecoming party and everyone is invited. Old and young, male and female. Husbands and wives. Parents and children. Sports fans and celebrity seekers. Some are wealthy who will find comfort inside their private clubhouse with balcony views, martinis and big screens, but most are just plain everyday folks like you and I, who will scatter across the grasses and through the wooded canyon looking for places they might post up and get a glimpse. They come from all corners of Los Angeles: the Valley, the Eastside, South Bay, the Westside and Watts. Above all, they come with one thing in mind: to see the mighty Tiger.

What is this thing called Tiger? What is it that he has that makes him so special? That would draw so much attention and awe and support. Yes, support. And encouragement. Nary a spectator present would utter a discouraging word lest he be called a traitor, or banished with boos and hisses, smothered by the throngs of well wishers who are here to see him succeed and show the world that he can still perform at the most elite level: top of the heap. He was there once. Oh, but was he! He dominated the game for nearly a decade. He can do it again. And he's got... what is it exactly? The man possesses star power that you don't find in ordinary men.

"Go Tiger," the call from the crowd.

"We love you, Tiger!"

"You're the greatest!"

"Sure, he's had some personal problems but that's over."

"He's back."

Where is he? Did you see him? He's on the practice green. People swarm, necks strain. Tiger is here.

Tiger on the practice green

He's dressed in light green and beige, wearing white shoes and a white cap. His concentration is such that he appears not to notice or be aware of the commotion that follows him. But he knows. We know he knows. He looks fit and athletic, a healthy specimen at age 42. His skin is dark but not black. His lips are full and protrude, upper and lower, like a budding flower. His eyes belie his African American blood. They are neatly curved and horizontal, surely inherited from his Asian mother. He's concentrating on his putts as though in deep meditation.

"Yo, Tiger!"

"There he is," a father tells his young son.

We are here at the posh Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, California where the sky is cerulean and clear, golden sunlight dapples green fairways and the temperature hovers at a pleasant 72 degrees. This is Santa Monica Canyon which curves up from the nearby coastline forming an enclosed 243 acres that include 18 beautifully sculpted golf holes. Designed by George C. Thomas, Jr., Riviera opened for play in 1926 during the Golden Age of Sports when boxing, baseball and golf produced kings and ticker tape parades.

"The Riv," as the locals call it, boasts a pedigree that few golf venues can match. The 1948 U.S. Open was held here, the first golf "major" played on the West Coast. Ben Hogan, one of golf deities, won that tournament and The Riv became his favorite playground. There's a statue of Hogan next to the practice green where Tiger is rolling in putts in preparation for the second round of today's version of the L.A. Open, called the Genesis. What is Genesis? An origin a creation, perhaps a "new beginning" for our fallen hero. In truth, it's a luxury sedan produced by Hyundai, another signature of a game gone corporate.

Add Tiger.

Stir in lots of people.

It's a recipe for good marketing.

The general manager of Genesis explains to Forbes magazine that he is very pleased with the Tiger Effect that has ushered in a wide audience to see the new automobile brand. Two Genesis sedans, black and white, shine brightly on display inside the gates.

Tiger played in his first pro tournament right here at The Riv in 1992, which seems like a century ago, when he was a 16-year-old sophomore in high school and an ascending star. A phenom. The glitterati have always frolicked here. Greta Garbo owned a house above the 13th hole where, as legend goes, she could watch Clark Gable and Katherine Hepburn play. This is Tiger Territory. Welcome back, Tiger. We love you. But do they know that Tiger has never, even at the top of his dominating game, won a tournament here?

If they do, this fact in no way discourages his army. His army believes in him. Tiger is not only a golfer. He is bigger than that. He is celebrity. His game has been on hiatus for a few years, following a string of surgeries and personal improprieties that might cloud lesser characters of mere mortal status. Swept up in a whirlwind of fame and ill-fame exacerbated by tabloids and talk show and torrents of media frenzy, Tiger moves on. Tiger is not a has-been. Tiger is making a comeback.

"Come on, Tiger!"

Rory McIlroy is distracted while lining up a chip shot.

He must shoot even par on this Friday to make the cut for the weekend. His threesome includes twenty-somethings, brawny Rory McIlroy from Northern Ireland and newcomer Justin Thomas from Kentucky, both of whom must shake off the surrounding storm that comes with Tiger.

"Quiet, please!" The signs are held up when a player addresses his ball. Still, there is a rustling and bustling that surrounds this group. Many of the gallery are not familiar with golf ettiquette. But they know celebrity. They perform the "cell phone salute," holding up their iPhones in unison to snap photos to show their friends and relatives and everyone else, that they were here. They saw Tiger. Here is proof!

By the 11th hole, Tiger is three over par and making bogeys not birdies. It is becoming clear that he likely will not make the cut. Still he is cheered on. He has the support of his army. Every shot is a photo op and time for an encouraging word.

"Great shot, Tiger!"

The black birds are chirping wildly in the leafless gnarly white-limbed sycamore trees, the only sign that it's winter in L.A. A plaque near the 12th green tells us that the big sycamore guarding that green is called "Bogey's Tree" in honor of the late movie actor Humphrey Bogart. An afternoon breeze is beginning to blow off the ocean sending a minor chill through the canyon. The army continues to swarm.

From the stately Spanish-revival style Clubhouse atop the highest point on the golf course above the 18th green, look to the west down that fairway -- once known as "Hogan's Alley" -- and you will see the blue Pacific Ocean and the outline of Catalina Island. Turn to the east and you will note the rugged ridge of the brownish-purple San Gabriel Mountains, beyond Pasadena. There are few other outdoor places in Los Angeles that you would rather be, tucked away from the throngs. Except, perhaps, on this weekend when all of Los Angeles is invited in. And Tiger is here. Members such as Larry David, Adam Sandler and Tom Brady have vacated the premises. They no doubt can see Tiger anytime, by appointment.

But Tiger is not performing well. His score is bleeding into an ugly figure. It is evident that he will be eliminated for the weekend. Tiger's countenance transforms. For the first time today he smiles and you see his white teeth that contrast perfectly with his dark skin. His meditation has broken. He is chatting casually out in the middle of the fairway with his playing partner Rory McIlroy, far from the madding crowd.

On the 18th and final green, Tiger is greeted by a large audience that fills the grassy hillside amphitheatre overlooking the hole. A loud ovation echoes through the canyon as though an incredible shot has been played. But it's not a shot. It's Tiger. Cell phones are lifted. Spirits are high. Tiger tips his cap. He rolls in a putt for par. He has scored a 76, five over par. Ugh. He will not be here tomorrow. But he will still be beloved.

"He's back," says one enthusiastic fan. "He's in good shape, just needs practice."