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.