Daze of Vine and Roaches

On the trail to Hanalei

The rain that was forecast for the weekend has barely watered the Heliconia, a plant native to the American tropics and Pacific Islands that sprouts lovely bird-of-paradise type flowers.

We received a big splash yesterday when the faucet was turned on for about 10 minutes. Lucky for us we were not walking at that moment. It's always a rush to find "shelter" (word of the season) when it starts to pour in curtains.

Dark clouds move around above like fluffy chess pieces in the sky. They might just fly by, unchecked, if it weren't for the pointed mountain tops that catch them up. That's where the rain is greatest, creating magnificent waterfalls that we humans love to see.

We try not to leave home on foot without an umbrella. You know, those little collapseable kind that are easy to carry, good for one person only. Make sure you each have one.

Still, the weekend has been mostly sunny, humid and hotter than it has been. This brings out the mosquitoes and our prehistoric friends, the cockroaches.

A little research indicates that there are 19 different species of cockroach throughout the islands. The largest, a three-incher, is the Periplaneta Americana. Some locals have christened it the "747," from the days of that famous Jumbo Jet.

When this species flies through your bedroom at night looking for a place to land with an internal homing device that seeks heads with lots of hair, you are likely to hear a scream.

I am fortunate to have very little hair on my head, a big plus in the tropics.

Your next pet?

Barbara, not so fortunate. Her beautifully thick hair, with silvery sheen, operates like landing lights, throws out a signal to the 747.

Try as I might, I am not a good defense for this monstrous-looking land-air creature. Either I'm too slow or too kind. I prefer to think the latter. Although I'm probably fooling myself.

Barbara has become a first-rate assassin. With paperback in hand, she is a veritable lethal foe for the Periplaneta Americana. I am duly impressed. And ashamed. A shell of a man.

We all seem to possess our strengths and weaknesses. These days of quarantine and sheltering brings out those qualities that make us survivors, or not. Hey, the "cockies," as I call them, have, similar to the whales, been around a lot longer than we have.

Just sayin. And I did fix the screen door.

Talking, Walking & Whales

View from pali at SeaLodge. Keep looking, the whales will appear.

"I thought I had looked everywhere."

"Well it just goes to show that you didn't."

"It was packed and padded, and sealed with velcro."

"You should have gone through every pouch. Maybe you're just too lazy."

I was listening to the familiar voices when Barbara asked: "Who are you talking to?"

"Myself," I said. "I found my sunblock tucked away in my backpack."

"Oh dear," she replied.

Sheltering in place. It's crazy.

"You want to take a walk?" she said.

"Sounds good. I need to inhale some fresh air."

"The sun's out," she said.

"I know. It's hot out there, too."

I knew this because I had earlier washed the windows that look out into our lanai. I got tired of looking through accumulated dust that builds up, creates a screen that blocks our view to the beauty outside. I demand clarity when I write, or so I told myself without saying it out loud. I worked up a sweat.

"I don't want to go too far," she said. "My feet are still a little sore."

She was referring to near blistering of the bottom of her feet from walking, like, ten miles one day in sandals with bumps on the insoles. She can walk.

"Why are your eyes red?" she asked when we met up to leave for our walk. "Have you been smoking?"

"No," I said. "I was writing a poem, and it made me cry."

"What was it about?"

"About little people."

"You mean short people?"

"No, little ones like Mystiko."

She didn't say anything, but her eyebrows lifted and her eyes seemed to roll.

We walked across the Makai Golf Course staying on the cart path. It is closed now. I recalled what my neighbor Rick said:

"A good walk is a golf course closed."

We walked out to SeaLodge which sits on a bluff. The units are shingled, fishing-village style. Probably built in the 70s. The complex reminds me of Sea Ranch in Sonoma County and Pajaro Dunes on Monterey Bay.

"Don't sit on that bench," said Barbara.

"I wasn't going to," I said.

Many outdoor benches and chairs are yellow-taped to keep people off. The V-word. We were completely alone on the pali. We sat down on spongy green grass. The humidity was high. The air was thick with a slight coolness from a breeze that blew off of the ocean.

Barbara's cell phone started to chime.

"It's Deb," she said.

"Daily Deb," I said.

She is a good friend back in Santa Cruz. She and Barb chat almost everyday. Catch each other up on personal news. Cell phones have become our go-to. For everything! I don't need to tell you that, I'm sure.

While they chatted I stared out to sea, preoccupied by the thought that there's no land between us and Japan.

Suddenly, way out on the horizon, I saw a splash! Then another! Dark-colored whoppers frolicking and spouting about two miles out. Gotta be humpbacks.

"Whoa!" I said. I pointed toward the horizon. It was a sign, I told myself. A good sign.

Friday's Surf & Turf

Friday's sunrise

It's Friday. Check off another week. Stay hunkered down. The eagle flies, again. Spread aloha. Shaka to all.

A second death was announced today on the archipelgo once known as the Sandwich Islands, famous today as Hawaii.

A 50-something year-old woman came down with the virus while on the friendly isle, Molokai. She was transported to Queens Medical Center in Honolulu, the major health care facility in Hawaii, where she passed away.

No word regarding her health status before contracting the scourge virus. She is the second death from C-19 on the islands.

The so-called tidal wave will come. Authorities are scrambling to prepare.

Although the beaches are empty, surfing is allowed. Yesterday small, nicely shaped waves rolled through Pine Trees, a popular surf break at Hanalei Bay. It seemed to be the best wave in the bay. Out at The Bowl risers were not holding up.

Maureen hits the beach at Pine Trees between sets.

At Pine Trees a handful of riders bobbed on boards, taking advantage of a few peelers over a sandbar for short, smooth glides before reaching the trough where it's too deep for waves to keep breaking.

Word is the virus thrives in salt water and can also spread in ocean spray, according to a couple of reports, one in the LA Times. Yikes! In addition to sharks, and run-off bacteria, we now have to worry about the V-word.

The C-19 caveat-memo has not made mainstream media on Oahu where surf line-ups are still as common as mosquitoes in the jungle. Fear of surfer insurrection? The islands' identity in crisis. Would Duke go?

Here at Puamana we sequester. Guy Hagi forecasts more rain. Roofs are being repaired by a crew from Oahu: essential employees. Are they carrying the Big-V to our garden hideaway?

Bright-feathered birds sing. Sunrise is spectacular. Majestic waterfalls tumble down blue-green mountain faces. Ukulele is tuned, waits patiently to be played.

Aloha nui loa.

Lost People and Sunblock

Red hibiscus are appearing like fireworks on green hedges. Each day brings more flowers.

We are of the fortunate few to witness the beauty.

"Kauai is closed," said Mayor Derek Kawakami.

Heavy restrictions are being enforced. Yesterday a visitor was arrested and fined for leaving his hotel room. This was big news, reported by local and Honolulu-based news sources.

The mayor says tourists must stay put for 14-days, no roaming around, even on resort grounds. The few resorts on the north shore are shut: the Princeville Resort (formerly The Regis) and the Westin.

Those traveling inter-island are quarantined.

Those of us who are sheltering here, jump at the opportunity to walk when the sun appears. It's wise to bring an umbrella, or be ready to get soaked.

Two days ago, we seized the opportunity. I unzipped by backpack and grabbed my compact-sized can of sun block, unscrewed the lid and dipped my finger into the paste. I rubbed the white stuff, mostly zinc, onto my face, dressed to Marcel Marceau fashion.

Off we flew into the greater green garden.

That evening, long after my 3-mile walk, Barbara said, "You've got white all over your face."

"I want to be protected," I said. I added that I only use the reef-friendly sunblock. Besides, that's all I brought, no cream.

The following day when the sun appeared. I couldn't find my sunblock. I searched EVERYWHERE!

My backpack. All drawers, toilet bag, pockets, shelves, under pillows, beds and couches. Nada. So secondary search measures required: empty and shake out backpack, pants, curtains, towels. Look in every cupboard, cranny and cubby hole. Check under rug. We don't have rug. Nada.

Relax. Recall every step taken last time I used said sunblock in flat tin-can with screw-on lid. Go over every move and thought. Think about what I was thinking about. Nada.

Today is another day. Sun is out. I'm confident my sunblock will show up, too. Maybe with golf ball.

Golf in the Kingdom

7th hole at The Prince 

My guru has advised me to think negatively.

Before you say, Isn't enough negativity in the world right now, let me explain.

Here at Puamana we are on the edge of a series of sink holes. During the incredible rains of April 2018, when slightly less than 50-inches rained down during a 24-hour period, tons of rushing water opened up cracks in the top soil and deeper into the earth on the sixth fairway of the majestic Prince Golf Course.

Think negative space. Black holes. Einstein's formula.

This surreal golf course has been a ghost course for a while, long before the sink holes, which have recently been under "repair" in hopes of re-opening the course.

Stories about resurrecting the course have proliferated from golf disciples as fervent prayers longing for the return of The Prince.

Since social distancing has taken hold, random walkers such as myself can be seen walking near the sixth, seventh and eighth holes that form an isolated triangle that slithers out to a precipice above the ocean.

During recent, heavy rain showers I deigned to walk these three holes in contemplation and hope for better days.

My rumination was disrupted by a soft thud. I looked over to see a white golf ball roll to a stop. Looking back I saw a man climb into a golf cart and head my way.

Rain was suddenly light and misty, clouds above grey, I could smell moisture rising from the earth.

He pulled up in his cart, at first appearing as any duffer might look: baseball-style cap, shorts that covered his thighs. He gave me a nod and I was struck by his blue-green eyes peering below thick brows that through the mist took the shape of two narrow canoes flared at each end.

"Nice shot," I said.

He nodded, again. "Thanks."

"I didn't know the course was open," I said.

He just smiled. A dark cloud above us burst. Rain fell like golf balls.

"Like a ride?" he offered.

Adhering to social distance I declined.

"Thanks. I can walk"

"It's your game."

When I arrived at the top of the hill overlooking the cove below and the reef beyond, he had already completed his shot.

"Want to give her a try?" he said.

He went to his bag and pulled out a metal-wood.

"It's sanitized," he said.

I was drenched. But I took the club.

From my pocket I pulled a Titleist golf ball that I had found. Teed it up. Addressed the ball. And swung. The shot required a 200-yard carry over a jungly swail to a pristine, green dance floor.

The ball disappeared in front of a backdrop of white clouds.

"Meet you at the green," he said.

When I reached the green, he was not there. He had disappeared. Mysterioso.

I never found my ball. My last resort was to look in the hole. It was empty. Except for a note scratched on the torn corner of a scorecard.

"True gravity took your ball," it said. "Look in the sink hole."



Editor's note:

The Prince Golf Course was designed by renowned golf-course architect, Robert Trent Jones, Jr., opened in 1990. It was the original golf course at Princeville. Jones still refers to the course as his "masterpiece." It has been closed for years, while various enterprising owners have discussed unique inclusions, such as adventure programs. Presently it is called a "preserve."

Golf in the Kingdom is the title of a 1971 novel by Michael Murphy, a founder of Esalen (human potential institute) at Big Sur. The story is as much about philosophy as it is about golf. The term "true gravity" comes from Shivas Irons, the mystical protagonist in the story.

This blog post by Kevin Samson, a devotee of Zen Buddhism, was published on April 1, 2020. April Fools Day.

Any resemblance to real persons, past or present, is purely coincidental. The account described is purely fiction, as far as we know. The sink holes, now repaired, were real.

Golf balls found in sink holes

Community Wisdom

Four weeks have passed since we arrived on the island, which has gradually become a landscape empty of people and social activity.

Due to the shut down of tourism, Hawaii is now in recession, according to a University of Hawaii economist. Unemployment on Kauai is at 17-percent, Maui 18-percent and Oahu 9-percent.

Many friends have advised that we remain on Kauai, a great location to shelter in place. And it is. It's so beautiful and the vibe remains low-key and seemingly relaxed.

The best way to describe the local media, from Honolulu network news to local Kauai radio, is "community."

I cannot imagine any news network today projecting more smiles and laughter amid the frightening reports. Somehow the men and women on the TV screen -- some from their own homes; most attired in flora prints -- are able to balance negativity with aloha.

It's as though we are sitting on the porch together talking story and chuckling.

Our electronic connection seems more important than ever.

The PBS Hawaii station exudes aloha through many local programs devoted to Hawaiian music, family stories and the inter-connectedness of island life.

Yesterday I was talking with one of the landscaping crew, a young man, thin-limbed with a long wispy beard flowing like a waterfall from his chin. It reminded me of the beard of an ancient Chinese sage.

I asked him for his name.

"I'm Kimo," he said, giving me a quick one-handed Shaka. He's part of a crew still employed.

"It's a good thing you're here now," he said. "The mainland, whew... We're more laidback."

"For sure," I said.

We chatted at social distance, he trimming yellow leaves from ti plants (known to ward off evil spirits) with a small machete. Me pulling weeds sprouting through ground cloth with bare fingers.

"We need to get rid of ground covering," he said. "Bugs and centipedes hide underneath. The cloth suffocates the plants."

I pulled a leafy weed lifting the cloth with it. A small centipede wriggled out like an angry tiger near my foot.

"The little ones will clamp their fangs into you," he said, shaking his hand as though it had been stung. "They're young, lots of energy. Sting lasts for days."

"The big ones," he said, spreading apart his long index finger and thumb to show me size, will only wrap onto you. They don't want to sting."

Good to know.

Sounds of Silence

Plumeria

Everything stops at night. Sounds of silence. Listen closely and you hear the noise of void. It's dark and beautifully empty.

The island curfew seems to be working. The state of Hawaii reported this morning that two visitors arrived on Kauai last Friday.  Less than 180 visitors showed up that day on the island of Oahu, tourist central.

The numbers are supposed to be less for Saturday, although not yet published.

Because most arrive by air, Hawaii has the distinct ability to monitor incoming people. Few flights are arriving or departing due to the virus. No deaths from c-19 have yet been reported.

We remain undecided about when to leave. As the clock ticks, airlines eliminate departures. The very few direct outbound flights cost more than $1,000 each.

Will the nefarious virus soon spread widely here, too? Then what?

Yesterday the weather was perfect. Periods of brilliant sunshine and patches of blue sky following the deluge of Friday-Saturday. Plumeria and Puakenikeni flowers are beginning to bloom. These are the most popular flowers for making aromatic floral leis.

Both flowers grow on trees. The plumeria are opening their petals with shades of pink, white and yellow. The leaves on plumeria trees take more time to show up, as if less important and late to the party, the opposite of self-important people.

It's amazing how the scenery changes so quickly and dramatically. Tumbling white waterfalls appear on the mountain sides. Glossy greens subtly wave. Red and yellow hibiscus add color. I am humbled by nature's majesty.

Isolated walkers and a few bicyclists move about on paths and roads.

Surf riders watch, wait and listen.

Quiet, contemplative times while we slow down, pay attention to our most vital needs and gifts.