Community Wisdom

Four weeks have passed since we arrived on the island, which has gradually become a landscape empty of people and social activity.

Due to the shut down of tourism, Hawaii is now in recession, according to a University of Hawaii economist. Unemployment on Kauai is at 17-percent, Maui 18-percent and Oahu 9-percent.

Many friends have advised that we remain on Kauai, a great location to shelter in place. And it is. It's so beautiful and the vibe remains low-key and seemingly relaxed.

The best way to describe the local media, from Honolulu network news to local Kauai radio, is "community."

I cannot imagine any news network today projecting more smiles and laughter amid the frightening reports. Somehow the men and women on the TV screen -- some from their own homes; most attired in flora prints -- are able to balance negativity with aloha.

It's as though we are sitting on the porch together talking story and chuckling.

Our electronic connection seems more important than ever.

The PBS Hawaii station exudes aloha through many local programs devoted to Hawaiian music, family stories and the inter-connectedness of island life.

Yesterday I was talking with one of the landscaping crew, a young man, thin-limbed with a long wispy beard flowing like a waterfall from his chin. It reminded me of the beard of an ancient Chinese sage.

I asked him for his name.

"I'm Kimo," he said, giving me a quick one-handed Shaka. He's part of a crew still employed.

"It's a good thing you're here now," he said. "The mainland, whew... We're more laidback."

"For sure," I said.

We chatted at social distance, he trimming yellow leaves from ti plants (known to ward off evil spirits) with a small machete. Me pulling weeds sprouting through ground cloth with bare fingers.

"We need to get rid of ground covering," he said. "Bugs and centipedes hide underneath. The cloth suffocates the plants."

I pulled a leafy weed lifting the cloth with it. A small centipede wriggled out like an angry tiger near my foot.

"The little ones will clamp their fangs into you," he said, shaking his hand as though it had been stung. "They're young, lots of energy. Sting lasts for days."

"The big ones," he said, spreading apart his long index finger and thumb to show me size, will only wrap onto you. They don't want to sting."

Good to know.

Sounds of Silence

Plumeria

Everything stops at night. Sounds of silence. Listen closely and you hear the noise of void. It's dark and beautifully empty.

The island curfew seems to be working. The state of Hawaii reported this morning that two visitors arrived on Kauai last Friday.  Less than 180 visitors showed up that day on the island of Oahu, tourist central.

The numbers are supposed to be less for Saturday, although not yet published.

Because most arrive by air, Hawaii has the distinct ability to monitor incoming people. Few flights are arriving or departing due to the virus. No deaths from c-19 have yet been reported.

We remain undecided about when to leave. As the clock ticks, airlines eliminate departures. The very few direct outbound flights cost more than $1,000 each.

Will the nefarious virus soon spread widely here, too? Then what?

Yesterday the weather was perfect. Periods of brilliant sunshine and patches of blue sky following the deluge of Friday-Saturday. Plumeria and Puakenikeni flowers are beginning to bloom. These are the most popular flowers for making aromatic floral leis.

Both flowers grow on trees. The plumeria are opening their petals with shades of pink, white and yellow. The leaves on plumeria trees take more time to show up, as if less important and late to the party, the opposite of self-important people.

It's amazing how the scenery changes so quickly and dramatically. Tumbling white waterfalls appear on the mountain sides. Glossy greens subtly wave. Red and yellow hibiscus add color. I am humbled by nature's majesty.

Isolated walkers and a few bicyclists move about on paths and roads.

Surf riders watch, wait and listen.

Quiet, contemplative times while we slow down, pay attention to our most vital needs and gifts.

Sunday, Sunday, Can Rest that Day

Barbara finds shelter from storm during heavy wind and rain shower

It's Sunday and the island is resting after heavy rains and flooding mostly on Friday into Saturday. During a 12-hour period Princeville received nearly 8 inches of rain, according to latest reports. About 10-inches fell in Hanalei during that time.

A couple of families in Wailua had to be evacuated from their homes due to flooding. Finding temporary shelter for them was made more difficult because of necessary social distancing.

The washout through rivers and streams has turned our blue ocean near shore into muddy brown.

Would you accept kale from these people?

Last night Barbara prepared a simple, delicious meal of pasta with bits of left-over sausage, grated parmesan, butter and olive oil, with a fresh kale salad with garlic and lemon juice. The kale was a gift from our neighbors Marcie and Rick, locally grown and distributed. Mahalo.

Chef Barbara's philosophy: "First in, first out."

In other words we eat leftovers and food from already opened containers before diving into new stuff. With few trips to market, items in our refrigerator disappear at a rapid pace and little waste. She's so practical.

We watched the award-winning movie "Mudbound" last night on Netflix. It reminded me of movies of the 60s that addressed social injustice. Great character acting. Lots of foreshadowing, a horrifying climax and a bitter-sweet ending. I found it a worthwhile reminder of where we come from.

Barbara fell asleep and missed most of the film. Following a mostly sleepless night, she crashed pretty hard. I was thankful to see her dreaming away, I hope, playing fun games with our grandchildren, perhaps even singing and dancing.

I unleashed a wild dance on our cleared-away spacious floor-space yesterday upon hearing an oldie on the radio. Couldn't tell you the song, but it had me hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean with habanero salsa. Afterward I felt as though I had just run a 200-meter dash.

As my tai chi teacher would say, that's good for your "secondary immune system." Short, intense exercise that takes the wind out of you. It builds strength to fight disease within your body.

I say: ok.

Now I can rest.

Singing after the Rain

View from Opakapaka 3/27/2020

"Long as I remember the rain been comin' down
Clouds of mystery pourin' confusion on the ground
Good men through the ages tryin' to find the sun
And I wonder still I wonder who'll stop the rain."
                                                            -- John Fogerty

Dead silence this morning just before dawn. Not a car, truck, bird or plane.

The sky fell last night, opened wide and let it pour. A relentless reminder that we are in one of the wettest spots on the planet. Atop an ancient volcano. Tangled up in green. Surrounded by blue that has turned angry grey

Lightning flashed like super-powered search lights, scanning the landscape thick with trees and tropical flora that must have woke up to see what was the matter.

Thunder cracked with sharp, jagged edges that showed no mercy. Straight into the skull nearly piercing the heart that skipped a beat.

Mama told me there would be days like this. But she didn't say where or when.

Our little cabin in the jungle held fast. Pounding, dripping water threatened to wash us away like a twig in the river. Rudderless in the time of pandemic.

Respite this morning gives us a welcome breather before the next onslaught. I turn on the radio to hear classical music on the local community channel. Make coffee. Check for leaks. See new ponds outside. Stay away from news.

We already know about 10 C-19 cases on the island, which is closed for most business and gatherings.

Yesterday we FaceTimed with our beloved daughter and grandkids. Such a joy to see their precious faces, hear their voices. If we could only touch their skin, feel their hair, give them hugs. Still, technology, in this instance, worked for us. Life in front of screens, however, is kind of a drag.

Understanding that a whopper storm was coming, Barbara and I tucked ourselves into Little Red and drove down the hillside, over the Hanalei Bridge (closed this morning) and into Magic Land. Few cars on the road made it easier and slightly eerie. We passed through Hanalei, Waipa', up and above Lumahai (where South Pacific was filmed) onward to Wainiha.

We crossed small, one-way bridges over rivers that were already fast-flowing into the roiling sea.

"I'm taking my jacket in case we can't get back over the rivers and have to spend the night," said my dear wife.

"Jacket?" I answered, and to myself said, I don't need no stinking jacket. I have no jacket.

We were in a slow race in real-time, meandering through little villages where people hunker down year-round, sometimes become stranded. It's a way of life on an island where weather changes by the second.

We arrived at Opakapaka Bar & Grill at water's edge. Nothing but ocean for thousands of miles. We peered at the approaching storm in the sky, moving toward us like a dark ghost over troubled water.

The grill is not open except for take-out. We took out two orders of fish & chips and headed home while  droplets began to spot our windshield. The scenery: drop-dead gorgeous.

At Big Save Market in Hanalei I picked up a small bottle of Bombay Saphire to complement our Friday night seafood dinner especial, and to celebrate another week of good fortune of being well and to count our blessings.

Books to Read

Did you know that during the California Gold Rush through the late 1800s the nearest major city to California was Honolulu?

I learned this piece of arcane information from an exceptional book about early California, "Men to Match My Mountains" by Irving Stone.

So what? 

I have a storehouse of so-what facts lodged in the back of my brain ever since the fateful day that my mother introduced me to the public library in my hometown of Pomona, California. I was probably 8-years-old. 

Soon I was collecting dimes to ride the city bus to the library from our house in Kellogg Park, a new tract of post-war homes at the far western edge of town. The bus stopped right around the corner. The bus diver's name was Earl.

Everybody knew Earl. He had a thin dark mustache and wore a cap with a shiny black bill. "Hi Earl," we would say when we hopped onto the bus, dropped the coin into the metal-framed box and heard it tumble down with a low-pitched clang. 

I did not realize how wonderful it was to be living in a predominantly safe, small town in the mid-1950s where I could ride the bus by myself.

The Pomona Public Library was located in the middle of downtown in an older building with stairs in front. The kids' books were found in a section to the right. The floor was made of wood. The papery smell of books beckoned with new stories and adventures.

Today, holed up in our condo in Princeville, I cannot go find a book at the local library, which is within easy walking distance. It has been a mainstay during every trip to the island. I also never fail to visit Talk Story Bookstore on the other side of the island in Hanapepe.

Both places are closed indefinitely.

My neighbor-pal Rick has a Kindle. He orders books in a flash. Maybe I should upgrade. I say that, yet stick to old-fashioned paper books. We have collected enough that I should survive for a couple of more weeks before I become desperate.

There are some great books about Hawaii. Here's a short list if you're looking for something good to read and want to learn more about island life and history.

The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings. Movie by same name is based on this heartwrenching novel.

House of Many Gods by Kiana Davenport (or any book by this terrific writer). Amazing stories told by a bonafide local.

Hawaii's Best Spooky Tales: The Original by Rick Carroll. Strange encounters that will give you chicken skin based on ancient myths and reported happenings.

The Last Aloha by Gaellen Quinn. Excellent novel about the last days and overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy.

I will gladly accept any book recommendations from you.

Last Aloha

Ghostly sunset at Westin Resort

"If you are blessed and in a position to help someone, you should. Be kind and show aloha."

These words, spoken by one Kauai resident who is confined to her home with eight children, express the spirit of many on the island.

The Garden Island newspaper ran a story today about how residents are handling the stay-at-home order.

Yesterday just before dusk I walked down to the bluff above Anini Cove to snap a photo. It has been super windy with a few intermittent showers and lots of skudding clouds of amorphous shapes and white-grey colors.

Early morning and late day these clouds suddenly glow from the acute angle of the sun rising or setting. The cove always looks the same yet never the same, due to ever-changing conditions.

Not another person in sight except for a couple. I estimate they are in their 60s. I estimate they are from New York once they see me and begin talking.

The man smiles, approaches me. A close talker. I step back.

"Hi, do you live here?" he says.

"We'll get out of your way if you want to take a picture," she says.

They are standing in the small area with the best view of the cove. I backpedal around them, keeping social distance as directed. They do not seem to be aware of directive. They are likely starved for human contact.

"Thank you," I say.

Anini Cove late day 3/25/2020

They are as mesmerized as I am with the scene. Slightly cool breezes coming up the bluff. Our eyes and noses bombarded by a whirl of warm colors and tropical fragrances.

Three people. Alone on a cliff.

I learn that they are the last of a few stragglers at the Westin Resort.

"They sent us a letter that they are closing," she says. "They want us to leave."

"Everything's closing," I say, attempting to impart earnestness.

"Enjoy your evening," I say, turning to leave.

Under normal circumstances I would have engaged with them, talked story, learned more about them.

All I could think was, "Aloha."

So Tsunami

White-rumped Shama

The rooster crowed below our window this morning. It was probably the same rooster, same time and feels like the same day as yesterday. Yesterday's new scare was a tsunami headed toward the islands caused by a "massive" earthquake near Japan.

Mild panic. News reports of tsunami continued every five minutes on the local evening news. Reports called it a "tsunami watch."

More panic.

We are on high ground but our daughter and grandkids are on low ground, in tsunami zone.

Within an hour tsunami watch "canceled." How to cancel tsunami?

Everything back to normal "pandemic panic." Can be canceled, too?

Our daughter tells us we watch too much news. We watch Netflix instead.

So wake up to rooster crowing was "normal."

The mostly dark-feathered rooster's punctuality is impressive. So much that a Shama tried to imitate the rooster's crow this morning. The long-tailed Shama is a song bird with a wide repertoire, including imitating other birds.

Shama's song was close enough to bring a smile and light-hearted reminder of nature's funny ways. She rules.

The Shama was introduced to Kauai from Malaysia in 1931 to supplement local habitat. In 1940 the songbird was brought to the island of Oahu. The male Shama has a glossy back and chestnut belly with long tail feathers.

They are reclusive and not easily seen, although we did spot one a couple of days ago on a low-hanging branch next to the trail to Anini Beach.

I tried to take picture of the melodious little songster with long tail feather but it flew away in its own sort of panic.

Mele from Heaven

Today's sunrise

The line stretched from the entrance to half-way around the large building, yet doors wouldn't be open for 30-minutes. Infectious laughter punctuated the scene under fast-closing dark clouds. It was a good-looking crowd: predominantly trim and healthy-appearing. Their tan skin contrasted nicely with their silver- and white-colored hair. Baby boomers all.

If you didn't know better, you could mistake the event for a Neil Young or Bonnie Raitt concert. Execpt no one seemed stoned.

No, it was kupuna hour at CostCo. The big box emporium was holding its first such event at its outlet in Lihue, opening its doors to elders-only at 8am.

Barbara and I were right there in the middle of it, listening to locals chat and laugh. Yet we weren't quite feeling that way. Surely people understand the gravity of the threat. A few were wearing gloves and masks.

I think it was a sign of the aloha spirit of the island. Islanders seem grounded in talking story, laughing and embracing community.

The lady in front of us pointed out a rainbow on the other side of the parking lot.

"A sign of good luck," she and Barbara told each other. They both laughed. A floral scent lingered.

Somewhere over the CostCo parking lot

As we walked into the store, a sign at the entrance listed products that were out of stock. These included sanitizing tissues, bleach and of course, toilet paper. The most essential product in America.

Being experienced kupuna, we had a strategy for our storewide attack.

We would counter-flow. Go left rather right.

I wore gloves and pushed the shopping cart. Barbara picked up items and placed them in the cart. It worked for a while. Maybe it's us, but we've never been able to remain tethered in CostCo, or any place that has more than two aisles. She was gone before I knew it.

It was all good. Back in the car with our supplies stashed in back, Barbara looked at me.

"At least we didn't need toilet paper."

On the way home we listened to the community radio station that played Hawaiian music. Traffic was light on two-lane Kuhio Highway. The triangular-shaped hills were shadow green silhouettes. It was too dark for sunglasses. Rain fell lightly on our windshield. Our wipers rubbed against the glass, a stressed sound that harshly counter-balanced stringed instruments playing beautiful mele.

In places the rain came in greater quantities, then stopped when we passed through Anahola beneath the Sleeping Giant.

Onward north we noted the road where Isabel, Viva and Mystiko live. Rain misted on the windshield like tears from heaven as we silently listened to a woman on the radio in traditional Hawaiian prayer chant.

Stranded in Paradise

Local casts net at Hanalei

Each day the world becomes a much smaller place, and the islands of Hawaii are included in this shrinking story. Nearly 60 cases of COVID-19 reported in the state as of this morning.

One-by-one the islands are issuing strict rules to maintain social distance, allowing only "essential" trips outside. Talk of "permits" to go to the beach.

Amidst the clamping down, birds sing. Gardens are planted. Construction supplies arrive for new roofing for our condos, one section at a time. Good for these workers.

Nearby, the Westin Resort is said to be shutting down. Not good for those employees.

Our rambles on our favorite beaches may be curtailed. I wonder if the many locals who cast fishing lines and throw nets will continue their lifestyle. Surely this is "essential" for feeding families.

The wind has picked up and our chain of islands will be strafed today by gusty trades, according to Guy Hagi, the weather guru who islanders look to every morning.

A stronger morning breeze already rustles leaves and bends the long trunks of palm trees making a whistling sound in the air. I sense the isolation of being on a small island in the middle of world's largest ocean. With nowhere safe to go.

Seeing Mr. Hagi issue his report is reassuring. No hurricanes on the horizon.

Viva at Japanese Gardens

Yesterday, we FaceTimed with Viva and her mom and brother. She always takes the lead with questions, reports on her cat and random observations. Her visage on the little screen is in constant motion: sideways, tilted left and right. It's as though we're staring into a kaleidoscope.

Barbara shows her a new garden of seedlings with small green leaves.

"That's papaya," Viva informs us, identifying the young leaves in the time it takes my eyes to focus. She misses very little of what goes on around her, if anything. A true island wahine.

We flew all the way to Hawaii to see our daughter and grandkids, only to see them on FaceTime. Social distancing sucks.

This morning before turning on the news I rolled out my yoga mat. Inhaled deeply expanding my lungs. Practiced some bends and twists. Readied myself properly for the day ahead.

Day of Living Dangerously

Entry to Habitat Restore in Hanapepe with hanging bottles of sanitizer. 

Governor David Ige has announced a 14-day quarantine of anyone coming to the islands, residents and visitors. Residents stay home except for medical issues. Tourists stay in hotels. Indicating how serious this is, he said violators would be fined a maximum $5,000 or thrown in jail for a year.

Yesterday Barbara and I toured to the other side of our small island paradise in our rental compact, a dinged-up red Ford Fiesta with a black hatchback. It's seen better days, but price is right.

"We cannot be taken for tourists in this baby," I told her.

"Then why is the local in the dinged-up pickup tailgating us? she said.

"I guess we're just brahs, you know, Ohana on the roads."

Just as he was about to bump us from behind, his headlights went bright.

He's got someplace to go, I thought. I swiftly flipped the turn signal and steered our little buggy onto the shoulder where all the famous red dirt is. Step on this dirt and your slippahs (Hawaiian for flip-flops), are dyed a deep orange for life. Not to mention your toes.

No shaka, no toot of the horn, he sped by on his own private mission. I was just happy we didn't touch red, cause I'm tryin to keep a clean slate, if you know what I mean.

We had a couple of foot stools made of cool woven basket material, a tight weave, that were clogging our condo with more stuff. Nice cushions fashioned with colorful floral prints included. Vintage unknown, but not too recent. Very Hawaiian, we thought.

"Before we get rid of them," I said, "check online to see if they're valuable."

"I'd hate to see them show up on Antique Road Show," said Barbara, finishing my thought. "And learn that they're worth thousands of dollars."

We both laughed one of those laughs that carries a tinge of truth.

No dice. We were good to go.

At the Habitat Restore in Hannapepe, the island warehouse where you will find anything you might dream of -- from glassware to goggles to gowns to gewgaws to grass mats to giant fishing poles and more -- we presented our valuable foot stools to the nice lady receiver of stuff.

Her eyes looked over the stools as if they were evidence of a recent crime. Her hands ran across the woven borders and over the neatly stapled fabric underneath. In the silence of that moment you could almost hear the sound of a fishing line being cast by a local angler at Salt Pond, some quarter-mile away.

"Hummm... I don't know," she hemmed.

Barbara and I stood speechless.

The lady never smiled, perhaps a sign of stress during our time of unknown consequences and irregularities.

Finally, she broke the standoff: "Okay."

Before heading back, we cruised through the tiny, former plantation town of Hanapepe with its picturesque freshly refurbished historic buildings.  It looked like a ghost town even though many stores had "open" signs in their windows. Few shoppers around.

With the island shutting down, people are not buying. The lady at Restore likely gave us a break by accepting more inventory than she needs right now. I wanted to tell her, "We'll be back to buy stuff when this thing is over."

I promise.

Tai'd Up at the Bay

Hanalei 3/20/2020

Saturdays on the north shore of the island are usually Farmers Market day. Local vendors and growers bring their goods to the open-air community markets in Hanalei and Kilahuea.

Their offerings include fresh lettuce, bananas, papayas, avocados, kale, baked bread and pastries, local grass-fed beef, fresh flowers and an assortment of local produce that I haven't begun to understand.

It's a community vibe, great for meeting your neighbors and for people watching.

The Farmers Markets are now closed. Community is beginning to have another meaning. Check your iPhone for more information.

My Saturday ritual begins on the shore of Hanalei Bay near the Pavilion, whose name is the surf break, Pavilions, directly in front.

Local healer Skip Rush and his lovely wife Donna lead our group of mostly kupuna in a slow-moving "dance" that resembles a class of pantomime artists attempting to express a secret or ancient language by waving hands and kicking feet in slow motion.

It's called Tai Chi, an original martial art.

It comes from China. (Relax, that was a long time ago.) The flowing hands were supposed to fool the authorities who would not permit subjects to practice martial art. A sign of potential rebellion.

The slower and more wavier the movements the less worrisome for the rulers. And the more difficult to control my anxious body.

While we perform our strange dance, beachgoers pass by with nary a second look, except for youngsters, who notice and study everything they see. I wonder what they're thinking and how their parents will explain the odd sight to the kids.

"Those are old people trying to keep their balance," they probably say. Which has some truth to it.

Social distance seems fairly loose among the beach people and few surfers checking the waves. Our group of kupuna are more perspicacious, adhering to protocol. Am I staying six-feet away from Nancy? Don't run into Lee. Where's Mary Kay?

The sound of surf makes a nice background as waves curl and break into foamy rushes. The air is still and humid. Sky is grey with low-ceiling clouds. A high-surf advisory is forecast for today.

Out at "The Bowl" some 200-yards from the shore, larger waves rise on the horizon, as a few riders slide down the faces that briefly hold up before smoothing out.

I watch the bay waters in a state of silent, waving-hands meditation. This is it. Be in the present. Soak it up.

Following the hour-long session, we gather round Grand Master Skip who wears a white tai chi uniform. His expression is serious as he acknowledges our present state of affairs without ever saying the word. We all know.

He reminds us that it's a time to be diligent.

 "Remember honesty, integrity and compassion."

Most Saturdays our next move would be the Farmers Market. Today, I scramble back to the condo where my next move is to wash my hands.

Friday Prayer

It's a beautiful, sunny day on Kauai. Birdsong whistles brightly through the air. Sunlight rakes yellow across shades of green. Shadows playfully hide.

Rain is over. Sky is blue. Wind has turned to swaying breezes. Tropical fragrances float like clouds through the island.

There are fewer people on the streets and paths.

Tonight at 9 a curfew begins through 5 in the morning.

The mayor of Kauai is attempting to isolate the island from incoming visitors to protect a population of some 65,000.

Twenty-six cases of COVID-19 throughout the island chain.

Resorts are beginning to slow down to empty lobbies, swimming pools and lounges.

We take daily walks and inhale deeply the breath of life.

Local television presents a tone of seriousness balanced with a pleasant attitude of smiles and laughter. The island way.

We wonder about our future. Do we stay or go home? Not so simple. The island is not equipped with necessary health-care facilities should the virus rapidly spread.

Each day is sacred and a gift. A healthy body and mind are foremost.

We think of our dear family here and in California with love, worry and affection.

We communicate online with friends.

We witness strength and great resilience of so many who continue to express compassion and hopefulness and joy.

We remember that we are all one on our beautiful planet.

Aloha.

Sticky Fingers in the Dark

We set our alarm for 5:30 this morning to take advantage of the kupuna (elders) hour of shopping at Foodland, the nearest super market in Princeville (6-7am).

Rain was thankfully light throughout the night but humidity hung heavy like a damp rag in the darkness as I fumbled in the dark for the key to unlock the door of our small-compact rental car. The electronic key fob does not work.

I've become so comfortable with keyless entry for my Prius at home. Realistically, I probably don't need to lock the car here, especially if there are no valuables inside. Many households here do not lock front doors to their homes.

I ask myself: Should I be wearing gloves? Be careful about what I touch.

A blast of dampness overwhelms me upon opening the car door. We haven't used the car for several days and it has rained with high-intensity showers. Inside the car smells like an upholstered greenhouse.

Placing the key in the ignition, I hear familiar Hawaiian music from the car radio that flows with floral, swaying subtleties of the islands. It helps to ground me.

Within a few minutes we pull into the dark parking lot where we see more vehicles than expected.

A woman employee checks those entering the market, estimating if they are, indeed, at least 60 years of age. I pass without a blink of her eye.

Not thinking I grab a shopping cart with my bare hands and grip the plastic-covered handle. Looking around I note than I am among the 50-percent shopping bare-handed. The other 50-percent are wearing gloves. Immediately my hands feel sticky. Just hold on, don't touch anything else.

I soon realize that I must touch the milk carton and the plastic bag containing bagels that I place in the shopping basket. My mind is rattled with sinking, infected notions. I feel as though I am passing the virus from cart handle to package.

It's not crowded and some shelves are vacant. I lose Barbara who has wandered off carrying the shopping bag she has brought from home. She never touches a shopping cart.

We meet near the cashier. I try to relax, yet people are moving very near to me. If one of them sneezes I am toast.

On our way out the door, I pull a wet "sanitized" paper towel from a small dispenser. I vigorously wipe my infected hands as a doctor would prepare for surgery.

Barbara informs me: "Those don't contain alcohol. They're sticky and will hold infection on your hands. They're worse."

A lump has formed in my throat. How do I enter the car without spreading the virus? I carefully pull the key from my pocket and place it into the ignition slot. I shudder as I hold the gear shift, then grip the steering wheel.

"Well, that was fun," I manage to say, as we head back to the condo.

Barbara says: "I'm going to take a shower before I do anything."

Shelter from the Storm

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
                                                       -- Bob Dylan

Guy Hagi reports storm hovering southwest of islands. Our new open space (above)

Who ever heard of 'sheltering in place.'?

A complete reboot for our lives.  Time to get romantic, creative, consider essentials, what's most important, least important and be in the present. Tomorrow is a myth, an idea. Create your own myth now. Write your own poem. Be your best self.

Like little worker bees, three days ago we began an energetic rearrangement of our condo, moving furniture around to accommodate our new reality. By sliding our dining table toward the window, we created a new open space.

The large chair that always seemed to block my passage and stub my big toe was given its own vignette under the stairway. No more bruised toenails.

The result gives us a less cluttered feeling, as if we cleaned out cobwebs that were obstructing movement within our minds. My simple mind, at least.

Now we have open space for dancing, yoga, tai chi and social distancing, if we have company. Not that we're inviting folks over to socialize. Including our beautiful grandchildren, unfortunately. Dab that tear running down Barbara's cheek.

Yesterday I "face-timed" with an old friend, Richie Ramirez, whom I hadn't seen in years. It was his birthday. There he was, in his home study in San Clemente, Calif. I sat on the couch here in Princeville as we caught up. As LD would say, it was prittay, prittay, prittay cool.

The rain that pelted the island has subsided, allowing folks to get outside for walks -- keeping a distance from each other, of course. Majestic waterfalls striped the local mountains.

The Princeville library and community center are closed. Both essential stations for our typical island life. We will adjust. In an act of safety, respect and aloha for kupuna (elders), Hawaii's main super market chain, Foodland, has announced exclusive hours of shopping for those 60 and over.

Acknowledging the seriousness of the pandemic, Governor David Ege has asked visitors to postpone trips to Hawaii for the next 30 days.

More rain forecast for Kauai. Gimme Shelter.

Rain Song

Buckets of rain
Bucktets of tears
Got all them buckets comin' out of my ears
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand
You got all the love
Honey baby, I can stand  -- Bob Dylan

The rain -- pounding hard and harder -- jus' kept comin' all night long

An alarming song with hardly a break

Trouble sleepin' with a mind full of ache

River overflowin an' flash flood warnings

Holdin' down the fort an' a virus swarming

Across the land there runs a panic

Jus' keep your mind clear, don't go manic

Weatherman shows way wind's blowin'

Disturbance hangin in sky, not flowin'

Word up, this too shall pass

Meanwhile, listen to rain, single-note jazz

Time to Practice Aloha

Pavilions, 3/15/2020

As of this morning, seven people have been confirmed with the Covid-19 virus in the state of Hawaii. Four of these are on the island of Kauai. Measures are underway to isolate and contain these. Each was introduced from visitors.

Health officials announced that more cases are inevitable. Events throughout the islands are being canceled. Hawaiian Airlines has reduced flights to and from the islands. Public gathering places including schools are being closed.

In an effort to keep shoppers from over-buying supplies, officials are asking islanders to show compassion for others. That announcement had a familiar ring of "aloha" that islanders generally embrace.

Adding to the situation, flash flood warnings are being issued for the entire week. Kauai is expected to be bombarded with rain, according to weather guru Guy Hagi. A westerly storm, a Kona, is forecast to sit for days over the north-western most islands, especially Kauai.

The supply chain of goods to the island will not be interrupted, according to latest reports.

The mantra is: We're all in this together. Which becomes clearer every day.

So we hunker down in our condo, hoping we have enough food and cleaning supplies. Wash our hands frequently. Read more. Practice yoga. Listen to community radio station KKCR that broadcasts from the island, with updates, local conversation and an eclectic range of music.

Yesterday Barbara and I drove to nearby Hanalei Bay understanding that it was the last day before the forecast storm. I was hoping to get in a surf session. The narrow road swings down into the lowlands of Hanalei crossing the single-lane bridge over the Hanalei River.

I continue to be overwhelmed by the magnificent green mountains and verdant landscape. I feel like we're entering Magic Land spread with taro patches, waving green grasses that nearly swallow the road from both sides, red earth and no concrete.

The small shops, restaurants and churches remain from an earlier era. Some are closed. Fewer vehicles are on the road, which is nice, at least temporarily.

At Pavilions, which has become my favorite spot -- where we practice tai chi on Saturday mornings -- the waves are closing out and rip currents have closed the beach to swimmers. Not the best for surfing. The locals are watching but not going out. The few on boards in the water are obviously inexperienced, flailing in the white water.

They have come from around the world to enjoy a few days on Kauai and feel what it's like to surf. They keep the island economy going. Hawaii depends on visitors. Many locals work for the tourist industry and their jobs and livelihood are threatened by the pandemic.

I feel fortunate that I can wait for better conditions. Although the direction of my IRA funds in the stock market goes down every day. And the prospect of a job on the island becomes more remote.

I decide to jump in the water and wash away worries. It feels great.

Aloha to all.

Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow

Mystiko, not concerned with time of day

Time is not on my side. No it's not.

Yesterday this became very clear when we showed up an hour late for our granddaughter's school performance. We missed the whole show. I was overcome by a sense of loss that could not be repaid.

As the designated narrator, nine-year-old Viva was a central character in the performance which included music and.... I don't know. We weren't there. Until after.

How could this happen?

A senior moment?

Notice how everything is defined by "moments" of time.

Viva after the show

Barbara and I thought the gig started at 11 when it actually started at 10. It really came down to the difference between two numbers. And a misunderstanding.

We had paced ourselves so as not to get there too early! We were "killing time."

If we had known it was going to be held "mid-morning" maybe we wouldn't have missed it.

The clock keeps ticking.

What a morbid thought.

Life is happening not ticking. This count-down thing makes it sound like a game. Did you change your clock? Set your clock? What difference does it really make? It's essentially the same.

So I have decided to write to the Big Chief, the one who makes these types of decisions about what time it is, to suggest that we eliminate clocks and references to time.

Sun goes down: it's night. Day breaks: it's day. The trains run in the morning and throughout the day. Enjoy your lunch when you're hungry. Go to sleep when it's dark.

No more senior moments. Life becomes fluid, not regimented, no fake schedule.

Time is not real. It's a hoax.

Then I doubt we'd miss the show. We did get the day right.

A Long Strange Trip & Happy Birthday

Rick in his '56 Porsche Speedster

In the spring of 1970, coming out of the raucous 1960s, I took my first "real" job as a writer at the San Jose Mercury News daily newspapers. I was as green as an under-ripe tomato. But eager to bloom.

The Sixties had bled into 1970 as we saw four students shot and killed by National Guard troops at Kent State University in Ohio. Mad rock 'n roll was blasting on radio airwaves and at the Fillmore Ballroom up the road in San Francisco .

What was happening? I wanted to know. I wanted to write about it.

My new employer had a peripatetic writer who was answering those questions on a regular basis. I saw story after story in our newspaper about music, films and culture under the byline,  Rick Carroll.

Who was this guy?

As a promotion writer I was confined to the newspaper plant, a fancy building of Sixties architecture featuring a moat in front of the lobby. Seriously. These were heady days for the SJMN, whose classified section was bigger than the LA Times. This was early, early Silicon Valley.

I'd deliver copy to familiar editors in the newsroom but never see the mercurial Rick Carroll, whose bylines I saw almost daily.

I was near mesmerized when I read his story about the film making of Leonard Gardner's novel, "Fat City." Not only did RC write about the Stockton-California based movie, he played a role in it. There he was in a wide-lappelled suit and fedora in a front page photograph.

Some days later I saw the same face, bearded, a cool beanie pulled over his head, stepping out of a classic white Porche convertible, chatting with one of our fashion writers.

It was Rick Carroll live and in person.

I never had the opportunity to meet him.

Less than three years later, I walked out of the newspaper plant upset with their tired conservative politics. Not long after I saw RC's byline in the San Francisco Chronicle,  the "Voice of the West." That's where the popular writers were going. And he was part of that line-up.

I relocated over the mountains and through the redwoods to the little sea burg of Santa Cruz. I miraculously found a great job as editor for Santa Cruz Publishing Company, whose new publisher/owner Lee May had assembled a talented assortment of fun-loving media types.We produced good products, including a tourist guide that showed off our skills and became successful.

Rick Carroll's bylines were showing up in the Honolulu's Star-Advertiser, the daily newspaper for the Hawaiian Islands.

I didn't see these stories but word got around if you were in the biz.  A writer named Lee Quarnstrom, a former Merry Prankster with novelist Ken Kesey, had gone straight and become the dean of Santa Cruz journalists. He wrote a column about Santa Cruz for the Mercury News. Maybe RC's name appeared in an LQ column.

Those were lively days for writers and artists in Santa Cruz, today a distant memory faded into software vapor.

Fast forward through time: We resume our story in Santa Cruz in the new millennium circa 2018. A neighbor shows me a book he thinks I would like called "IZ: Voice of the People" by Rick Carroll. It's the story of Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, the gentle giant with the sweet voice most recognized for his mellifluous recording of the medley, "Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World."

I told my neighbor, "I know the author."

I devoured and thoroughly enjoyed the book.

Marcie and Rick, Ohau days

About that time we decided to find a place on Kauai so that we might be close to our daughter, Isabel Bryna who resides here with her two kids, our grandchildren.

In my post yesterday, I talked about Puamana, where we landed here on the island. And who do you think we found for neighbors?

That's right: Rick Carroll and his lovely wife Marcie Rasmussen Carroll, who, coincidentally, also wrote for the San Jose Mercury News way back when. That's more than 50 years ago!

The rest is current history. (I think that's an oxymoron.)

Today we will be celebrating Rick's 77th birthday together, with a few other Puamana refugees.

Happy birthday, Rick. What a long strange trip.

Puamana, City of Refuge

In old Hawaii there was a place where you could go if you broke the law and were able to elude your pursuers. It was a place of refuge called Pu’uhonua. 

Right now our pu’uhonua is a place called Puamana, ten acres of tropical grounds dotted with low-slung condo units of funky post-modern architecture. They are dwarfed by giant trees and lush vegetation, including gardens of grapefruit, papaya and plumeria trees that provide fruit, beauty and fragrance to our landscape.

Nearly every person we meet on the north shore has taken refuge here at some point. It’s a stone’s-throw from Princeville Center. And one of the area's first condominium projects, located on the bluff above Anini Beach.

It has a reputation for safety and longevity, having survived the destructive Hurricane Iniki of 1992 that swept away old Kauai.

As the story goes, Iniki released the chickens you see everywhere on the island. Many of these birds seem to have found refuge at Puamana. There are more chickens than humans. It looks that way, because the humans are better at hiding out.

“They keep the centipedes away,” says one reclusive neighbor.

We call her the “Chicken Lady.” She feeds the birds, rescues them when they are injured and seems to always have a few under her covers. Don’t ask.

Our neighbors consist of musicians, writers, entrepreneurs, smugglers, surfers, young families and old retirees. The other half of the place is occupied by tourists who come and go, from all parts of the world.

These visitors are treated to a taste of real life on the island. They have a choice: come stay at a pricy, insulated resort and meet other tourists, or find a cozy home-away-from-home on the island , surrounded by a palette of greens and yellows, fragrant flowers and meet some of the most interesting people in the world who’ve found their refuge.

And be ready to be awakened just before dawn by a crowing rooster, or two.

The Good, Bad and Empty

I'm torn between keeping frequent tabs on the news or turning it off until Christmas. Or at least until we have a new president, preferably a health-care expert.

On a scale of 1-10, my anxiety level is a 10.5. I am now taking my temperature with a Geiger counter.

My daughter says it's all a conspiracy of the pharmaceutical industry to shoot another vaccine into our veins.

I don't believe that but I have entertained the notion that, since we are house-bound, the virus was developed by Netflix.

If my dear mother were still alive, she would point out that we could have avoided the whole thing if we had listened to Nostradamus.

So many conspiracies. So few options. Just stay put. Keep a "social distance" from people. Wash your hands 500-times a day. Forget getting tested unless you're practically dead.

On the positive side:

There's very little traffic on the island. Parking is a snap, even without a handicap badge. People are not hugging and slobbering over each other.

Animals are immune, including our pets.

I'm feeling better already.

I think I'll go surfing.

Run, Viva, Run

Her hair flies like gossamer wings and her long limbs are in perpetual motion as she runs across the grass.

Watching her I sense pure, youthful joy. No thoughts other than propelling oneself over the carpeted earth.

She just keeps running, becoming smaller and smaller until she is nearly out of sight.

That's Viva, our 9-year-old granddaughter who lives on the island. She's an island girl in every way. Notices everything that moves or glitters. Catches the scent of every flower. Knows which spiders are poisonous, how to climb a tree and dive under a wave. She speaks fluent English and Spanish. She's a great big sister and a watchful daughter.

She's running. The simplest of exercises. With the wind. Through the misty rain. Into the sun. Over the spongy green grass.

Did she just run across the fairway of the nearby golf course? She did! Without a worry.

Her tutu (grandmother) and I are worried. There's a foursome waiting to hit their shots but have been halted by this strange sight of a barefoot girl on their fairway.

Luckily they wait while Viva returns, striding across their path like a frightened fawn.

She is not frightened, though. Her expression is joyful.

Lucky for us, the golf course and adjoining Japanese Gardens are arguably the most laidback location on the island. Kukuiolono, (Little Kuku to locals), is much more than a golf course with stunning views above the little town of Kalaheo. It's a popular site for weddings and dog walking.

The golfers wait patiently for Viva. They understand these grounds hold spirits of ancestors. When you pay $15 green fees, and there's wild chickens walking around, you realize that here golf is an after-thought. Even though the nine-hole course itself is credible. Locals love it.

We came with Viva for a picnic. She called us early that day to ask if she could spend the afternoon with us -- two seventy-somethings of another generation. We feel honored.

The clubhouse is at the top of the hill. The pro shop used to sell bags of chicken feed. Paco's Tacos restaurant and bar adjoins the clubhouse. I use the term "clubhouse" loosely.

We find Kuks Mini Golf on the premises where "fairways" and "greens" are natural grass. Viva gives it a try, her first experience with golf. I try to show her how to grip the club but she has her own style. However, she is surprised how much better she strikes the ball when using a conventional golfer's grip.

Before we leave to drive back across the small island, I look at the starter's sheet to see where the golfers are from:

About half are from Hawaii. Other places include Whitefish, Montana; Vancouver, BC; Toronto, Idaho, Oregon...

This place is on the map.

Enjoy the views of the south and west shores of the island. And watch out for a small girl running like a deer.

The Eagle Flies on Yoga Mat

Beach at Hanalei scattered with driftwood from local rivers 

The eagle flies on Friday. Saturday we go out to play. Sunday we take our rest, and we kneel down to pray.

I paraphrase the great blues lyric, but the story remains the same.

It’s Friday on the island, and before the great bird soars, at about 5 o’clock when I pour myself a very dry martini, I trundle to the Princeville Community Center just after dawn, to lie down and splay.

That would be my legs, separating and stretching east and west, to fulfill a yoga posture that, although good for me, does not feel so gay.

I am the sole man among many women lying on rolled-out mats on the hard wood floor beginning our day with a ritual that started long before Hawai’i was governed by haoles. Yoga, I've been told, was started thousands of years ago in India as an "ancient healing" practice.

I was hoping to go surfing Friday morning, but the weather has been ruthless with gusty Trade Winds (up to 60 mph) and sudden cloud bursts that can bury one in water. The rain causes the many rivers and streams to empty brown effluvia into the sea.

Wind and rain are not great surfing conditions.

So yoga.

"Whappp!"

I hear a heavy yoga mat hit floor. It must be Curly, the other guy who does yoga.

While I'm curled up on the floor, Curly is setting up his mat and props for a yoga session. Preparing to lay his 250lbs on the floor.

Curly is recognized in these parts -- north shore Kauai all the way to Honolulu -- as reigning King. He's been on the island for more than 70 years and earned street cred as athlete (All America football), paniolo (Hawaiian cowboy) and scholar (he can answer any question about local flora and fauna).

We hook up after yoga.

"How's things in Santa Cruz?" he asks.

"I saw my board on TV this morning," he says, "at the Bishop Museum."

Cloudy skies in Hanalei 3/7/2020

The Bishop in Honolulu is the archival emporium for everything Hawaiian, from the monarchy to surfing to the hula. The local NBC affiliate broadcast the news today from the Bishop Museum, giving islanders a glimpse of what's inside the palatial building decked out with gorgeous dark wood-paneling.

Guy Hagi, the TV station's weather man, is arguably the most well-known personality throughout the islands. He's also a bonafide wave rider. This morning he's demonstrating a few of the wave-riding simulators at the Bishop.

"Whoa!" he cries. "Come down to the Bishop, get your stoke checking the surf stuff, then go catch some waves."

Guy's definitely got the stoke.

The scene also stoked Curly.

"My board was the old redwood plank. The one that said DUKE." The name, of course refers to the father of surfing and onetime Ambassador of Aloha, Duke Kahanamoku.

Yes, I believe him. I also believe that yoga keeps Curly vital. His wife died a couple of years ago. Her obituary mentioned that she was part of the Wilcox family that can be traced back to the original white settlers on the islands.

Curly rarely misses a yoga session, three times a week.

He tells me that the famous surfboard locker in Waikiki was recently set on fire and about 50 boards were destroyed.

Bummer, we agree.

Every day I feel a little more at home here.

The first case of Covid-19 on the islands was reported today, a local man who had been on a cruise ship in Mexico. Life goes on.

"See you at tai chi tomorrow," says Curly.

That would be Saturday. The day we go out to play, wave hands like flying sparrows, on the shore of Hanalei Bay.

Middle of Pacific in Midst of Pandemic

Hanalei Bay, 8:30am, March 4, 2020

"Welcome home."

The words of my pal Rick here on the north shore of Kauai when I walked through the gate to our private swimming hole yesterday.

I had to check my thoughts. Home, yes, my second home. Could it be my first?

The question invariably arises when I'm on the island. Could I stay here indefinitely?

With the Covid-19 delirium run amok, the answer could be moot.

Covid-19 sounds much scarier than Coronavirus, which could be mistaken for the after-effects of too many Corona brewskis.

"No cases yet on the islands," said the governor of Hawaii on this morning's TV news, speaking not of cases of Corona beer. Then he added, but it is inevitable, given where we are. 

That would be midway between Asia and North America. Yikes! Pray for fly-overs. No island touch downs, please. But, of course, "live aloha" while you fly by. 

A cruise ship made a recent stop at Nawiliwi Harbor here on Kauai. Visitors browsed shops for souvenirs before departing. Stay tuned.

Checking "Hideaways" below

My gravest thought is being quarantined with the virus. Not the beer. Sounds claustrophobic, especially stuck in a hospital. A friend here pointed out that she would much rather be in a small hospital on the island than in a major city amidst millions of people.

It's always a game of numbers, isn't it?

Rick says the staff at Wilcox Medical center on Kauai, where he spent the day recently, is full of aloha. 

"They were relaxed and laughing."

He had experienced a false-alarm spate of coughing. 

Good news! They told him.

"You're as healthy as a wild pig."

We arrived Monday on Alaska Airlines. The plane was about two-thirds full, one person was wearing a mask. Everyone tried to stay as far away from that guy as possible. He looked like one of those adventurers from Antartica, covered head-to-toe in heavy garb a la the Abominable Snowman.

Luckily there were vacant seats throughout the cabin. The mask keeps one from spreading the virus, not getting it.

Once on the ground we received our grandparent orders for the following day, which we gladly accepted, to watch Viva, 8, and Mystiko, 1, while Mama took care of business. 

By the end of the first day -- a long one that started some 16-hours earlier -- which included a supply stop at CostCo, we crashed at our little condo in Princeville.