Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow

Mystiko, not concerned with time of day

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

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

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

How could this happen?

A senior moment?

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

Viva after the show

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

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

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

The clock keeps ticking.

What a morbid thought.

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

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

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

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

Time is not real. It's a hoax.

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

A Long Strange Trip & Happy Birthday

Rick in his '56 Porsche Speedster

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

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

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

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

Who was this guy?

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

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

I was near mesmerized when I read his story about the film making of Leonard Gardner's novel, "Fat City," a classic boxing tale directed by the legendary John Huston (Chinatown, Treasure of Sierra Madre). Not only did RC write about the Stockton-California based movie, Huston put him in the film. Outfitted in a wide-lapelled suit and fedora, Rick appeared in a front page photograph with his story.

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

It was Rick Carroll live and in person.

I never had the opportunity to meet him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I devoured and thoroughly enjoyed the book.

Marcie and Rick, Ohau days

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, Rick. What a long strange trip.

Puamana, City of Refuge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Good, Bad and Empty

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the positive side:

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

Animals are immune, including our pets.

I'm feeling better already.

I think I'll go surfing.

Run, Viva, Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This place is on the map.

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

The Eagle Flies on Yoga Mat

Beach at Hanalei scattered with driftwood from local rivers 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wind and rain are not great surfing conditions.

So yoga.

"Whappp!"

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

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

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

We hook up after yoga.

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

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

Cloudy skies in Hanalei 3/7/2020

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

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

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

Guy's definitely got the stoke.

The scene also stoked Curly.

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

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

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

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

Bummer, we agree.

Every day I feel a little more at home here.

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

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

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

Middle of Pacific in Midst of Pandemic

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

"Welcome home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Checking "Hideaways" below

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

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

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

"They were relaxed and laughing."

He had experienced a false-alarm spate of coughing. 

Good news! They told him.

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

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

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

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

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