Family Zoom 3.0

Art by Summer Davis

Governor David Ige has directed the state of Hawaii to extend sheltering through May, but allow immediate reopening of a few facilities including golf courses.

Mayor of Kauai Derek Kawakami said he will fall in line despite no new cases of Covid-19 on the Garden Isle.

Traffic on Kuhio Hwy, the main road on Kauai, increased slightly this week.

The aloha spirit appears strong. People wave to others while walking. The pace remains relaxed. The Trade Winds have picked up, peaking today with gusts of more than 20 mph.

We Zoomed with our family for the third time on Sunday. It's Thursday and we're still moving in the afterglow of seeing and talking with our three daughters and their families.

All three daughters are working; a business person, a teacher and an artist.

Molly said she participated in seven Zoom meetings in one day. Her work load and responsibilities have increased while sheltering at home. Husband Jason scrambles among many pursuits including shopping, cooking, maintaining a home-grown business and surfing at Ocean Beach in San Francisco, the "only surf break open."

Vanessa teaches fifth graders from home, continually learning, herself, new ways to keep students engaged during a difficult, home-bound period. Husband Mike continues to administer responsibility with the LA School District, and pursue woodworking in his garage workshop.

We were impressed by a gorgeous wooden stool he fashioned from the trunk of an Oak tree.

"I want this in my house," said Vanessa, emphasizing the utility and beauty of this piece of handcrafted furniture that features an artful "bowtie" embellishment.

Art by Isabel Bryna

Isabel Bryna has her hands busy producing and selling astonishing art work, adapting to a new domicile in Anahola, keeping an eye on her little island-boy, Mystiko, who turns two in June, raising her nine-year-old daughter, Viva, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle.

We saw a quick flash of Viva who is always on the go. Mystiko seems to be growing as fast as a sprouting papaya tree.

Grandson Finn, 8, took to the family dance floor displaying acrobatic moves, hand motions and foot work that defy description, executed with poise and precision. His dancing evoked loud hoots and big smiles from his Zoom family audience.

Older brother Samson, 11, told us that he was tired of sheltering. He pulls no punches. It's getting old.

Granddaughter Piper,15, explained, "I miss seeing the kids at school. Even though they're not all close friends."

Summer, 18, wondered about her educational future. She has been looking forward to going away to college in the fall. A tentative date in August has been set for her graduation ceremony from Novato High School.

We plan to meet again next week. The beauty and honesty of children is so refreshing.

101 Reasons Not to Surf

When surf is not perfect, some stand on their heads

I hear that the beaches and surf breaks in California have been mobbed. The throngs are not locals who live and surf there, but people who have been cooped up and are now looking for exercise and fresh air. So, they figure, let's go to the beach!

On the news and social media, scenes of beach parties and boards bumping and flying in the water send shivers up and down my spine. Not to be indelicate, but these pictures appear to be cesspools for infection.

For most dedicated wave riders, this is one more reason not to go surfing: Too many kooks.

Pine Trees at Hanalei today

Enough of crowds and kooks. There are hundreds of reasons not to surf. Ask any surfer.

This morning I ran into Maureen, a dedicated surfer,  down at Pavilions, a surf break at Hanalei Bay.

"It's not as good as it was yesterday," she begins our conversation.

I nod. I jot down in my mind another reason not to surf today: It's not as good as yesterday.

We chat and survey the choppy water and close-out sets that confirm her assessment. Another wahine surfer who was out yesterday arrives and adds more testimony. She will not be surfing today.

There are a few others checking out the waves, who one-by-one eventually determine their reasons for not surfing today, and walk away.

Maureen, who runs on more energy than the Ever-Ready Bunny, decides she'll attend an outdoor exercise class at Anini.

I think of being back in Santa Cruz, doing a surf check with Tony, my surfer-neighbor.

After a period of insightful conversation, I say, "My shoulder has been bothering me."

He answers; "My foot is not completely healed."

There it is: another reason not to surf: I am nursing an injury.

Having decided that we're not going into the water, Tony and I will jokingly list to each other reasons not to surf today:

I have an appointment.

It's too windy.

The direction of the swell is wrong.

I should walk my dog.

I'm hungry.

I promised Barbara I would vacuum the rug.

There's a swell arriving tomorrow.

I need to repair a ding on my board.

Looks like a red ride.

I need more wax.

My good board is in the shop.

The excuses begin to pile into a mountain of woe, all carefully defined and thought through as a scientist might describe the results of a critical experiment.

The results do not prove the hypothesis: There are waves. You have a wetsuit and a board. Go surf.

There are those who would not miss a surf session for their life. We know who they are. We watch them with wonder and admiration. Through storms, injuries and crowds, if they can walk they can surf.

They are not the same as arrivals who don't know any better and will only add carnage and spread disease.

Very few are in the water today at Pavilions. Taking a cue from one gal who's playing in the shore surf, I dive into a wave. Frolic for a while. Shower off before before leaving.

Blowin' in the Wind

The inside story of the Hawaiian with the voice of an angel

The Trades are blowing this morning rustling leaves and bending palm fronds toward the southwest. The wind creates a bumpy surface over reef shallows at Anini. The air is alive with a rush of the island's natural music. The beat is uptempo.

The sounds and sway of the islands with their chirping creatures, tumbling waterfalls and buoyant aromatic flowers are inherently related to local culture, especially its music and dance. The ebb and flow.

During these crazy times, we want to feel safe and protected amidst this natural abundance but messages from the outside tell us otherwise: a reminder that we dwell on a small planet in a great universe and we're all connected. Music is a positive, universal connector.

Last night the local PBS station featured Cyril Pahinui and Peter Moon, Jr., sons of Hawaiian music icons, performing with guitar and ukulele the mele of their ancestors. The Hawaiian sovereignty movement began in the late Sixties and Cyril's father, Gabby, was its voice.

Anyone who has listened to Israel Kamakawiwo 'ole's heart-stopping rendition of "Over the Rainbow" solo with his ukulele, has doubtless felt the musical connection. In that recording, before Iz sings his first note, he says, "This one's for Gabby."

Iz was of the new generation. He interpreted popular music yet always honored the music of his people first. He was the new voice.

Iz, Gabby and his son Cyril, are no longer with us but their music lives on. You can hear it blowin' in the wind, played at festivals and funerals, on the radio, bursting from Pandora and Spotify.

Groucho Marx, the legendary comedian and put-down artist, once proclaimed that "all Hawaiian music was written in one day."

The first time I heard that I was miffed. I had been studying Hawaiian music under Kalae "Bobo" Miles in Santa Cruz. I was learning about a new language and culture, trying my best to understand. I had no clue.

Groucho's quote seemed to be just another put-down.

Today I don't think so. At least I interpret his statement differently.

Traditional Hawaiian music, always sung in the native language, may seem incredibly simple, yet the artists are forever interpreting it to the occasion. It was written yesterday and it is being written today. The same mele will be written tomorrow.

Changing modulation within a single song -- playing one verse in one key and repeating that same verse in another -- testifies to this. The next time the song may be played at a different tempo. Or sung in falsetto.

I remember students ask Kalae, "What chord is that?"

In so many words he told us that that chord doesn't have a name. It's a "passing" or "color" chord. Those chords are handed down by elders and learned by listening and paying attention. New generations learn from their kupuna at kanakapilas -- beach and backyard jams where the whole family (ohana) join in to play.

Originally, the Polynesians chanted. Europeans introduced verse, as well as the guitar and ukulele.

Traditional Hawaiian music is as organic as the passing wind and as universal as the stars in the sky.

Tropical Rain, Topical Mayor

Waves at Hideaways

The patter of raindrops on the roof aroused my attention this morning. I had awakened earlier with the omnipresent wild chickens who begin their serenade before dawn.

The scents of tropical precipitation crept through the open screen door into our bedroom. A dull grey curtain of moisture obscured the view of the verdant mountain tops, my daily first signal for weather.

Rare are the days when the pointed mountains stand clear of clouds, when they form a two-dimensional backdrop of dark and light whose edges are so exact you might separate the mountains from the sky with the blade of a knife.

Yin-yang. Land-sky. One defines the other.

This morning, however, the mist is dense. It hides the pyramid shapes of burst ancient volcanoes. Yet conditions change rapidly.

Guy Hagi, the TV weather guru who wears a coat and tie, every day, regardless of the dynamic Pacific Ocean fronts, announces that today we will experience, once again, "the best weather on the planet."

He calls this morning's rain a "pocket shower." The satellite picture shows small, amoeba-like yellow blobs floating over the island chain as if they were disappearing fish swimming in the sky. Here and gone.

Weather wise, living on an island is a game of hide and seek.

A story in today's The Garden Island -- Kauai's very own town crier -- informs readers that Mayor Derek Kawakami is making national news. He is featured in an Associated Press story that no doubt will reach most English language news sources.

The elected leader of our tiny island has been at the forefront among the Hawaiian chain for initiating quarantine and curfew standards. In addition to his civic duties, the mayor is the subject of a series of homemade videos entitled "Stay Home Kauai" popular, locally, on social media.

The five-minute videos, shot by the mayor's wife, Monica Kawakami, are designed for "breaking up the boredom."

The videos show him baking in the kitchen, attempting to make a mask, performing dining-room table tricks, exercising and dancing. He's very lively and entertaining. A whole lot of aloha.

The original idea came from Monica, a school teacher, who was exploring ways to keep school children engaged. The mayor's sometimes zany antics on video has caught on with islanders, with a message of "be yourself," we're all in this together.

Despite his and many others' efforts to raise spirits and maintain self-governance of practicing social distance and wearing masks in public, an incident recently in Hanalei is worrisome.

A friend reported that he was standing in line at a take-out restaurant next to a couple of young women in swimwear. They were not wearing masks. They were talking about their recent arrival on the island.

"Aren't you supposed to be in quarantine?" they were asked.

"We're not into that," they said.

If they should turn out to be carriers of Covid-19, the island community will likely be, of necessity, "into that" for an extended time. It begs the question: Are some so self-centered to think that their personal wishes are more important than the rest of us.

On a small island that has for the most part acted responsibly, it feels like a slap in the face.

I would hate to see the mayor's diligent efforts and good humor be thwarted by a couple of airheads who aren't into it.

See link below for Kauai Mayor story.

https://www.thegardenisland.com/2020/04/27/hawaii-news/mayor-a-national-celebrity/

Horn of Plenty

Papaya tree

Last night we ate take-out food from a restaurant for the second time since sheltering began.

Two runs to CostCo have provided us with most of our food. It's been almost three weeks since we trod the aisles at the Big Box in Lihue, about an hour away on the other side of the island. We're running low and will need to make another journey soon.

We also fill up the gas tank of our rental car at CostCo.

We purchase staples including coffee, milk, eggs, yogurt, cheese, bread, bagels, butter, peanut butter, frozen items such as vegetables, shrimp, berries and ice cream. I have become addicted to their chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream bars, inspired, I'm sure, by the Haagen Dazs ice cream on a stick.

I enjoy the Kirkland-brand bar in the evening for dessert. Barbara is not so enamored of these but asks to bite off the tips of mine. It's a small sacrifice for me, since there are 18 bars to a package and that's more than two weeks of sucking delicious chocolate off of cold vanilla ice cream. The nuts on the chocolate are very tasty as well.

We also purchase olive oil, balsamic vinegar, corn or multi-grain chips, popcorn, Anahola granola, and multi-grain crackers. We are shocked by how much olive oil we consume, both in salads and for sautéing vegetables. Our bodies seem to run on olive oil.

Here we also procure packages of noodles and pastas, as well as cans of chicken broth and diced tomatoes for soups and sauces.

We have brought home two large bags of onions, as well as bunches of bananas, but most of our produce is found at small farms and local markets. Small farms have drive-up stations where we can buy vegetables or fruits by the bag. It's always a surprise to see what you get. Some greens we have not seen before. We aren't sure what to do with them.

I'm not big on fruit but have discovered a taste for fresh papaya with a drizzle of lime juice. Papaya trees are everywhere, but you just can't walk up and start picking away. Besides, you need a ladder. We do pick limes from neighborhood trees that are hidden among the many strange and wonderful flowering trees.

Some of the hanging fruits and flowers are poisonous, as we have been warned by our island-girl granddaughter, Viva, whom we have not seen enough of due to the Virus.

We also receive fresh produce from our neighbors Marcie and Rick Carroll and our friend Maureen:  island-style bartering. We have discovered Moringa leaves that add flavor and slight spiciness to green salads. These grow on nearby plants.

On our last visit to CostCo we purchased a package of ground turkey that Barbara portioned out for a turkey-ball dish with pieces of pineapple and vegetables over rice. We also bought a rotisserie chicken that was quite good, with leftovers used for tacos and stir fry.

Our pantry is further stocked with cans of tuna from CostCo that goes into sandwiches for lunch when we're not enjoying leftover soups, pasta dishes or fixings for tacos.

Toilet paper was not in stock during both visits to the emporium.  Nor was bleach, sanitizing wipes or hand sanitizers. Our condo has a goodly supply, so far. We are both fairly frugal and careful not to waste. We have been called "minimalists" by friends. We find that hard to accept. Maybe that's a minimalist's trait.

Still, we frequently run to the local market for incidentals, like beer and wine and non-food essentials. The nearby hardware store receives a steady flow of our business.

Barbara often creates a masterful dish from thin air, or a sparse selection of items hidden in small sealed containers in the refrigerator that only she knows about. This is good and leads to pleasant, and oftentimes delicious, surprises.

So last night she took a well-deserved break. I ordered Fish and Chips for both of us at PV Eats, a close-by specialty market that includes deli foods and a kitchen. It is housed in a grand building that was originally the pro shop for the renowned Prince Golf Course.

I am by no means a gourmand or foodie, but I have given decent effort to the study of Fish and Chips and where the best ones are served along the California coast. I am not a fan of Fish and Chips in Hawaii because Mahi Mahi, the preferred seafood for the Hawaiian variety, is not a substitute for flaky, succulent, traditional Cod, fried in a thin, crisp batter, sometimes flavored with beer.

I am pleased to declare that the Fish and Chips from PV Eats are far and away the best I've tasted throughout the islands. The Mahi Mahi was cooked to perfection, tender and moist. The batter was as thin as paper yet held enough crispness and flavor to complement the fresh fish: a winner!

We each savored every bite, lingering over our meal as if we were seated at the finest bistro on the island. The fried potatoes were thin, shoestring style. We squeezed fresh lemon over the fish, occasionally dipping pieces into a red cocktail sauce spiced with peppery horseradish.

CostCo was the furthest thing from our minds.

When the Earth Stood Still

Wyllie's Beach, 4/24/20

I sit in dim morning light listening to the chickens and a full orchestra of birdsong compete for dawn's attention. Their music, coupled with the greenery beyond every window, stuns me. I don't want to move, rather simply allow another day to escort me somewhere, or just remain immobile, absorb the pleasant minutes between night and day, as if things could stay this way forever.

You can't fool Mother Nature. She will not stop for me. The rotation continues, in cycles.

The roar of surf rushing over the Anini reef has quieted since yesterday when it rose above background hum and we had to take notice. We were reminded that we are surrounded by water.

As the local community radio station's signature slogan says, "This is KKCR broadcasting from the middle of the Pacific Ocean." This morning's playlist includes two hours of classical music, a Saturday favorite.

Yesterday the Trade Winds cooled the afternoon, ordinarily a period when you wouldn't want to be anywhere but under shade, preferably provided by a leafy tree near the ocean.

We decide to hike down the steep trail to the cove at Wyllie's Beach. Since the heavy rains of about three weeks ago, we haven't seen any serious precipitation. It's amazing how fast the red dirt dries up, the lavatic ground is so porous. Even the grass has begun to yellow.

The gusty Trades make everything drier, especially the steep path that begins nearly 200-feet above sea level. We don't attempt this path after heavy rain when the trail becomes a true slippery slope.

The tangled foliage along the path has been cut back by work crews during our "down" period. It's an opportunity to clear the bushy ground-cover where you're likely to find anything from errant golf balls to abandoned, broken bicycles.

Wearing five-dollar "reef walkers" purchased at the ABC Store years ago, we tread lightly with small steps down the dry path that is fully engulfed in shade from a jungle of plants and trees. It is never a walk, more an adventure challenge.

We hear a fast-running creek that parallels the path, hidden by thick foliage. We see only glimpses of it. Don't go too near the edge, or crane your neck to look for it. Balance is critical.

View from above Anini Cove, Saturday 4/24/20

The trail flattens out toward the bottom. Normally it's wet and muddy here, easy to slip. The standing water also attracts tiny, low-flying mosquitoes. We don't see or hear the skeeters. Their presence is confirmed when our ankles begin to itch.

Today's breeze has blown out the annoying skeets.

You want quick passage yet every step is precarious. Dangling tree limbs serve as grab handles.

One more curve and the path opens to the beach, today strewn with driftwood and pieces of coral, even tree stumps that have washed down during earlier run-offs. There must be hundreds of similar spill-outs around the small island.

We find a shady spot on the beach and watch distant waves rise on the horizon like sea monsters throwing tons of water toward shore. The reef keeps those breakers at bay.

Soon we are lying on our backs on the soft carpet of sand. Listening to the steady roar, I drift into sleep inhaling the waft of sea mixture, lose track of time and place and ten-thousand other things.

I wake up and wonder how long I was gone. Barbara lies quietly next to me.

I look forward to the challenge of climbing up the steep trail. Balance is not a problem. But it will take my breath away.

To Mask or Not To Mask

Barbara returns with supplies

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts."  -- William Shakespeare, born in April 1564


William Shakespeare was born and died in April, the cruelest month, according to poet T.S. Eliot.

Happy birthday, Will!

Will's birthday not withstanding, April 2020 has thus far been rather cruel for the world, given the infamous Covid-19 pandemic.

In one sense we have moved closer to removing the masks we don for our daily stage lives. Our stage is empty. Our roles have changed or in some cases have been eliminated altogether.

On the other hand -- or side of the face -- we have been asked to wear masks. These masks are designed to protect us, not so much the "I" but the "we": our community.

The irony, I think, is that our internal selves have become more visible when we wear our pandemic masks.

Go to the market and you see fear in the eyes of some, but not all. We are wearing masks for each other. We stand at 6-foot distance for the safety of all. Store clerks are more accommodating, handling products and punching numbers so that we don't need to touch them.  A helpful vibe pervades.

Our typical conversations with the island community, however, are not the same. We miss learning about islanders from talking story at the beach, at yoga classes in the community center, chats at the library, people-watching at happy hours, coffee houses and bakeries. We miss getting together with our friends and neighbors.

Most of all we miss seeing and touching our daughter and grandchildren, the most difficult sacrifice.

Two tradesmen have visited our condo for necessary repairs. Both wore masks and asked that we wear masks while they were inside working.

They each came with a spirit of aloha, no doubt happy to be working. They offered us more than their professional services, attending to their roles with modest and cordial expertise.

One came to replace old window blinds with new updated screens. He said that he was stopped at a checkpoint on his way here. Only essential business travelers are allowed on the roads.

"I told them I would turnaround if necessary," he said.

They waved him through, island style.

Speaking through the most sophisticated mask we have seen, he mentioned that he had grown up on Kauai, attended Kamehameha Schools. We learned that he has royal lineage, that he and his wife have traveled extensively through Southeast Asia, where they learned to wear masks.

"We got sick on every visit until we wore masks," he said. "Then we didn't become sick."

He went about his work quietly and diligently. We are very pleased with our new blinds.

Barbara had coordinated the installation with his wife over the phone. Theirs is a small family business.

Listening to their conversation on speaker phone, I wanted very badly to see the person with perhaps the most pleasant voice I have ever heard on the other end of the conversation.

When she completed the phone transaction, Barbara remarked:

"She is so sweet."

"We are such stuff that dreams are made on, And our little lives are rounded on a sleep." -- William Shakespeare -- The Tempest

It is believed that William Shakespeare wrote his best works during the Plague of 1593 when theaters were closed.

Blood on the Toe

Wahines Barbara (left) and Maureen execute perfect social distancing while checking the surf at Hanalei Bay

The island of Kauai is on track to re-open on May 3, according to county officials. This would be two incubation periods following the last known reported case. That is, if there is not a new "community spread" case reported before that date.

All new arrivals are quarantined for 14 days.

Very few arrivals have been reported on the island for more than a couple of weeks. Two visitors stepped onto the Garden Isle on Tuesday. One was was a crew member of an airline.

Islanders must wear a mask in order to enter any retail establishment, including grocery markets, hardware stores, liquor outlets and restaurants that offer take-out food.

We drove to Kapa'a yesterday to procure a few basic essentials including bandaids. I dropped a drawer on my foot a couple days ago. "Ouch!" No one wears shoes inside their home. The wooden drawer took a layer of skin off of my right big toe.

I immediately applied a dab of ant-bacterial ointment, understanding the danger of infection.

I've been wearing a bandaid on that toe since then to staunch the bleeding. The day before yesterday I entered the bay to cool off following a walk on the beach with Barbara, forgetting about the bandaid on my toe.

After the brief refresher in comfortable but stirred-up water, due to a major swell that continues to bring large, pounding waves, I stopped for a cold shower at Pavilions to wash sand off of my feet. The bandaid on my toe was hanging by a thread.

I removed the bandaid and allowed the clean cold water to wash my feet. My toe looked fine so I left the scene with fresh confidence and nary another thought about said toe.

Drifting clouds and drift wood at Hanalei on Wednesday

During our short travel to the bay we noted more vehicles on the road. People obviously want to get out, are looking for a break from sheltering in place. The bay, too, was filled with more people, even with the choppy, stormy surf, many not the most accomplished of surfers.

One wave tossed two would-be riders into each other, their foam boards flying.

"That's not good social distancing," I remarked.

About 50 yards away, lifeguards had staked a "no swimming" sign, as well as another sign warning of  "dangerous rip currents. You could be swept out to sea."

So it goes.

Comfortably settled back at our condo, I happened to look down at my foot. My toe was smothered in red blood that was dripping down both sides in the same way maple syrup covers a short stack of pancakes, yet somehow hadn't reached our bamboo floor.

I limped outside, hosed it off, walked back inside to open a can of beer. I also needed a new bandaid.

Earth Day Revisited

Fifty years ago today I was living in San Jose with my young wife, Linda, and our seven-month-old daughter, Molly. We had recently relocated from Southern California. I had seemingly beat the Draft as the war in Vietnam raged on. However, the tumult of the Sixties -- political assassinations and unruly protests in the streets -- had settled down for us.

We had sold Linda's 8-cylinder, gas-guzzling Mustang and purchased the only new car I have ever owned: a forest-green, 4-cylinder Volkswagen Bug. I slapped an "Ecology Now" decal on the back window, a political statement I felt proud to flaunt of our environmental awareness.

We were young and idealistic, naive, newly arrived adults, creatures of our culture.

What was "ecology," anyway? The obscure biological term had suddenly sprouted into the lexicon of the new decade.

With the announcement of the first Earth Day exactly a half-century ago, words like ecology and phrases like "Save the Planet" and "Save the Whales" hit the mainstream with minor support and ridicule. Many rolled their eyes and mocked these phrases.

Wasn't every day Earth Day? Wasn't that a ridiculous redundancy? Save a whale? Are you kidding me?

I remember turning my eyes toward the rolling foothills east of San Jose only to see a brown haze in the sky. The hills were barely visible through the polluted air that had blown south from Oakland and San Francisco along the bay and settled in sprawling Santa Clara Valley like an ugly, long-tentacled monster.

Look around that valley today and the air quality is much improved. Getting off leaded gas has made a huge difference. When we visit relatives in Southern California, I am amazed by the clarity of the air. Clear across the L.A. basin, I can see majestic Mount Baldy and the San Gabriel Range from Manhattan Beach.

The metaphor of a lot of water passing under the bridge seems appropriate for all that has transpired over the past 50 years. I look around. Those of us who remain can rightly call ourselves survivors.

We have tamed smog. We are recycling materials. We are repurposing bags and using less plastic. We are driving electric cars. Restaurants serve sustainable foods. Small organic farms have proliferated. Community farmers' markets attract shoppers.

Fifty years later let's take this Earth Day moment while we shelter in-place to consider what we would like to see tomorrow and what we can do to get there. It's our opportunity, for our children and  their children. What about a Green New Deal?

Happy Earth Day to the entire world!

Is he kidding? No, I'm not.

Enjoying the Scenery, Counting the Numbers

This morning's sunrise over Kauai

Today marks 50 days on the island.

Little did we understand the implications of a budding world-wide pandemic when we arrived. We soon found out.

"Kauai is now on vacation," pronounced the Mayor of Kauai several weeks ago when he initiated a night curfew. He subsequently closed resorts, beaches and placed any new arrivals on the island on 14-day quarantine. Nearly all businesses have shuttered.

Last Sunday there was not a single new arrival to the island.

Four cases of Covid-19 were reported here last week. That number remained the same as of yesterday. One Covid-related death has been counted.

We have been hunkered down under war-time restrictions in our little condo from which we have a glimpse of the Anini Reef some 200-feet below. North-easterly Tradewinds blow off the water, up the pali, to keep us cool, nature's own thermostatic air-conditioner.

We are surrounded by plumeria trees now flowering with springtime petals in shades of purple, white and pink. Two Puakenikeni trees with sweet fragrances oozing from yellow-orange flowers decorate our front yard. Plumeria and Puakenikeni flowers are the most popular for making beautiful Hawaiian leis.

Hedges with white, red and yellow hibiscus serve as landscape borders. Tall trees with bright green leaves and reddish-orange Poinciana and Lehua flowers brighten tropical forests that grow in culverts shaped by streams that tumble into the sea from the mauka-side green-blue carpeted mountains.

Sunrises are especially colorful. I rush outside early to capture their splendorous effects that shift as quickly and subtly as a shark moves through water. The photos, each of which is slightly different, never do justice to the real picture.

The photo I captured of the shark attacking the dolphin (see Mother Nature's Way) went viral on Facebook. That rare snapshot of natural predation has been "shared" by more than two-times the number of friends I have on FB.

Shark attacks dolphin in Hanalei Bay

I told Barbara, a FB skeptic: "My photo has been shared by 75 people!" That was Sunday afternoon.

She scoffed. As if to say, "So what?"

"I think it will reach 100 shares," I said. "Do you realize that means that each of those shares will reach all of the "friends" of those who shared it!"

By Monday morning the photo had been shared by 250 people.

"Look! It's going to reach 300 easy."

I felt as though I were playing a slot machine whose numbers were lining up with "sevens."

My skeptical wife began to take notice.

As of this morning that photo has been shared by nearly 450 people! I only have 200 friends.

I am just a simple man sitting on a tropical island enjoying the scenery, with nothing else to do.

When the Rooster Doesn't Crow at Dawn

The silence at night has become a black hole since our neighborly rooster has taken up residence elsewhere.

Wake up in the wee hours and it sounds as if the planet has stopped spinning; adrift in a netherworld between light and shadow, between sound and stillness, between thought and dream, where the subconscious is turned upside down and when you step out of your bed your feet land on a floating surface devoid of purchase.

At least that's the feeling.

The whole shebang -- from the quarantine wars to the topsy-turvy leadership at the helm -- would make the late, great Rod Serling raise a dark eyebrow and turn the corner of his mouth into a smug, sardonic smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, enter, if you will, The Year 2020.

The rooster who found a home in the fragrant Puakenikeni tree below our window has moved on, flown the coop. The 2:30 am cocka-doodle-do is no longer a lone cry in the night.

"Maybe chickens are nomadic," I offer.

"Maybe the Chicken Lady took care of him," Barbara replies.

One of the frequently discussed theories around here is that she relocates the roosters to control the prolific chicken population.

"Where does she take them?" I ask.

"I heard that she takes the roosters to the old Club Med ruins above the bay."

Concrete wall remains of Club Med Resort

Those ruins, concrete bulwarks tangled in vines, are found along a little-traveled path to a small beach mostly swallowed up by ironwood trees and their woody branches. It is also near the site of the once famed, now disappeared Hanalei Plantation resort.

If one believes in spirits of the past, perhaps ancestors who rued the oncoming of tourists during the Fifties and Sixties, this would seem a likely place for ghosts.

The path is one of our walking trails where we're more likely to see a lone surfer carrying a board or a local fisherman looking for quiet spot from which to throw his net.

"I haven't seen many chickens there,"I say.

"That is strange," she agrees.

"Maybe someone is smuggling roosters into the hills for cockfighting?"

We both look at each other without words, blank eyed, not wanting to go there.

This morning while sipping my first cup of coffee I see the familiar black-brown-and-white rooster strutting like he owns the place near our front door and the Puakenikeni tree.

I couldn't have been dreaming.

Mother Nature's Way

A shark strikes a dolphin in Hanalei Bay

The quiet beauty of a leisurely Friday on the shore of Hanalei Bay was suddenly and unexpectedly disrupted yesterday by a reminder from Mother Nature.

She refuses to comply with our thoughtful human considerations of social distancing, quarantine and all the rest of the protocol of living during a world-wide pandemic.

Although you can bet she's paying attention. Her children of the sea no doubt have noticed a quieter ocean. I'm sure they sense a difference, not having their kingdom ruffled by screams and shouts of frolicking humans near shore.

They likely appreciate the paucity of sea-going cruise vessels that appear to us like big buildings on water. In the vastness of the mighty Pacific, these ships must seem rather minuscule compared to what's going on in deep waters. Yet their approach to harbors must wreak havoc.

Now that the good vibrations we create for ourselves have receded, the ocean inhabitants must feel somewhat liberated, as though their neighborhood has expanded, or maybe returned.

Itching to break out from our overly familiar four same walls, we decided to walk the long strand of beach at Hanalei Bay. Walking is allowed. Spreading out a space on the sand or underneath the shade of an ironwood tree is not. Walkers may also take dips into the pristine water, now as clear as it was during my first visit in 1968.

The beach runs about one mile in length. A westerly breeze kept us from over-heating in the near 80-degree air. Still, a dunk in the bay was a mandatory refresher before heading home.

"What's that floating in the water?" asked Barbara.

"I thought it was an over-turned foam board, but it looks like a dolphin."

"You sure it's not a shark? Look at that fin. It's alone. Dolphins swim in pods."

There was no one nearby to ask for confirmation. We were alone with the floating creature with a dorsal fin pointed skyward.

We exited the water and stepped on the beach as a young couple walked by and entered the water.

Do they see the dolphin? I wondered. Should I point it out to them?

Soon it was obvious that they did not at first notice the sea creature. When the guy did spot it, he began to move toward it. Some people want to get as close to sea animals as possible. I've seen this in Santa Cruz when whales appear in Monterey Bay.

It's a wonder that more people don't drown. Most who do are visitors unfamiliar with the ocean.

Sensing the guy's approach, the dolphin swam slowly away from him in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, breaking the calm hula of gently swaying water, the dolphin was thrown above the surface amidst a shower of splashing red-tinged sea water. A cold-blooded shark had taken the warm-blooded mammal.

In less than 20-seconds the skirmish was over and a pool of blood spread as though gallons of red paint had been spilled into the blue water. It was as if we were watching a National Geographic special live and in person!

The couple scurried to the beach. Barbara watched. I grabbed my iPhone to get a photo.

It became obvious that the shark had one target in mind. It did have a choice. A lone swimmer had passed through just before the attack.

When a lifeguard arrived in a dune-buggy, he said it was likely the same dolphin that had been spotted earlier outside the bay.

"It already had a few chunks taken out of it." He guessed the predator to be a bottom-swimming Hammerhead Shark.

Following the attack, I watched the wounded dolphin swim slowly toward deeper water. The satisfied shark split the scene without a ripple.

It Takes Mana to Make 95

Bettelu turns 95

O Kalapana kai leo nui
Ua Lono ka uka o Holei
He ua la Kalapana e
Kuli wale, kuli wale y ka leo
He leo no ke kai e

It is Kalapana the great-voiced sea
the uplands of Holei listened
Roaring is Kalapana
Deafened, deafened indeed by the voice
it is the voice of the sea
                                 -- O Holei, translated by Pueo Pata, originally recorded by Hui Ohana


I heard this traditional Hawaiian song on the radio this morning driving home from Hanalei Bay amid the island's splendor. They say that every Hawaiian mele has a secret meaning.

I get chicken skin whenever I hear this rarely played mele sung in Hawaiian. The pace is slow. It reminds me of a religious hymn I may have sung in church when I was young. It imparts spirituality. The Hawaiians call it mana, an energy of spiritual power.

Coincidentally, today is my mother-in-law Bettelu's 95th birthday. One must possess a strong spirit, great mana, to complete 95 years on the planet. She's got it.

She is my favorite mother-in-law, and I remind her that I am her favorite son-in-law. Neither of us has another one.

We've had some great times together, playing ukulele, singing, laughing and drinking martinis. I'm usually the butt of our jokes. She can hardly say my name without laughing.

I should add that she laughs often. I think it's part of her secret to longevity.

When I was employed by a company based in Los Angeles and required to visit headquarters, she allowed me to stay at her place in Manhattan Beach. She's a chocaholic, so I usually brought chocolate for her.

She likes to stay up late and watch mysteries on TV. In the morning, every morsel of left-over chocolate, regardless of quantity, would be gone. If asked about that mystery, she replied without guilt or guile: "I ate it."

Sometimes we'd go see a movie together. Or watch a game on TV. She's a huge UCLA fan. Don't mess with her when the Bruins are playing.

She has an answer for everything. She's a talented painter and a world traveler.

Her daughter Barbara tells me about the trip to Egypt that she and her girlfriend took with Bettelu and  the girlfriend's mother, who was a rocket scientist. They had an agenda that left no historical artifact unseen or exotic food uneaten.

"They left us in the dust," says Barbara, who was in her early twenties at the time. They were galloping on camels and soaking up delights of the Sahara while the twenty-somethings were catching their breath.

Last year, at 94,  Bettelu flew to Kauai to visit her granddaughter and great grandkids.

No doubt she is enjoying a shelter-party today with her family in Southern California. (See photo above.)

Happy birthday, Bettelu! I will mix a martini in your honor. I will play a Hawaiian mele just for you.

Shelterin' Away in Princeville

Nibblin on grapefruit
Watchin' the chickens hoot
All of those tourists gone for a while
Strummin my four-string
Listenin' to birds sing
Watchin' the wave lines settin' up in file

Shelterin' away here in Princeville
Searchin' for my my lost bar of wax
Some people claim foreigners are to blame
But I know they just got to relax

I know the reason
We came here this season
To see our daughter an' grandkids behind the bamboo
They're real beauties
The little ones' such cuties
Never expected quarantine, not even a clue

Shelterin' away here in Princeville
Searchin' for my lost bar of wax
Some people claim there's someone else to blame
But hell, beginnin' to think it's time to relax

I blew out my slippah
Got a big blistah
Had to call off my walk an' cruise back home
But there's fresh fruit in the blender
And soon it will render
That island concoction that helps me hang on

Shelterin' away here in Princeville
Searchin' for my lost bar of surf wax, that's all
Yes it's, some people claim that there's someone to blame
But I know, it's a tiny virus's fault.

Surf's Up, Hula Down

Surfing is still allowed on Hawaiian islands.

"Giant surf is coming with life-threatening conditions," according to weather-guru-wave-shredder Guy Hagi.

"Don't go out if you're not an expert. There are not many lifeguards."

You can close the stores, shut down tourism, quarantine arrivals, cite those driving places on non-essential missions, but you don't mess with surfing.

It's like telling a Montanan he can't go trout fishing.

I paddled into Hanalei Bay yesterday under calm conditions. I heard it was fun earlier out at the Bowl, the main surf break in the bay. I stayed inside where waves were puny with no one else within 50 yards of me.

It felt good to be in the temperate water where it was clear enough to see the lines in the sand below me. Due to the crazy quarantine, I hadn't surfed in more than four weeks. Each week lost robs a bit more of your sense of feel.

The longer you don't surf the more likely you will not surf again. That is, if you're at the latter stage of the life curve.

Slow waves that turn to mushy white water are not thrilling and challenge your balance. Faster waves hold you steady.

I rode a few waves lying on my belly, not attempting to stand because I knew I would fall into the bumpy white water. The thrust of water with surrounding soupy foam was enough to achieve a child-like joy.

A longtime, accomplished surfer friend once told me that he plans to keep surfing as long as possible. "Even if I can only lie on a board and paddle." The smile on his face was infectious.

Scenes from the annual Merry Monarch Festival, canceled the week.

The annual Merry Monarch Festival in Hilo scheduled for this week is canceled. The festival is the major event of the year to celebrate Hawaiian culture including crafts and the all-important hula with its costumery, song and dance.
                                                                 
The mayor of Kauai has announced mandatory wearing of masks in public for everyone age five and over. He was the first to issue a night-time curfew. Kauai has become a leader in sheltering.

As of this morning, 517 cases of Covid have been reported throughout the islands, with nine deaths. There are signs that Hawaii's caseload has started to flatten.

The Governor asks people to remain vigilant.

Hawaii unemployment is skyrocketing.

The islands are a popular location for production of movies and television shows. These industries are on hiatus.

The trade winds return today to cool down the tropical heat and humidity.

When it's dark and still at night, the sweet scent of Puakenikeni flowers embraces the air.

Guy Hagi forecasts the weather to be "the best on the planet."

You are not required to wear a mask when you exercise. That includes surfing.

Light in the Middle of the Tunnel

Hanalei Bay yesterday with Bali Hai in background.

"Lots of walks. Talking to chickens. Drawing pictures of the monkey pod tree."

This morning I happened to eavesdrop on a conversation of Barbara's and her professional associates back home. She summed up our situation rather well. Another zoom meeting. They seem to turn into personal sharing sessions.

Yesterday I zoomed with my writers' group. I had the pleasure of listening to a nostalgic, mid-Western story about a blind piano teacher; an incredible account of the completion of a solitary walk across the Sahara Desert; and a poignant personal poem about dealing with the pandemic.

Fauci instructs
Trump confuses
Captain Crozier warns
The Queen encourages
Boris Johnson recovers
John Prine dies.   -- Nancy Lewis

On Sunday we attended a zoom party with our three daughters and their children. It was even better than last week. We all were a little looser and aching to laugh. It turned into a talent show when grandson Finn, ten-gallon hat on his two-gallon head, hit the dance floor, stepping out to "Old Town Road" by Nas x.

Whoa!

He's got da moves!

He pranced and hopped and flung his arms like a calf-roping cowboy. Being four-foot tall added to the fun. We were all hoots and smiles.

It felt good to laugh with our family again, as we did many years ago when we were all growing up inside a tiny house on a circle, then again when we moved into a bigger place on the creek.

Back then our family anthem became "Love Shack" by the B-52's.

Humpback whale breaches outside of Hanalei  Bay

Recently, I goofed off here in our condo. Suddenly at the behest of a Hawaiian mele (song) on the radio, I decided to dance hula.

I didn't know that Barbara had her iPhone camera on "video" until I turned toward her.

"Let me see that," I said. I looked, and I laughed hard.

Following serious and delirious thought, I decided what the hey, and posted it on Facebook. The shock effect, I think, created a long string of mirthful comments and self-assuring "likes."

There were jokes about it going viral, the idea of which, was even funnier.

We're all in our own little worlds, tucked away, sheltering, wondering.

I hope we can hold on to these simple, wonderful surprises that bring us together.

Call it the light in the middle of the tunnel.

Going to the Pali

Six weeks on the island today and still sane. If I think I'm sane I have nothing to worry about. Maybe it's just a protective way of thinking, guarding myself against going off the cliff, or in Hawaiian, the pali.

At night when I wake up and cannot fall back to sleep, because I start thinking about my failing IRA, questioning my cough and other dire threats, I read.

My latest book is Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. The story takes place in the mid-to-late 1800s when the Europeans were taking over the islands. The small island of Moloka'i is where people who were diagnosed with ma'i pake, the disease of leprocy, were separated from their families and exiled to by boat.

The trip to the island alone was an unreal experience of bodies being pushed together, people becoming sick and finding no relief for normal bodily functions other than to hold on as the ocean currents sloshed them around.

It's not all gloom and doom because the story is about people, their beliefs and faith and hopes and love. It is partly about a clash of cultures that boils down to Christian versus pagan. The story is also about stigma, how people treat others who contract the disease, or are simply related to a diseased person.

When I first began reading this historical novel, I wanted to put it down. It was too close to home with our world going through what is and will be considered an historic pandemic. I didn't need to be reminded.

Little by little, however, I became hooked on the story and the wonderful characters who are never drawn as black and white. Rather, they are humans struggling to find their way, questioning their faith and their affections, their allegiances.

Only two-thirds through the book, I don't know what will happen to all of these people. I do know the Hawaiian culture will be subdued by the invaders. Did they bring the disease to the islands? I don't know. They certainly brought a different perspective and way of life.

Last night I read about a Catholic nun who went to the pali. Her core beliefs had been challenged. She was caught between two worlds neither of which brought her mental or emotional peace. She stood in a state of curious disinvolvement at the precipice overlooking the roiling, crashing waves and jagged lava rock.

Her story and those of the other characters seem particularly closer because of our isolation on one of the same chain of islands where a sovereignty movement exists. Some even express the belief that Hawaii Nei (their aina) will eventually be returned to their people.

I don't know what will happen beyond this moment. Here or in the book.

I really don't want to think about it. Stay in the present. Practice compassion and aloha. If anything, that's the message so far.

Lest I go to the pali.

Father Murphy, the Nuns and Me: A Religious Story for Easter

Add caption

Some may come and some may go
We shall surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
                          -- Chet Powers, recorded 1966 by The Youngbloods


Altar boys were given schedules for serving mass which included the 6:30 a.m. mass for the nuns in the chapel of Pomona Catholic High School on Holt Avenue. You entered the chapel from the east side of the building, down a shadowy path between shrubs and hedges before the first signs of daylight. I was 11-years-old and rode my bicycle to get there from my home in Kellogg Park some five-miles away. 

It was a straight shot down Valley Boulevard which merged with Holt Avenue, the main drag in town, at an intersection known as five-points. My bike had a battery-powered light that cast a circle of visibility on the road that was otherwise dark, the shoulder strewn with stones, broken glass and debris, especially at the edge of town where I was coming from.

There were few cars on the street at this hour.

Father Murphy was the most popular priest of the St. Joseph’s parish. He was tall and handsome with dark hair and swarthy complexion. I was familiar with his brother Bill Murphy, also tall and dark-haired, who coached sports at St. Joseph’s Grammar School. 

The story I heard was that Bill had suffered a “nervous breakdown” and that’s why he was a little strange. He seemed to always be breathing heavily and sweating. He was a nice man and really liked me because I was a fast runner. That was his criteria for sports: speed. He would line up all the kids at St. Joseph’s by grade on the football field for races. The winners would be marked for track and football.

Father Murphy was more sophisticated. He organized an annual fiesta at St. Joseph’s that included carnival rides, a barbecue dinner and entertainment. One year his star guest was Kim Novak, an attractive blonde movie actress. Another year folk-pop singer Burl Ives was the headliner. Bill Murphy told me that he had a date with Kim Novak.

“Kevin,” he said, his eyes happy and aglow. “I have a date with Kim Novak. She said she would go out with me.”

I didn’t know what to think, but it seemed unlikely that the beautiful actress would go on a date with him. But he was convinced. I just shrugged, thinking it might be possible. Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? Or if he didn’t “believe” it was true. Faith, we were taught, always had an element of doubt that made it more spiritual.

The altar boy would assist the priest with putting on his vestments in the sacristy, a staging room for the mass. Father Murphy might ask me how I was doing in sports or something, but there wasn’t much conversation between us. It was still pretty early in the morning. The sacristy presented a solemn atmosphere with a hint of the aroma of red wine, which was kept in the cupboard.

I heard about some altar boys sneaking sips of wine. I wasn't really interested.

Nuns had a particular odor that came from their woolen gowns. I associated their scent and the swishing of their robes with discipline and order, which could mean an unexpected knuckle on the head if you weren't paying attention. They were lined up in the chapel pews facing the altar for their special morning mass. 

Part of my job was to light the candles on the altar and I tried not to look at the nuns when I walked into the sanctuary where mass would be said. I surreptitiously perceived rows of pointed black habits and heavily starched white face masks that exposed vague facial features that I didn’t want to identify. 

I probably knew at least half of them from my classes. The others probably taught at the high school.

I also knew they were judging me and any false move could mean trouble. This was a private affair for them and my job was to serve, including reciting prayers in Latin in response to Father Murphy.

With the mass underway, I knelt on the step facing the altar. Father Murphy stood with his back to me, his decorated purple vestment hanging down from his high shoulders like a Mexican poncho. The small chapel was silent and I believed he was deep in quiet prayer. His body, from his head to his legs, began to sway as if it were a palm tree bending in the wind. 

The more I watched him sway the more worried I became. I was afraid he might faint and fall over. I had witnessed people faint before during mass, and be carried out of the church by male ushers. There were no ushers in the chapel. 

He seemed to be taking more silent time than usual, just standing there facing the altar.
To me, each tilt of his body indicated possible collapse. What would I do then?

I wondered if the nuns were aware of his swaying. What would they do? The entire scene became quietly ominous and I was in the middle of it. 

My concentration was fixed on the subtle swing of Father Murphy's tall frame with Jesus nailed to the cross looking down at us. He, the Son of God, no  doubt saw panic on my face. I wondered what Father Murphy’s face showed. Were his eyeballs rolling back in his head? 

"Jesus, please don't let Farher Murphy fall over," I prayed.

I was close enough to touch him. If he did fall, it would be right next to me.

The nuns maybe didn’t notice what I saw. Perhaps because he was so handsome, some had the hots for him and were fantasizing sexual relations with him, or struggling with their consciences for entertaining such impure thoughts.

Temptation lurked everywhere, especially in church where you were supposed to be thinking about God. It's funny how when you're not supposed to do something, that's when you think about doing it.

After what seemed an interminable silence, Father Murphy slowly turned gracefully toward us. His every move seemed measured and imbued with holiness. I could have heard a feather land on the floor it was so still as we waited and watched.

He spread his hands and said:

“Dominos vobiscum.

To which I replied: “Et cum spiritu tuo.” 

I was greatly relieved to hear the Latin words tumble by rote naturally out of my mouth.

“The Lord be with you.”

“And with your spirit.”

 For that moment, all was saved.

From Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir © 2020 Kevin Samson