Day of Living Dangerously

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No dice. We were good to go.

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

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

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

Barbara and I stood speechless.

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

Finally, she broke the standoff: "Okay."

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

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

I promise.

Tai'd Up at the Bay

Hanalei 3/20/2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Remember honesty, integrity and compassion."

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

Friday Prayer

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

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

There are fewer people on the streets and paths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We communicate online with friends.

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

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

Aloha.

Sticky Fingers in the Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shelter from the Storm

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

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

Who ever heard of 'sheltering in place.'?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More rain forecast for Kauai. Gimme Shelter.

Rain Song

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

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

An alarming song with hardly a break

Trouble sleepin' with a mind full of ache

River overflowin an' flash flood warnings

Holdin' down the fort an' a virus swarming

Across the land there runs a panic

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

Weatherman shows way wind's blowin'

Disturbance hangin in sky, not flowin'

Word up, this too shall pass

Meanwhile, listen to rain, single-note jazz

Time to Practice Aloha

Pavilions, 3/15/2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aloha to all.