The Road Taken

Each new day during our present lock-down seems to come with a new word or phrase.

Social distance is already a cliche, yesterday's phrase. We all know what it means. It's one of those nouns that has quickly become a verb, an action word.

We wish everyone to social distance, or practice social distancing.

This morning I learned a new phrase. It's been around in psychology circles but seems most appropriate for our situation:

Tragic optimism.

As I understand, tragic optimism is related to PTS (post traumatic stress). It requires crisis. An acceptance of crisis, which any good soldier must accept and deal with.

You don't simply run to your happy place. There isn't a pill or tonic. It's real, not fake. Some of us respond more "optimistically." It's an opportunity to act, not hide.

I think this is how common folk become heroes.

I think the United States of America, at its very soul, stands for tragic optimism.

You see it in the call to duty of our first responders, our health-care workers, food suppliers and more. These folks sacrifice their own well-being, and lives, for others. They rise to the occasion.

A simple example of tragic optimism in our culture is, I believe, protective masks. While other countries walk around in white masks, we immediately create colorful, artful and unique ones. It's an optimistic twist to a tragic situation.

It is clear, however, that we are on our own at this time. Each state, each community, each family. I am hopeful that at our very core, we will continue to be good soldiers. Always ready to lend a helping hand. Come up with a new solution to our common problem.

                                                                       ***

Yesterday I participated in a virtual group meeting of memoir writers. I have been a part of this group for more than a year. We came together via Zoom. The meeting was hosted by the Louden Nelson Community Center in Santa Cruz, under the able technical direction of Kelly Mercer-Lebov.

Here we were, each in our own domicile but together in spirit: Helen, Pam, Nancy, David, and Kathryn Cowan, our astute coach. Some of us had time to read a couple of pages of manuscript to the group, followed by individual comments.

The material is personal. We reveal our experiences in words read out loud. You really don't know what you have until you read it to a group, hear your voice speaking your coveted words.

A friend of mine who is sadly no longer with us was a writing teacher at UC Santa Cruz. His name was Don Rothman. He believed so strongly in the power of writing and inspired many students who went on to become excellent professional writers, as well as other occupations, I'm sure.

When he spoke of writing, his eyes would glow, he would smile and literally beam. He told me that when he was young, he would listen to opera in his bedroom. I could not imagine doing that myself, but I could see him dancing around in joyful celebration.

Through the help of my fellow memoir writers, and a few other mentors, I am beginning to understand how Don felt.

Zooooooommmmm!!!

Art by Samson Harrington

As of today there are 16 reported cases of Covid-19 on Kauai, 371 throughout the Islands.

Even amidst the grandeur of this island, there are moments when everything seems to stop, a moment  when a shadow crosses your landscape.

Maybe it's something you heard from the news, or a friend. It holds you in your tracks.

Nothing moves. You cannot turn back. The trail narrows and daylight darkens just enough to make you wonder. The only map forward is your own resolve.

Then it happens: voluntary yet magically natural.

The connection, the flint that sparks the steel, however that works inside your head, sends a message to your foot. In a micro instant, the signal zooms along synapses, a lightning bolt on nerve fiber.

There is no feeling or second guessing. The flash courses down and through your limbs, the extremities that you carry and that carry you.

Your knee flexes, your leg lifts. The journey continues. That second of indecision now an echo.

Art by Finn Harrington 

Yesterday our day brightened with a virtual happy hour with our daughters and grandchildren, connecting Los Angeles with Marin County with Kauai.

We Zoomed together. A new tech platform for socializing.  I love the word "zoom." It's so retro 1950s, when space ships and Flash Gordon roamed the universe. And Captain Zero held us captive with his TV show.

Daughter Vanessa hosted the Zoom party. She is a fifth-grade teacher and holds virtual classes with her students from her home in Woodland Hills. Her husband Mike and their two boys, Samson and Finn, appeared on the screen.

Samson showed us awesome drawings he's made. Finn, our family dancer, displayed colorful paintings including an artfully rendered tree.

Next, we saw daughter Molly in her familiar family room in San Rafael, with her husband Jason and their girls, Summer and Piper. Summer talked about the possibility of going to Oregon for college next year. Jason and Piper were asked to vacate a basketball court although they were the only ones there. Boo. No more hoops. Molly showed us color samples painted on the wall for new interior design.

It took a little longer but soon we heard granddaughter Viva's lively voice from Anahola on Kauai, not far away by miles, yet socially separated because of the Big-V. Mama Isabel and little-guy Mystiko could be heard, too. Sadly, we could not see them due to tech limitations.

For those moments, we were all together. We chatted and shared stuff and laughed for about an hour.

I already look forward to meeting again next week. Yet there's more time to act between now and then. The act of life. The drama that we consume and that absorbs us. That's what it comes down to: the present. Our daily breath. Our every move and wonder. Onward into the light.

As Captain Zero used to say: Zoooooooooommmmm!

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