Back in da Cruz

Weird-looking huge Sun Fish, or Mola Mola, floats near surface of Monterey Bay. Photo KCS.

Empty beaches.

Crowded surf lineups.

Warm summer weather.

Boardwalk closed.

Empty parking lots.

Trucks and cars fill residential streets.

Some wearing masks.

Most people are not.

Construction in high gear.

Construction stalled.

Hotels shut.

Gas stations open.

Immediate impressions of Covid Santa Cruz swing from one extreme to another. One thing is clear: visitors are not locked out here as they are on Kauai. Santa Cruz is not an island. It is a popular destination, open to all. And many continue to come despite the closures of business.

While we've been mostly self-quarantining since our arrival, we've enjoyed long walks on the beach early in the day. Extreme low tides in the morning have exposed large swaths of sand for comfortable, barefoot rambling.

Frida joins us on our outings. She trots along behind my left heel. She's a working girl and her job is to be with me, ever my loyal companion.

The majority of our time is spent in our backyard pulling weeds, trimming plants, clipping vines, sweeping leaves, digging out roots, recovering areas that had become buried by heavy springtime bloom. Frida lies in shady places hoping for another outing, or an interloping squirrel to chase.

It feels good to be home. We've seen a few neighbors -- outside at social distance, of course. Santa Cruz remains a beautiful town on bountiful Monterey Bay, which is designated a National Marine Sanctuary replete with a wide range of sea life.

A shark attack on a 26-year-old surfer who bled to death in May, prompted a local newspaper story yesterday about the diversity of wildlife in Monterey Bay.  Juvenile Great White Sharks swimming near Manresa State Beach in recent years have drawn the interest of marine scientists.

The young sharks feed in the deep water Soquel Canyon offshore here. The area has become known as Shark Park. Boat tours to see the sleek-swimming sharks had become popular before the Covid lockdown. One scientist called Monterey Bay the "Blue Serengeti," comparing the teeming wildlife with the diversity of land creatures on Africa's Serengeti plain.

It is rare for a shark to attack a human in the water. Scientists surmise that it's probably a warning by the shark that this feeding territory belongs to them.

Shark strikes a wounded dolphin in Hanalei Bay on April 17. Photo KCS.

Having recently witnessed a shark strike a wounded dolphin in Hanalei Bay, I am particularly interested in the subject. The strike was sudden and frighteningly impressive.

And so it goes. Hanalei to Monterey. In this respect, both locations offer proximity to another world that we do not control, or fully understand. It is a privilege and pleasure to live on the edge of the vast, beautiful, deep and dangerous Pacific.

In that sense, we were never far from home.

Our Unforgettable Friend, Ron

Ron and his sister Nancy aboard Stagnaro's "Velocity" prepare for whale-watching on Monrterey Bay

We knew we would face a different Santa Cruz when we returned. For sure, it is not the same town as the one we departed in early March. The glaring difference is not, however, the place itself. It is the loss of one of our good friends.

Ron Bengston, 76, died in his Davenport home on Sunday morning while we were waking up. Ron was more than a friend. He was family. The phrase "bigger than life" fits. Anyone who ever met him, I'm sure, will remember the 6-foot, 5-inch reddish-blond haired man with the booming voice.

His sister Nancy had come from Colorado to be with him during his final days. About 15 years ago he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a blood plasma cancer. Physically strong as an ox, Ron had survived these past years by grit, a zest for life, and with the help of chemo, radiation, various treatments and medications.

On Sunday Ron's sister posted his passing on his FB page. The comments came fast: "A great man" was heard over and over, as well as "fair and honest."

Over the past 15 years, the quality of his life went up and down. The beauty of Ron shone like a bright star during the "up" periods. A bachelor most of his life, and ex Peace Corps volunteer, he flew to France to see an old flame. On his FB page he posted numerous photos of historical places. His knowledge and enthusiasm rivaled the famed travel writer Rick Steves.

He bought a camper and traveled the Southwest shooting photos and describing the flora. He possessed a passion for nature and unique love of flowers. His backyard greenhouse was full of orchids and colorful blooms.

During the past couple of years, Ron cared for our dog Frida at his place while we visited Kauai for months at a time. He took her camping, to the beach and she became part of the dogs of Davenport. We were assured that she would receive the best attention. Frida kept Ron company, and vise versa.

He had immersed himself in home projects, including rebuilding an Austin Healey mini roadster, using a book for reference. A contractor-builder by trade, Ron began a dining-room expansion on his small house in Davenport which looked toward the sea. It was a perfect seaman's cottage.

We met Ron about 20-years ago when we hired him to build an addition to our master bedroom. He single-handily built, wired and plumbed that addition. Following that he constructed a studio for us behind our garage. There was never a doubt about his high quality workmanship. Ron was very smart and talented. Perhaps should have been an architect.

We shared many dinners and outings with Ron over the years. He was a frequent presence in and around our home. Our daughter Bryna and her surfer girl friends were teenagers when Ron first appeared. They called him, "Rondawg." I think he got a kick out of his nickname.

During a trip to Kauai a few years ago, Ron flew over and joined us for a family birthday celebration at The Bistro in Kilauea. His presence was a coincidence. He wanted to explore the natural wonders of the island, just happened to be there at the same time.

When Bryna, to her surprise, arrived to find Ron, tall and loud, in the middle of the party, all she could say was: "Rondawg!?" I guess she didn't realize how much he had become a part of our family since she left home.

Last year Ron invited us to join him on a whale watching excursion on Monterey Bay. His sister Nancy from Colorado was there as well as her husband, Bob. Far out on the bay, we watched numerous dolphins, an enormous Sun Fish and Humpback whales. I'll never forget that wonderful sea-going experience. We were all smiles, in the element.

Before we left for Kauai in March, I spent the day with Ron, taxiing him to his doctors to discuss his situation with them. He was losing function of his right arm. He met the doctors with his usual outgoing, loud and informed personality. It was a joy to watch. I was supposed to keep track of any instructions, because Ron felt he might not be coherent enough to remember, given his medications.

It became clear to me that Ron knew as much about what was going on as anyone. He was going to receive more radiation treatments. There was a glimmer of hope. Despite the grim news about his arm -- his bones were succumbing to cancer -- his spirit remained high.

That's how we left him. He was disappointed that he couldn't care for Frida. He knew he wasn't up for  that.

Ron did not suffer fools and would send me choice jokes about the President.

While I posted stories from Kauai, Ron was one of my biggest fans. It gave me great pleasure to know he found enjoyment in my simple notes But his comments became shorter. He sent a private message to me that he had run out of options. It was heartbreaking.

I messaged him that we would pray for a miracle.

His final comment regarding one of my last posts was one word:

"Beautiful."

Ron Bengston was graduated from Santa Cruz High School, class of 62. He was Senior Class President. He played football and basketball for the SCHS Cardinals. He was a lifelong 49er fan. He spent two shifts in the Peace Corps in Latin America. He loved life, played it fair and square.

Mahalo and Aloha. It Ain't Over Yet

Expecting to fly, saying goodbye

Aloha Friends!

Now that we're back home, I want to thank all of my readers who have hung with me during the past 75 days while we sheltered-in-place on the Garden Island of Kauai.

Without you, I could not have published an "almost" daily blog during that period. When I started I had no idea that it would turn into a daily thing. I never looked ahead.

The idea of sheltering-in-place on an island seemed to be a unique perspective. That was the source of my motivation. After a couple of posts, my Puamana neighbor, Rick Carroll, a writer and former newspaper man, told me to keep writing.

So I did, like an obedient child. An obedient child who was having fun.

I received several favorable comments from friends that spurred me on. I got into a groove and at times felt as though I were channeling stories, as if someone were whispering them into my ear.

I tried not to be redundant, keep the stories fresh, sometimes unexpected. I often surprised myself.

As time ticked along, somewhere after maybe 50 posts, my mojo waned. I figured if I'm getting weary, my readers are, too.

Then something would happen. I played golf. We hiked to the beach. Mother's Day came. My motor started up again, at least for another day.

I plan to continue to post regular stories about our experience of being back in Santa Cruz during the pandemic. It won't be every day. I have a ton of yard work to do, and other home projects.

I consider this blog to be a political-free zone. Not only a refuge during Covid, but a place where I can get away from the all the banter and blather and blame. I do have a strong political bias. I'll save that for the ballot box. I think most people's minds are already made up. Why go there when life is so rich right in front of us, especially with all this free time.

Be creative. Be safe. Be forgiving. Be your own true self.

Thank you, again. Mahalo nui loa!

Kevin

Long Day's Journey into Morning

Mystiko and Viva at Hanalei

We awoke to light rain and the sweet fragrance of Gardenia at Puamana. Yesterday we said our goodbyes. This morning we scrambled to finish packing, store a few things, drop any left-over food with our neighbor friends, Rick and Marcie.

"It would be harder to leave if the sun was out," said Barbara.

"I like the rain. It's a little cooler, although the humidity is high."

At this point I was resigned to leaving the island. Last night I stood in the quiet outside, absorbed what I could and hoped to take with me my love of place.

I had pulled on a pair socks and Levis for our trip, my first socks and long pants in almost three months.

The always low-key Kauai Airport in Lihue was practically empty when we arrived mid morning for our flight to Honolulu, the first leg of our journey home to Santa Cruz. Airport staff and security outnumbered travelers and helped us negotiate our way through a more rigorous protocol due to Covid, which included heightened security.

We were asked to complete a form stating who we are, where we're going, where is home and what flight we would be taking to get there. State authorities are monitoring everyone who leaves and arrives on the islands.

Security is more thorough since everyone is wearing a mask and potentially carrying contraband or a weapon.

"I can't believe they checked my hair," said Barbara. It was tied-back in a "pony." An explosive hair band?

We had plenty of time and, thankfully, we were not rushed.

The only concession open was Starbucks.

All flights to the mainland go through Honolulu. Our island-hopper B717 plane was less than half full, with passengers separated by a vacant seats. All travelers and flight staff wore a mask.

We were offered juice or water upon boarding, along with a napkin and sanitizer wipe inside a small sealed package. The attendants were friendly, expressing familiar aloha to all passengers.

We chose Hawaiian Airlines because of their local connection. . As friends have said, "You feel like you're in Hawaii as soon as you board." It's true, from the flowered prints worn by staff to the island music piped in. We found two one-way tickets for $200 each. Flights can be as high as $1,200 depending upon the day and time

When boarding and exiting an airplane, it is impossible to maintain social distance. You find yourself literally rubbing shoulders with others in the narrow aisles.

Checking email and important stuff at Kauai Airport

The flight to Honolulu was brief, where the airport felt empty and the only store open, once again, was Starbucks. Our layover here, to our final destination of San Francisco International Airport, was nearly four hours.

We found an outdoor garden area with benches and few other people where we munched on snacks from our carry-on bags. I was able to log on through a public WiFi. The outdoor tropical air comforted us and the omnipresent singing birds reminded us that we were still on a mid-Pacific tropical island.

Relaxing in the garden, we were able to remove our masks and breathe freely. We were dreading the layover but this park-like setting turned out to be the best part of our journey.

Sunset Dinner

We had plenty of time on our hands and I began to scroll through recent photos, including a few taken at Hanalei Bay before sunset on Tuesday. We met Isabel Bryna, Viva and little Mystiko at Black Pot Beach for a picnic dinner. At PV Eats in Princeville, we picked up three different salads and three orders of fish and chips. Isabel brought drinks, including a bottle of red wine.

We hung together on the beach beneath scudding clouds, sun breaks and on-and-off light rain. Before long, social distancing seemed as distant as stars in the sky.

"Can I sleep over?" Viva, 9, asked Barbara.

"We're going back to Santa Cruz, honey."

"Oh." Viva appeared momentarily surprised. She and Barbara got up to hunt for treasures on the beach, to savor this moment together.

I grabbed the opportunity to marvel over my youngest grandson, almost two-years-old, who has grown from baby to beachcomber in a matter of months. His mama adores the little guy who provides continuous entertainment and requires a watchful eye.

Today he's fascinated by a small dead fish that has washed up on the beach, exposed by the low tide. He walks to it, bends over to look closely, walks away, circles back for another examination. He never touches the fish. In this case, he obeys his mama.

We don't know when we'll be able to return. So many variables. Will a second wave of Covid arrive with more incoming visitors? What will quarantine look like? Will flights be more expensive?  More risky? The answers are unknown. The questions are just as elusive.

We hadn't given any thought to the fact that we were flying home on the eve of Memorial Day Weekend.

 We were relieved when we boarded our flight to SFO. There were plenty of vacant seats. The plane was an A330. I wanted to read the glossy, folded card in the seat pocket with information about the Airbus jet plane, but Barbara had nearly freaked out when I picked up the information about the smaller plane on our flight to Honolulu.

"Ok, I won't touch it." It's mostly PR stuff, anyway.

She had sanitation wipes that we used to clean arm rests, the fold-down trays and other surfaces that we might touch. I still had an unused, package of wipes in my pocket from our connecting flight.

Clearly, the A330 was a new airplane. The bathroom was the most modern I've ever seen on an airplane: roomy, easy-to-use towel dispenser, convenient soap container. I've never felt so refreshed following an airplane restroom experience.

The cabin was about 25-percent full. The least distance between passengers was, ironically, in First Class, which was full.

Arriving Home

Following a smooth flight of about four-and-a-half hours spent sleeping and reading, we landed at mostly closed SFO. Time was midnight. Picking up our baggage was akin to a mystery challenge, since stairways were closed and we were forced to find elevators -- no more than two people allowed at a time -- and passageways that ultimately led to a closed door with the number 3 on it.

Some passengers were on their cell phones telling their rides that they were in stalemate, somewhere within the cavernous airport. Relief finally arrived when the number 3 door opened from the inside where a huge baggage carousel was beginning to move.

We had reserved a car rental through Hertz for our ride from SFO to Santa Cruz. It was about one-third the price of a private shuttle, and we would be the only passengers. We rode a computer-operated (robot) air-train around the airport listening for prompts to find Hertz. Following what seemed like unnecessary questions and computer time, even with our reservation, we were finally on the road home, some 80 miles south.

The 280 freeway and Highway 17 were practically empty. We pulled up in front of our house at about 3 am.

We knew that Frida, our German Shepherd, and our housesitter couple, Vera and Joe, were in the house. We quietly rolled our heavy bags through the back patio and into our small, detached cottage, without waking our watchful dog.

We were home. Memorial Day weekend was upon us. We had heard the stories of expected crowds. We needed to repair before facing a new day and new reality of California beach town during Covid. Our journey had been less stressful than anticipated. We hoped to keep the aloha flowing.

Beaches Open, People Come

Made in the shade at Anini Beach

The beaches of Kauai opened over the weekend attracting 14,000 people, according to Lifeguard counts.

Many families took advantage of the relaxed ordinance, posting up with canopies and gear including fishing poles, rafts and mats, snorkel equipment and just about anything they could throw in the back of the family pickup.

Sunday was certainly family day at Anini Beach and near Black Pot Beach in Hanalei.

Families were asked not to exceed groups of 10 people, and to not hold cook-outs, for fear of passing food around at the risk of spreading Covid. The cook-out restriction was a difficult call for some, causing the Mayor to re-evaluate the temporary open-beach ruling.

We watched a young wahine of about 6-years-old cast a line into the shallows off Anini. Her small arms and hands moved skillfully while she stood firmly on the shoreline, throwing out lines and reeling them back. Her pole was three times her height.

Bored with repetition of casting, she hung her line on the the beach, attracting small crabs with her gently bouncing sinker. We were as amused as she was watching the crabs chase her line across the sand.

The beach is the people's playground. Following weeks of pristine emptiness, the people returned.

To reach the beach, we hiked down the steep path to Wyllie's. The path is now covered with a carpet of leaves, a centipede's delight. The little critters with the sharp bite love to crawl into the dark, moist under-leaf world.

We passed over their resort without incident, joking along the way.

"Don't disturb the centipedes."

"They feel good crawling beneath my toes."

We walked across a newly formed sandbar at the mouth of Anini Stream and onward down Anini Beach, ducking under fishing lines, passing family groups and finding a shady area below a spreading tree canopy where we lay and listened to the churning surf beyond the reef.

Shade is key to relaxing on a beach in Kauai. A dip in the clear water is the coup de grace.

All was not perfect, however. Barbara slipped on a small rock or piece of coral and bent her middle toe. It swelled to a deeper shade of purple. It didn't keep her from climbing up the path to get back home.

She rested the injured toe last night. Thankfully, it didn't appear to be broken. I offered her an anti-inflammatory that she refused.

"We both have injured a toe on this trip," I said.

"Mine is worse than yours," she answered.

"Of course it is," Honey.

Temporary Normal & Thunderstorm Artis

Moody shot of Hanalei pier last week following a night's heavy rain

A phased reopening of Kauai has begun with a new cautious attitude expressed by Mayor Derek Kawakami.

He calls it "the new temporary normal."

He says the "people of Kauai deserve and have earned it." Kauai is in its fifth week of no new Covid case on the island.

The beaches have reopened with some restrictions. All new arrivals on the island will continue to be under 14-day quarantine through June. Kawakami secured permission to reopen beaches from Governor David Ige and the state of Hawaii, which continues to enforce beach closure.

Several stores on the north shore have reopened and are trying to figure out new business models.

Small groups of employees are returning to the nearby Westin Resort, which remains closed.

In Lihue, several of the large resorts, including the Marriott at Kalapaki Beach, have enlisted volunteers to prepare and distribute food and meals to people in need. Thousands of meals have gone to needy residents who pick-up their allotments at drive-up stations, maintaining social distance.

Many of the recipients are furloughed resort employees and their families.

Unemployment on Kauai remains in the 30-percent range, with similar numbers throughout the islands.

Serious attention is being given to changing the economic model for the islands, especially on Kauai. Locals are looking at self-sustaining alternatives to the heavy dependence on tourism, or at least controls on the number of visitors.

A "shop local" marketing campaign is gaining traction.

A second wave of Covid is inevitable, says the Mayor, who believes Kauai's health-care system has learned from the first wave. "We still have to gather more data," he says. Next steps depend on what the wave looks like.

"There's a big difference between a knee-high wave at Kalapaki and a 20-foot wave at Hanalei Bay."
                                                               
                                                                     ***
A local from Hawaii has hit the big time and created a buzz coming from the island's media center in Honolulu.

Thunderstorm Artis, a musician and singer from Hawaii, will be a finalist on The Voice, a national television program to be broadcast Monday evening.

Not only does the young man  possess a sweet voice, he represents grounded humility and a unique sense of presence -- being in the moment -- when interviewed by local media.

No doubt many islanders will tune in Monday.

Hawaii takes great pride in the achievement of their residents, especially those who have grown up in the islands. It happens all the time. Thunderstorm represents the 50th State's greatest export:

Spreading of aloha.

Golf in the Kingdom, Take Two

Photo of Makai Golf Course. The Woods Course is hidden beyond the trees.

Ye're makin' a great mistake if ye think the gimme is meant for the shots... the gimme is meant for walkin'. Tryin' too hard is the surest way tae ruin yer game. Tae enjoy yer'self tha's the thing. And beware the quicksand o' perfection -- Shivas Irons, from Golf in the Kingdom by Michael Murphy


Following a brief rainy period, the island weather has been spectacular over the past couple of days. It begs one to come out and play.

Puddles have dried quickly. Lava tubes and cracks have filtered rain water into the sea, an impressive cycle of ocean to sky to cloud to mountain to ground to ocean again.

We are playing out the final rites of island quarantine,  cleaning windows and screens, patching grout, dabbing paint here and there. There's always more to do. As we prepare to leave, ironically, our island hideaway has begun to feel more like home.

A couple of days ago, I scored some used golf clubs from a neighbor friend: old grips, graphite shafts, irons only, 3-through-pitching wedge and a putter. Clubs that were otherwise designated as a thrift store donation.

I gathered together a few golf balls I have collected and headed out to the Woods Golf Course, a forgotten sister of the famed Makai Golf Course in Princeville.

"Those nine holes are the most challenging of the Makai complex," the golf pro informed me."But they're not maintained very well. They were once a major feature of the course."

I belong to a minority of golfers who prefer a ragged course over a manicured one. It's the difference between $20 and $300 for green fee. I received the 20-buck Kama'aina (locals) rate without asking, keeping my California Drivers License secure in my wallet.

"You'll have to walk," he said. The more I heard the better it sounded.

"It has great mountain views," he continued. I was already sold.

Tucked behind the resort course, I found a tee area awaiting me. I pulled a 3-iron from a weathered Callaway bag given to me by the young starter wearing a face mask, teed up a dimpled white ball and hit a shot that surprisingly landed in play, not in the woods.

I was off and walking, strap over my shoulder, six clubs in my bag. Nobody around. My own private golf course. A golfing adventure about to unfold.

I thought something was odd when I found the first green guarded in front by a generous water pond. A forced-carry over water on the opening hole of a golf course is not normal. The course architect would not want to challenge, or discourage, a player this early in the round.

I felt the golf gods were with me when my approach shot flew over the pond, landed on grass. I was so relieved that I forgot about the oddity.

My fortunes immediately changed on the second hole. I lost two balls. They shot off my 3-iron like bullets burrowing into the right-side jungle, disappeared into the tree duff and tangle wood. At this rate, I surmised, I may not have the balls to finish nine holes.

I approached the third hole and discovered that I had lost more than two golf balls. I had lost three golf holes. The sign in front of me announced that I had arrived at Hole No. 6.

What happened to numbers 3, 4 and 5?

I scanned the landscape of trees, greens and teeing areas. The missing holes were not here. I found myself at a crossroads. A Zen koan, perhaps. A conundrum, for sure.

When in doubt, I told myself, play the hole in front of you. Don't go seeking holes that aren't here. Stay in the present.

I took a moment. I peeked though openings among the trees. I saw restful, pyramid-shaped mountains.

Onward. I played three more holes only to find myself in the exact same spot. I had completed a loop back to the crossroad where I discovered two guys teeing off. You can easily spot locals. Maybe it's body language. And why would a tourist fly to Kauai to play golf on red dirt.

I approached the couple through a stand of trees, as though I were Seamus McDuff himself, coming into focus.

"Excuse me friends. Can you tell me where I might find holes 3, 4 and 5?"

They studied me for a minute before answering.

I explained how I had arrived at this junction and it became clear to them that I had bypassed holes 1, 2 and 3.

"The first three holes are across the road," said one.

"It's a fine golf course," I offered.

"It's our own golf course," he said, spreading his open hands toward the tree-lined fairway without another soul in sight.

"Corona proof," said the other.

That sounded as if it had been rehearsed, perhaps over a beer.

With that information, I bid them well and resumed my golfing sojourn.

To my delight, I found the first three holes, vacantly awaiting my arrival. I forthwith completed my round of 9 holes, taking a breather and water break in the shade before heading down the final fairway.

Don't ever believe that golf is a simple game of hitting a ball with a stick. It is much more and much less. I calculated my score at two-under. Two lost balls.

Beer Conspiracy Brews Controversy

Kauai sunrise the color of lager beer

So word is out, and has been out, that Covid-19 is a plot. There is not a virus. Corona has been a convenient excuse, a ruse, by Budweiser to shut down competition, a devious marketing plan.

"Mexican Corona beer was becoming a threat to Budweiser's dominant market," according to Bill Gates.

Generally regarded as a computer software genius, Gates was hired by the high-powered marketing firm -- Stinson, Stampson, Fauci and Murdoch (SSF&M) -- to help create an international buzz.

"We wanted to bring Americans back to Budweiser, which had become Mexico's favorite beer while Corona was beginning to dominate the Western United States," Gates told a few of his beer buddies, according to an expert source in these matters.

The plot was hatched in a vacant warehouse in Bolinas, California, a hop, step and barrel from Stinson Beach.

A cabal of conservative sleuths were able to connect the dots between one of the marketing firm principals and the beach enclave -- Stinson to Stinson. Their discovery was picked up by a wide swath of conspiracy theorists already drunk on weird and nefarious plots.

One theory predicates Gates plotting to implant a small chip with a Budweiser jingle into the over-21 population of the entire world.

"The jingle has been translated into more than 1,000 FOREIGN languages!" Rush Limbaugh reportedly told his mindless followers. "Obama is a major stock holder of Budweiser," he emphasized.

Anti-vac folks have longed theorized vaccines to be a conspiracy by Big Pharma to make millions of dollars, in conjunction with a government effort to string 5G electronic connectors throughout the world to spy on people.

This theory has found a lot of traction among anti-science types who support a herd immunity theory that UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson championed, before he came down with the beer virus.

An SSF&M whistleblower blew that theory out of the keg when he went on record saying that three pints of Budweiser will cure any patient who has contracted Corona.

Government officials are now asking people to wear Budweiser masks.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, whose cousin Sam Fauci is coincidentally a partner in the marketing firm, has stated that the Budweiser masks are a ploy and any kind of mask -- including a Halloween mask -- is fine.

A small village in Northern Italy has shown vast improvement after changing their drinking water to Budweiser beer. Villagers have seen singing and dancing, sometimes in the nude after dark, since their curfew was lifted.

The plot was still brewing in my head when I woke up this morning. I turned on the local Hawaiian news to find out that weather guru Guy Hagi had baked chocolate bread pudding for the TV crew. I heard belly laughter coming from the television set, but no mention of the Budweiser conspiracy.

I realized it was only a nightmare.

It's a Wonderful Life

Masked Wahine by Barbara "KoKo" Samson

Rain came last night, dancing on our roof, a familiar tropical sound that we hadn't heard in a few weeks. Rain has fallen but not with such volume. It woke me up. I listened to the patter on the roof and the wet noise through our screened slider near two fragrant Puakenikeni trees outside.

Barbara and our friend Maureen recently strung leis of the yellow-orange Puakenikeni flowers for their daughters, Taryn and Bryna, both mothers, for Mother's Day. They threaded a long, thin needle through the center of each horn-shaped flower. Maureen placed each finished lei in a clear plastic bag with a couple drops of water, held the top of the bag with two hands, swung it it closed. Presto: a "terrarium" bag with a lovely lei inside.

Trust me, one doesn't need perfume when wearing a Puakenikeni lei. The flowers do all the work, emitting a cloud of sweet, natural fragrance.

Still wet and cloudy outside this morning, I head down to the bay to check the surf. I feel as though I am driving through one of those drive-thru car washes. Tooling down the precarious "ledge" road into the valley, which is actually a large, ancient river bed, I spot an ephemeral glimpse of rainbow.

At the ledges' end, a single-lane bridge crosses the meandering Hanalei River. During heavy rain, the river rises and the bridge is impassable. Local courtesy asks that you allow five-to-seven cars over the bridge before crossing from your side. These days very few vehicles are on the road especially before 8 am.

As I enter Magic Land, my windshield wipers move continuously back-and-forth to maintain visibility. I crack open the car window and inhale the moist greenery, try not to think that I have only seven days remaining before this dream ends.

I wonder if those who have been here for years, even decades, ever become complacent with the natural grandeur. Some perhaps do. While driving through the other day an SUV started riding my tail. Granted, I drive slowly, but keep up with the 35-25 mph speed limit. Why would anyone want to pass through believing there is a better place to be at his moment.

I believe it's habit. Driving fast, moving fast from one thing to another, needing to be somewhere else, trying to catch up: this is how we live. It sounds cliche, but I hope, if nothing else, the greater population takes this moment to reflect on how we spend our precious time.

Besides making flower leis, Barbara has been drawing and painting, creating beautiful cards that she's been giving and sending to friends and family for birthdays and holidays. She built a wreath from pieces of driftwood and shells.

It took a few weeks, before she realized the lock-down was an opportunity.

Maureen's Bay, Birthday Card by Barbara "KoKo" Samson

Meanwhile, I have forged the perimeter of the fallow Prince Golf Course, finding old golf balls, some buried in red dirt, collecting them and washing them, mostly for fun. I haven't played golf in months, a passion I once embraced like a religion. I thought I was cured. Now I'm thinking about playing. I recently discovered a hidden golf course within walking distance.

My digression is broken as I reach Black Pot Beach at the mouth of the Hanalei River. This beach and its facilities were washed out in the infamous flood of April 14, 1998. Today I find a new parking lot but only a few vehicles due to the rain and a fading north swell.

Maureen is an avid surfer and today is her birthday. I am surprised that she is not here. With my iPhone, I take a photo of the rainy scene and text it to her with a "happy birthday" message. I'm not trying to be droll.

I see former Santa Cruzer Chuck Reed, surfer/sax player, now a north shore fixture. He's dripping wet.

Rather than paddle out or take a walk on the beach in the rain, I decide to head back to Puamana where my muse waits patiently.

Just another day in Paradise.

Of Mice and Men and Women

Viva and Barbara search for driftwood while keeping social distance

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry
           
 --  John Steinbeck, "Of Mice and Men," adapted from Robert Burns' poem, "To a Mouse"


Just when I thought the third time was a charm, a little mouse changed things on us.

The mouse crept in while we weren't paying attention. We never saw the mouse. The mouse came as a part of Covid-19.

On our third attempt, we were able to book a flight home. We are scheduled to depart our beloved island in less than two weeks.

We went online today to confirm our flight and discovered that it's still a go, however, the time has changed. The mouse apparently ran up the clock.

"We don't arrive in San Francisco until midnight," said Barbara.

"What? Let me check that."

It's true. A best laid plan had changed again.

"How would we have known if we hadn't checked?

"Can you imagine missing our flight because we didn't know the time of departure changed."

It was a rhetorical question with a nibbling answer.

I double checked all emails from Hawaiian Airlines, not finding an updated or changed schedule.

"I guess we need to go online to look everyday."

"Maybe the change was made this morning and we'll soon receive notification.

The new schedule has us departing an hour earlier and arriving an hour-and-a-half later.

"That means more time at the Honolulu Airport," said Barbara, with a sigh that alarmed the chickens pecking in the bushes.

I shuddered briefly, considering that puts us at perhaps the riskiest place in Hawaii for four hours awaiting our flight to SFO.

I had already begun to weep just thinking about leaving.

We feel safe here. Only 20 cases of Covid on the island and those have either left or run a benign course. Mayor Derek Kawakami displayed great leadership and jumped right on sheltering-in-place, closing the beaches and instituting a night curfew.

The vibe here is relaxed. Signs of reopening are slowly unfolding. The predominant messages in The Garden Island newspaper are notes of caution: Let's not rush things.

Meantime we have stacks of mail, a yard full of weeds and our sweet German Shepherd waiting for us at home. We are not at home. The time has come to plan our exit strategy. Slowly, yet surely the countdown has begun.

Unless our flight is once again canceled all together.

"I would be so stoked!"

Barbara said, “Let’s stick with the plan and see what happens.”

Good Golly Miss Molly

Hideaways with a north swell  showing 

Sometimes I live in the country
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
Jumpin in the river and drown
        -- from Goodnight Irene, an American folk song first recorded in 1933 by Lead Belly 

During our period of sheltering on the island, two icons of the music industry -- and of my generation -- have died: John Prine and Little Richard.

It doesn't seem to matter where you are, you hear about these things. Unless you're doing a media fast. In which case, I salute you.

Saturday morning the crazy disc jockey on KKCR, Kauai's community radio station, announced the passing of Little Richard from bone cancer at 87. Age-wise, Little Richard was not a Boomer, yet his music was part of the radio play and teenage house parties that defined a part of my life. So I include him in our generation.

I'm driving slowly -- because I'm still buzzed on tai chi -- through the green overgrowth of Hanalei on both sides of the road. It's raining lightly and mountains are hiding behind grey clouds yet releasing foamy white ribbons of water down their faces. From the car radio, Little Richard's unmistakable voice is crying Tutti Frutti, his first hit recording from 1957, followed by his husky dance-anthem, Good Golly Miss Molly.

The juxtaposition of it all grounds me. I cannot help but think about the time I met Little Richard. The surroundings couldn't have been further from where I am at this moment.

It was in Chicago. Time was the early '90s. Little Richard was in his early 60s. He wasn't playing the Gospel or Rock 'n Roll circuits any longer. He was the headliner for a trade-show party being held in a theater downtown Shy-Town, as Chicago was called.

The sole reason I went to the party was to confirm the fact of Little Richard actually being there. And if so, see him perform live! It seemed incongruous but possible. Old rockers often show up at fairs and other weird places, still singing and playing songs they recorded 50 or 60 years ago.

Sometimes it's disappointing, and other times it's a great nostalgic experience.

We gathered in a ballroom-like space, set up with numerous high tables and a buffet in the back. Following a typical spread of medium-quality finger food, a medium-height black man in a wild rock 'n roll suit a la something Elton John might wear, appeared on stage in front. His hair was thick, a bulging halo of tight curls that circled the sides and top of his head. It may have been a wig-hat.

He sat down at a piano and began to sing and play. It was indeed, Little Richard. Going through a repertoire of mostly familiar songs, he delivered familiar hoots and high note screams, though not as feral or profane as his early recordings. He banged on his piano.

He finished with the great folk song, "Good Night Irene," which is neither gospel nor rock 'n roll. Some, like me, sang along, familiar with the memorable lyrics. Then he did something I had never seen before. He asked his audience to join him on stage.

"Come on up here with Little Richard," he implored.

The crowd of mostly men who were working away from home, hesitated. What was this? My business partner and I wasted no time climbing the stairs. We walked directly to Little Richard.

His round smiling face was enhanced with gobs of makeup. His wide eyes and red lips appeared artificial. His face was a theater mask. The performer who once called himself the "Queen of Rock 'n Roll," sat at the piano, his larger than life persona reduced to a man on a bench.

No more than three feet distance from him, I looked into his big eyes and said: "Hey, Little Richard."

His head swiveled as he silently absorbed the attention surrounding him. He still had 25 more years to go. I felt glad to hear him and see him up close, a living legend from my distant youth.

RIP Little Richard.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama

Dorothy Herron circa 1945

A golden glow swept  through the morning sky this morning. It streamed in through the east-facing windows like a search light scanning the floors and furniture. Outside, it shone through a curtain of softly falling raindrops. I could see the rain but not hear it. Normally, it's loud, you hear it first.

It was an appropriate start for Mother's Day in America. At least that is how it unfolded for me.  I wished my mother were here so that I could present her with a lei made of fresh flowers, kiss her and tell her, thank you, Mama. That's what I called her when I was young.

There are still so many things I'd like to ask her. Little things. Like, how old were you when you left Montana to come to California? What was that like? I know it was in the '30s when she arrived and took a nursing position at Providence Hospital in Oakland.

Born on January 1, 1912 and raised on the eastern plains of Montana, she was the eighth of nine children who survived. Seven brothers preceded her and one sister who died shortly after birth.

She told me stories about her mother who did all the cooking and washing in a small house with a coal-fired stove on an earthen floor. The brothers wore a lot of clothes, not only because of the severely cold winters, but because folks dressed up then. There's a photograph of her seven brothers wearing their caps, jackets, scarves, trousers and shoes, all standing like pickets on a fence. Each with a separate, discerning personality.

"There's Bill, he was the athlete and such a good dancer."

"That's Carroll." He looked to me like an impish leprechaun. "He played the piano."

"There's Father Ronald." The seventh son, Ronald became a Jesuit priest. He was the acclaimed star of the family.

George, Jack, Francis and Edwin, who would become a published writer and live a Bohemian-style life as a painter, rounded out the boys. Cecilia was the youngest.

They were an Irish Catholic family. My mother attended a Catholic elementary school, St. Jude, in their small, raucous hometown of Havre where her father ranched and served as sheriff.

I loved her stories. She would recall the warm Chinook winds that blew down from Canada during frigid winters.

She told how sometimes the laundry would freeze on the clothes line.

"I don't know how my mother did it. Such a hard life."

It's not surprising that she would go to nursing school and become a working woman herself, a bread winner.

She never dawdled. She baked fabulous cakes and pies. Her box of recipes is a family treasure. She moved hastily, a fast walker. My father could hardly keep up with her. When she gave people shots with a needle, she would pinch the flesh of their arm and practically throw the sharp needle into it.

She read books and magazines with vigor. There was always an open book laying on a nearby table.

She demonstrated psychic powers. In a dream she confided to me one morning, she heard of the death of her brother Ronald. We learned later that he died of heart failure in his room in Portland.

Perhaps because of her seven brothers, she raised me with an attitude of "boys will be boys." Not wanting to disappoint her, I stayed out of serious trouble.

She possessed old school toughness. She took on the scary foe of cancer in her 40s hardly skipping a beat.

She was mother to two children, my sister Mary, whom we called Mimi, and me. She is two years younger.  She was happily married to the same man, my father Frank Samson, for 62 years.

During her final days, I would visit her, her mind still as sharp as the proverbial tack. She could look right through me.

Her high school yearbook was close to her bed. I had never seen it before. I would page through her yearbook, point to someone and say, "Mom, do you remember her?"

"Oh yes," she answered.

"What about him?" I pronounced his name. She couldn't see the photo.

"Of course."

At 95, my mother's body, not her mind, finally failed her. She sat up in her bed, reached for her shoes and said it was time to go.

She died four days after my 60th birthday. I had been out of town. She waited so we could see each other one last time.

Thanks, Mama. You were the best. I love you.

Brother, Where Art Tao?

Tai Chi Master Skip Rush and me 

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.  -- Lao Tsu


Sometimes I get a little out there. I exaggerate. I make up stories that are true yet seen only through my eyes. I try to be funny with my tongue in my cheek, yet that is difficult with the written word, when you can't see my cheek.

Let me be clear, as your favorite politician would begin. Let me be clear, I would rather be here on Kauai at this time than any other place in the world.

I joke about being stuck here and driving a rental car on low tire pressure. In my reality, I feel as though I have been stuck here for a reason. The reason doesn't necessarily matter to me, since reasons are only myths made of words. They have no value other than being interesting, worrisome or fun.

I like to choose fun. That can get me into trouble. So I try to be careful. The low-tire-pressure thing is fun to me, a true fact that I attempted to turn into a fun thing.

Recently our North Shore Tai Chi Master has been holding sessions three mornings a week at the shore of Hanalei Bay. I feel guilty telling you this, because to me it sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world. I want to be humble and not brag about it.

How did this happen? Because of Covid, the community center has been closed, so Master Skip has been holding tai chi sessions near the beach. How can he do this? He just does it. We attempt to practice social distancing between morning salutations and honoring the directions.

Facing the bay, my mind often drifts toward the surf lines and the sensations of riding waves. Then I refocus and try to maintain rhythm and balance and mindfulness of being on the ground while moving slowly and gracefully through forms that have been passed down over centuries.

In addition to tai chi form and earnest lessons from the Tao, Skip has gifted to me the uniform of tai chi. I didn't ask. I was just there. You could say, it was meant to be, but that would imply a reason and we've already gone over that.

That last statement was supposed to be funny, yet serious as well. Yin yang. The Master points out that our right hand is yang, the male side, and our left, yin, the feminine side. The sky is yang. The ground is yin.

This is all a meditation. It is miles away from pandemic and mortgage and tire pressure for your car.

"Breathe deeply, fill your abdomen. Now let it out slowly. Let go of the tension."

The release is a revelation.

"Every tai chi move," which we make in slow motion, "is good for your health," according to the Grand Master.

By now you have probably moved on to other things on your mind. I understand. I am just trying to slow things down to make my fun last longer.

"Walk as if your feet don't touch the ground. Move as though you are being blown by the wind. Speak with loving kindness and compassion."     --- Tai Chi Master Skip Rush

Running on Low Tire Pressure

Yours truly and Lil' Red

Renting a car on Kauai, or anywhere in Hawaii, can drive you crazy. Especially now that you cannot rent a car on Kauai, or anywhere in Hawaii. Unless you've first spent 14-days in your room.

Try finding a room. Vacation rentals have been closed. Resorts are on hiatus. There may be a room available at Uncle Carl's in Kilauea. You could text him but he doesn't have a cell phone.

I've got a cell phone and and a room, but can't get off the island.

Two days ago we had our latest flight canceled. That's the second cancelation. We booked both departures with Alaska Airlines which has no further flights scheduled to leave Kauai.

The few airlines that are operating from any island take you to Honolulu first.

In an earlier blog I bragged about our rental car, affectionately known as "Lil' Red." It's a red Ford Fiesta with a black hatchback that would never be mistaken for a rental car.  It's actually a conversation starter.

"Is that a Ford Fiesta?" I was recently asked by a local surf dawg at Pavilions.

"Yes it is," I answered.

"I grew up with Ford Fiestas. They're great little cars. I think we had them because my dad was such a tight wad."

Case closed, as far as I'm concerned.

A couple of days ago when I slipped the key into the ignition an orange light beamed like a beacon from a screen on the dashboard.

"Tire Pressure Low." The three words pulsed like a blood pressure gauge reporting my vital numbers in fragmented digital light.

Better a car tire than a human heart.

I climbed out of Lil' Red and performed a quick scan, eyeing each of four tires. The front right appeared slightly low.

I drove to the nearest gas station in Princeville where you can get anything from a slice of pizza to five-gallon can of propane. There's also a coin-operated air and water station that had a hand-written sign on it: "Out of Order."

Back at the condo I found Barbara in a near state of early-stage suicide caused by her relationship with her uncooperative computer.

"I've got to get out of here!" she said, not so calmly.

We decided to head south.

"There's an air machine at the Shell Station in Kilauea," I said. "We can stop there and pump up the tire."

In Kilauea we found the same discouraging message at the air pump station: a hand-scrawled "Out of Order." Gas was being pumped but not air.

"I know there's a station in Kapaa where we can get air," I said confidently.

Kealia Beach

On the way to Kapaa we pulled into a parking lot at Kealia Beach, usually a windswept strand of sand on the island's east side. The wind was calm. The colors were as clear as blue and green can be. We found a beach buried in driftwood -- bleached pieces, remnants of forests from up the rivers that had tumbled and washed to the shore.

It was a gold mine for Barbara. She went to work gathering just-the-right pieces for a wreath she had in mind. I walked around with my hands in my pockets, kicking a few pieces of wood with my foot. I found a nice log to sit on. The only person around besides us was friendly fisherman who smiled and waved.

It's a small thing, but you feel good when a local islander smiles at you.

With Barbara's bag full of small pieces of driftwood, we headed on to Kapaa where the next air station was, you guessed it: "Out of Order."

We found the same thing in the big-little town of Lihue near the harbor and airport. We tried three gas stations. Each had air and water pumps that were not working. The orange light on our dashboard continued to be working.

Facing some sort of air-pressure conspiracy, we decided to check with Island Cars, the independent outfit that rented the car to us here in Lihue.

Speaking through a cloth mask, I explained the situation to them. Speaking through a cloth mask, the woman said we would need to leave Lil' Red there for a thorough mechanical safety check.

"You could go do something and come back in an hour," she said. An hour on the island can sometimes turn into two and-a-half hours.

"What are we going to do?" asked Barbara. "Everything is closed."

They offered us a choice of compacts to replace Lil' Red.

On our way back across the island in a nondescript grey Nissan Versa with a hatchback (I have to have a hatchback.), all we could talk about was Lil' Red's superior features. Especially the color.

"It goes with the red dirt." We agreed.

Cinco de Mayo on Kauai

Path to beach at Rock Quarry.

Starting tomorrow visitors cannot rent a car in Hawaii until they have quarantined 14 days upon arrival. The screws seem to be tightening on tourists following the interception of two visitors who attempted to sneak in through the small Port Allen Airport

"We have quarantine exemption," one reportedly told officials. Kauai Police are investigating the two visitors who could face deportation from the state.

The Police and the National Guard have check points set up at various locations including near car rental agencies at the main airport in Lihue.

At the same time, there are more islanders on the roads. You get the sense that Ghost Island has ever so slightly come to life. Although storefronts in Hanalei, Kilauea and Kapaa remain sadly shuttered and ghostly.

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo, a celebration of the Mexican Army's victory over the French Empire at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. Although not an official holiday in Mexico, the date has reverberated through California for as long as I've been drinking tequila.

These days my consumption of the liquor made from Blue Agave has mostly been reserved for the aforementioned non-holiday celebration. If I remember the date I might take a shot. If I take more than two shots, I will likely not remember the date. If the planets are aligned -- meaning someone I know is having a party -- I may well enjoy the fabulous cocktail that is spiked with said liquor: the Marguerita.

How does this relate to Kauai?

Simple.

Through connections here at our refuge of Puamana, we were afforded the opportunity to order an authentic, homemade Mexican dinner from a neighbor who opened her kitchen services to nearby residents to celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

Her menu:

Carne Asada w/Chilaquiles

Chicken Rolitos filled with corn and mushrooms and poblano salsa

Corn with mayonnaise and cheese

Nacho cheese with pico de gallo

Dessert:

Chocoflan

Barbara ran to the store for tequila to make Margueritas. She insisted on adding the final magic Cinco de Mayo ingredient.

The only thing missing were friends, family and neighbors.

The two of us toasted our Margueritas and sat at the dining room table where we shared a special- delivery order of Carne Asada and Chicken Rolitos, with Chocoflan for dessert. Barbara added her own homemade green salad to go with the entrees.

On a trip to Oaxaca, Mexico about 25 years ago, I was introduced to Mexican cuisine that surpassed the common notion of tacos, burritos and taquitos. In Oaxaca those items are called "snack food." It's all about fresh ingredients, soups and moles.

Our Cinco de Mayo dinner did not include soup or a mole sauce, but the flavors reminded me of how subtle and unexpectedly complex traditional Mexican cuisine can be.

The rich piece of chocolate cake topped with a generous layer of delicious flan for dessert helped me  forget all of my worries.

I likely will not forget our modest but intimate Cinco de Mayo on Kauai during the time of Pandemic.

From Eternity to Here

Viva at Anahola Beach

And the strange thing was he had never loved her more than in that moment, because at that moment she had become himself.   --- James Jones, From Here to Eternity


Nine weeks have passed since we arrived on Kauai. Given that most of those 63 days have been spent sheltering in-place alone in a small condo in the middle of the Pacific Ocean nearly 2,500 miles from home, that time can feel like an eternity.

Our primary reason for coming to the island is to see our daughter and two grandchildren, ages 1 and 9, to help while our daughter works and to enjoy the little ones as grandparents do. These years are precious and not to be missed. Every contact -- grandchild to grandparent and back again -- ties us closer, produces a memory for life. Hawaiian culture calls it legacy.

Eternity, for us, has been not touching our grandchildren, not seeing them in-person, yet residing so close -- 10 miles down the road. We share the same Trade Winds and tropical island flow. But it hurts when we think about those little smiles and innocent eyes of wonder that we're missing up close. Social Distance has anti-social limits.

That eternity of isolation and distance has been counterbalanced by the island itself. The gentle sway and sudden cloud bursts are never dull. The sudden surprises of flowers bursting daily with color and fragrances that perfume the tropical air stop us in our tracks. Those tracks are often footprints. We walk in soft sand at Hanalei Bay. We never wear socks. We wear flips-flops that locals call slippahs.

We step wide of fellow walkers and exchange hand waves. We wear masks when we buy tools at Ace Hardware or groceries at Foodland Market in Princeville. We wash our hands afterwards in temporary sinks outside of the buildings. I turn off the water with my elbow to avoid touching the knob with a clean hand.

I feel ridiculous doing that but no one bats an eye.

We miss our dog Frida back home. House-sitters occupy our house in Santa Cruz. They are caring for our loyal German Shepherd who must wonder where we are. We were supposed to be gone six weeks but our flight home in mid-April was canceled. Our house-sitters, Vera and Joe, whom we met online, come from Barbados, which has been under quarantine with no incoming flights.

They are stuck in our house. We hardly know them. Sheltering has shut down the world, turned things around. Yet business continues online for Vera who now works virtually from  our place in Santa Cruz. Barbara meets with her Santa Cruz associates in Zoom meetings from Kauai.

Virtual life is good. Real life is lonely. The island setting is magnificent.

Barbara and I have discovered each other again. Stuck together in a condo for weeks on end we either accept our limitations and idiosyncrasies, or kill each other. An exaggeration, of course, but a peek at the daily news reveals worse.

We have probably seen our three daughters and their families more in the past four weeks than we've seen them in the past year -- altogether as a family -- on screen. We share and we listen. It's especially fun to hear our California grandchildren tell us what they're up to. They miss their friends, but find stuff to do, like ride their bikes, build backyard forts and learn cool dance moves.

Mystiko

Recently, I was thinking about our good fortune to be here. We have made friends, but have not been able to visit as freely as we like. My memoir writing group came to mind, since we meet weekly by Zoom. Then I realized that they are in their homes in Santa Cruz, not on Kauai. I had temporarily fooled myself, believing they were here.

These are weird times. We count our many blessings. We have friends and family. Our kids are healthy and employed. This seems like a miracle when you watch the news.

There's good news on Kauai. Today marks 28 days, two incubation periods, without a new Covid case on the island, which has been shut down for weeks.

Yesterday, feeling a little braver, perhaps more foolish, and aching to see our Kauai family in person, we drove to Anahola to deliver a package to our daughter Isabel Bryna and see our grandchildren, Viva and Mystiko. Upon arrival we tip-toed around each other, performing an odd separation ritual.

To prevent physical touching, Viva and Barbara exchanged gifts by placing little packages for each other on a rock. We're getting closer, inch-by-inch, to making skin-to-skin contact and closing the eternal gap of separation.

Gimme Some of that Ole Time Classical

Waipa River near mouth to Hanalei Bay  Photo:KCS

Classical music has never done much for me. Some find it relaxing. I've always found it to be a little nerve-wracking. Too dense and complicated. All those instruments playing notes so tightly strung I feel as though I might choke.

Give me some good ole R & B, please. Let me bounce around to the back beat.

Everything's changed since we've been sheltering in-place on the island. Yesterday and today, which is Sunday, I have rushed to my little Mini-Pod radio to turn on Classical. On weekends the community station that broadcasts from here in Princeville, begins the morning with a pleasant dose of Classical music.

For reasons I do not immediately understand, all the violins and horns and I don't-know-what, soothe my troubled soul. The music of Bach, Beethoven, Debussy, Chopin, Mozart and their coevals has become a pleasant backdrop to the island's intense flora.

I see tangles of tree roots swarming and branching, twisting with so many other green-leafed partners creating jungles that are too thick to separate. I lose count trying to note the different shapes and sizes of green leaves. Everything seems to grow on hyper-speed. I hear a multitude of orchestral violins.

My heretofore solitary experience with Classical music is intrinsically connected to my daughter Vanessa. I remember watching her at three-years-old dancing around the room to Peter and the Wolf, a 1936 composition by Sergei Prokofiev. She was overcome with the sounds and fantasy of characters represented by the music of different instruments.

Observing this magical connection, I became determined that she would learn to play piano, at least be given the opportunity.

And so it was.

Piano became her talisman, as I saw it. Throughout her early schooling, her ability to entertain school groups at the annual talent shows seemed like an anchor holding her steady. She didn't play Classical. She started with Rags, Al Jolsin music.

Midway or so through her college experience at Humbolt State University, behind the Redwood Curtain, as they called it, she made a life change, going from Social Science to a Music major. To accomplish this, she had to learn to play Classical music. Not merely play it, but understand the complicated musical language well enough to perform it proficiently in front of an audience and serious-minded instructors whose keen ears and eyes were focused on excellence.

Her repertoire to that point was popular music and improvisation. She started behind the curve of her fellow music majors trained in Classical tradition from early age.

Long story short, her Bachelors and Masters recitals, at Humboldt State and California State University Northridge, respectively, performing solo Classical pieces on piano were the two most amazing and satisfying "concerts" I have ever attended.

The soaring music represented personal achievement that every parent desires for their children, the result of dedication, discipline and motivation, over-coming obstacles that are created from without and within.

Perhaps the atmosphere of the island coupled with those recitals lodged somewhere in my heart, soul and niggled brain, have allowed me to connect with weekend morning Classical here on Kauai. How could I forget.

Hana hou: Happy Birthday to Mike Harrington! (Vanessa's husband, my son-in-law). Vanessa is currently teaching fifth-grade writing, with resorts to piano, at Viewpoint Academy in Calabasas, Calif. A musician himself, Mike is a school administrator with Los Angeles City School District, and a major supporter of Vanessa.

No Guns but Leis

Shelter-in-place protestors in front of Kauai Courthouse. Photo: The Garden Island

It was bound to happen. No where is an island.

The first sizable group of protesters gathered in front of the historic Courthouse in Lihue yesterday, May 1,  to express their opposition to what they called "the lock-down" due to Covid-19.

Thankfully, none were carrying guns, as we've seen on TV in places like the state of Michigan. In fact, most wore Hawaiian leis made of flowers; May 1 is called "Lei Day" throughout Hawaii.

The Kauai citizenry of about 65,000 full-time residents was well represented among the estimated 150 protestors.

Following is part of a letter in today's The Garden Island newspaper written by one of the protesters:

"Today's protest brought together a very diverse group of people with all sorts of political views. There were Native Hawaiians, haoles, long-time residents, malahinis, people from all walks of life, but one thing we all had in common was that we want the island and its businesses to open up."

Photos of protesters back up the claim of diversity. Those carrying signs look like the same range of people that you see at CostCo. Most were not wearing masks -- another sign of oppression, some claimed.

Messages hand scrawled on the signs included:

Fire Faucci.

Bankrupt. No Pension 4 U.

Un-lock our Kauai, Freedom, Rights etc.

It was the second such protest on the island, called "Walk for Our Rights," and easily the largest, according to the newspaper report. Motorists honked their horns as they drove past the Courthouse on Rice Street.

According to a press release by the protesters: "There is no conclusive evidence that the stay-at-home order has had any impact on the number of cases on the island."

I believe this statement could be debated since the quarantine has basically shut down any would-be Covid carriers. But hey, this is America where free speech and the right to assemble is guaranteed. We can essentially say whatever we want. It doesn't have to be true or factual, notwithstanding libel laws to protect individuals.

I'm sure there are a great many islanders who are frustrated with the shelter-in-place and quarantine rules. It sucks. I personally believe the sacrifice will save lives and businesses in the long run. Barbara stands behind the health scientists. She assiduously wipes down every item that enters the condo.

We abide.

For the past month, the number of active cases of Covid-19 on Kauai remains zero. Statewide the Department of Health has reported 619 total cases since Feb 28, with 16 Covid-related deaths throughout the islands.

Stranded in Paradise during this pandemic is not all beaches and waterfalls. As the 50th state, Hawaii  is hearing the same outrage, fears and concerns as their fellow Americans on the Mainland. Even here on the small island of Kauai.

So far the discontented wear floral leis while expressing their rights.

Keep the aloha. Be Pono.

No doubt the authorities will be chewing on this issue over the next week.

Woeful, Wonderful Birdie

Fledgling Albatross with parents

Day after day, day after day
We stuck, nor breath nor motion
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean

Water, water everywhere
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink

The very deep did rot: oh Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
                                         -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798

The poor Albatross has gotten a bad rap. All because of a poem by an English sailor penned more than 200 years ago.

The Makai Golf Course on Kauai has been closed for play because of sheltering-in place regulations.  Due to Covid-19, operators of the world-famous private golf course have turned their eyes away from the trespassers, quietly allowing walkers a new trail during closure of the course.

Beyond the obvious beauty of the island setting, resting quietly beneath tropical trees on the fringe of the golf course, an unsuspecting walker might discover a rare and fetching view that can only be seen on a very few islands on Earth.

That would be a cute, albeit large, baby albatross being tended to by its loving parents.

Laysan albatrosses are magnificent seabirds with incredible wingspans of up to seven-feet, wingtip to wingtip. They range over the vast North Pacific Ocean, spending years at a time soaring over the largest span of water on the planet, sailing on wind currents as far north as the Arctic Circle.

Every so many years -- not days or months -- they find a remote island where they can land to breed. One such place is the island of Kauai, right here, curiously, alongside the golf course in Princeville.

It's not as if they were here first and have a bone to pick with strange people with sticks chasing small, dimpled balls. They arrived here to nest after the golf course was built. It does seem strange.

These curious birds look like a cross between a gigantic seagull and a large duck. On land they waddle awkwardly as though they might fall over at any second. They are definitely air creatures built to fly not to walk.

Breeding runs from November to August when the young fledgling launches from the precipice of a 175-foot cliff, on the far side of the eighth green? The bird's initial flight can last from three-to-four years.

Can you imagine hitting a golf ball that doesn't hit land for three or four years? Just sayin'.

About five miles east, Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge is a haven for a variety of Pacific seabirds, including Albatross.

Smaller, shallower Pacific island sanctuaries are now subject to rising sea levels, sending magnificent, soaring Albatross to mate and nest on the golf course in Princeville.