Old Kauai, New Kauai

The Jetty was once the center of nightlife on Kauai

We were so young but we didn't know it.

I had no idea that a trip to Kauai would foretell my future. I had no interest in Hawaii beyond Connie Stevens, the comely blonde nightclub singer in the popular television series Hawaiian Eye. The year was 1968.

"They call it the Garden Isle," said the travel agent who arranged our honeymoon, her face made up, red lipstick, deep tan wrinkles from over-exposure to sun, or perhaps too many cigarettes. The raspy voice was a giveaway. "You have to see the Hanalei Plantation. You will love it.”

She wore a plumeria in her hair that released the fragrance of a tropical Shangrila.

We were barely old enough to vote or purchase a Mai Tai, whatever that was. We were the innocent, good-looking, wide-eyed married couple who appeared in glossy magazine photos. 

But we didn't know it.

Hanalei (2019)

Our trip was a wedding gift from her mother, my new mother-in-law, following a large wedding at Our Lady of Assumption Catholic church in the little town of Claremont, where we had rented an apartment to live when we returned from the islands.

The oldest of the Hawaiian chain, Kauai had not yet been fully discovered by the tourist crowd. They went to Waikiki. In the Seventies, the surfers and hippies invaded Maui.

We were booked into the only visible hotel in Poipu a few short miles from Lihue, the county seat. Our accommodations were a two-story building that resembled Travel Lodge motels that could be found on any highway in the U.S. Our lodging sat on hardened lava, not near a beach. It was so quiet we could hear the silent cockroaches at night.

As, seemingly, the only human occupants of said hotel, we relied solely on love and romance, along with the music of song birds and gently swaying palms with clumps of coconuts; wafting cool breezes subsumed the indulgent humidity.

"I want to find a fresh pineapple," my new bride said to me.

When we ventured out the first morning, in our rental car, I was startled to see dead frogs, the size of papayas, splattered on the few roads amid the island's lush greenery. The sight sickened me: squashed, long-legged frogs on hard asphalt.

We never saw a chicken, modern Kauai's signature fowl-feathered friend. As the story is told, the chickens were released from their cages with Hurricane Iniki in 1992, the most devastating natural disaster to hit the island in modern times. Homes were flattened and swept away. Chickens fluttered and propagated with a feral variety introduced earlier from Southeast Asia. 

The island survived disaster as it had for 5 million years.

I bodysurfed the excellent waves at Brennecke’s, pure and glassy cover-ups, the best and most memorable ever. The locals climbed to the tops of palm trees and tossed down coconuts that they punctured with knives and drank from. Civilization at Brennecke's consisted of a tiny market the size of a small garage, across the road.

“With your dark hair and skin,” she told me, having watched from the beach, "you blended in." 

I felt empowered, observed and complimented. I told her that I admired the way she peeled tropical bananas with her long, beautiful fingers.

Drive, She Said

We headed north in our rental car. She read from a visitor's guide about menehunes -- the little people who once lived here. There had been sightings. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Did she really believe?

We veered from Kuhio Highway toward the beach at the Hawaiian settlement of Anahola where according to our guide book, in 1946 the community had been destroyed by a great tsunami. The tires of our rental dug into the sandy beach and spun like a fan. We were stuck.

I searched near a beach shack for a board or tree branch to leverage beneath the rear wheels to move the car. Following several unsuccessful attempts, a young man -- brown-skinned and shirtless, empty expression -- emerged from the shack.

"Get in da cah, staht da engine and give it gas."

I followed his directions while he bounced on the back bumper. The tires grabbed the sand, pushing the rental forward. He disappeared back into the shack. That was that.

I felt like the most clueless haole tourist on the island. At that moment, I was. I had signaled to the young kane in his beach home that we -- malihinis -- were coming. We were a sighting of the island's future.

We continued northward seeking the Hanalei Plantation. At an overlook, we saw rows of taro growing in shallow water. The sultry atmosphere steamed upward from below filling our nostrils with redolent organic fumes.

"This must be the plantation," we agreed. The backdrop of tapering, rich green volcanic mountains, creased with white waterfalls confirmed our expectations. Yet we were never sure.

We passed through the small village consisting of a few old, wooden Western-front stores and a long-porched school building, not realizing that this would be the heart of the oncoming invasion many years later: Hanalei, as in Puff the Magic Dragon, a folk tale converted to song by Peter, Paul and Mary.

We stopped at a beach on Hanalei Bay and watched crabs the size of our hands appear from under the sand and scramble in all directions. This was not Newport Beach.

We parked where the road ended and discovered a cove called Ke'e. We swam in the turquoise-clear water, the two of us alone beneath cerulean skies and puffy white clouds.

"We've found paradise," she said.

Swimming pool at the Kauai Marriott at the harbor

One evening we turned our sights toward night life.  We ventured to the Surf hotel, the tallest building in Lihue on the hill above the Nawiliwili Harbor, Kauai's port of call. "Surf,"proclaimed the sign on top that glowed in blue, lighted letters. Opened in 1960, the Surf was the first hotel at Kalapaki, the name of the harbor beach.

The location is noteworthy in Kauai's history. In 1891, 2,000 islanders, likely the entire population, welcomed Queen Lili' uokolani with lighted torches blazing along the harbor mouth announcing her royal tour of Kauai. William Hyde Rice and his wife arranged a grand luau in honor of the Queen held on his Lihue Ranch property that he had purchased, in conjunction with other adjacent properties, for $27,500 from Princess Ruth Keelikolani. 

The tidal wave of 1946 destroyed Rice's beach home at Kalapaki.

In 1987 the Westin Kauai replaced the Surf. Eight years later, the grand Kauai Marriott with sumptuous architectural gardens and artful stonework took over the site and continues to operate today. It is the site of the Kauai Writers Conference held annually in November, considered one of the top meetings of writers and publishers in the world.

Where the Locals Go

That night we rode the elevator to the top of the Surf where we discovered a cocktail lounge with windows, although it was too dark to enjoy the view.

We were the young, starry-eyed honeymoon couple sitting at the table in the middle of the room. We attracted two women tourists in too-tight clothing who joined us at our table. We also lured a slight, dark-complected man outfitted in a blue and white aloha shirt.

"I'm Sonny," he introduced himself. "I drive taxi. I can take you anywhere." 

The two women, Irene and Betty, were older and gussied up as if for a luau at the Royal Hawaiian in Waikiki. We drank tropical libations, talked story and giggled. 

Well into our cups, Sonny announced:

"Do you want to go where the locals go? I will take you."

We piled into his cab and sped down the hill to a waterfront roadhouse called "The Jetty." A sudden breeze arose, sending the stiff aroma of the ruffled sea our way.

We heard music blasting from inside. The room vibrated boisterously. An attractive, young dark-haired woman danced on a stage, or was it a table, for all to see, her arms flailed. She lifted the front of her skirt flashing her panties that featured the image of a target, a bull's eye, between her legs.

The crowd roared. Sonny guided us to seats. We drank beer. The band played. The locals yelled their approval.

Eventually surfeited with raucous local foolery, we allowed Sonny to drive us back to the hotel.

There, beneath the stars, we said our good-byes. My bride and I looked into each other's eyes and smiled when Sonny leaned into Irene and kissed her goodnight. 

A phosphorescent white tide-line crept in, as quiet and subtle as a sensuous hula.

Sleepy Kauai was already on the map as a film location. Movies South Pacific, Donovan's Reef and Blue Hawaii with Elvis Presley had been filmed on the island. The Fern Grotto on the Wailua River was a popular wedding location for celebrities.

We were so young and we didn't care.  

Forty years later I returned to Kauai. Half a lifetime had passed. I had a new bride. I searched for Brennecke's, but it had dramatically changed. Hurricane Iniki had literally blown it apart. It was unidentifiable. The little store was gone. Poipu had been settled with houses and condos and hotels. Even the frogs had mostly disappeared.

When I asked about the Jetty, I received blank looks. Only a few old-timers remembered. 

An online search revealed that Club Jetty was opened in 1946 by Mama Emma Ouye. She booked live entertainment from the Mainland, including Las Vegas. Visitors included actor John Wayne. According to one account, President Ronald Reagan gave Mama Ouye the White House Hot Line number to use in case of an emergency. That emergency occurred in 1992 when Iniki destroyed the Jetty.

Mama Ouye's motto: "If you help people with their life they will help you with yours."

Besides damages wrought by hurricanes and tsunamis, the general landscape of the Garden Island remains unmistakably the same, the ancient volcanic mountains and palis, the rainbows and waterfalls, the ever-encroaching jungly flora. At the end of a short road on the eastern point of Hanalei Bay, beyond a gate, along a trail that leads down to a shady beach, you will find the ruins of a hotel, the Club Med Resort built in the 1970s. Before that it was the site of the Hanalei Plantation Resort, the place we never found whose life was less than a decade long.

Our youngest daughter lives on the Garden Island, with two children, one born here, who call us grandparents, Coco and Lolo.

They are so young and they don't know it.

 

Saturday Market, 1952

Every Saturday when I was very young my family would go to the market to shop for groceries. It became a ritual that I enjoyed until I grew old enough to beg to stay home with my friends. We lived in a small house on the side of a hill in Monterey Park, Calif. and the market was located on Garvey Avenue one step off of the sidewalk. The entire front of the market welcomed us with open accordion doors made of wood.

Bright oranges, red apples and green cucumbers with rich earthy aromas were piled in bins, tempting shoppers to pick them up and buy them. The shaded north-facing storefront offered a cool escape from the hot sunshine into an enticing world of soups, cereals, cookies and crackers. But the best item was found in the freezer bin -- delicious creamy ice cream that would be our Saturday afternoon dessert.

My mama, Dorothy, wore a dress. Pants suits were not known to me, if they even existed. Her dresses were always light-colored and sometimes featured a floral pattern. She was not one for dark colors, especially black, the word alone she pronounced as if it were the color of death. "BLACK." She would shake her head at the thought. She held that view throughout her life, always avoiding black clothing. Those Saturdays were designed for breezy blue and yellow dresses.

My daddy, Frank, wore slacks, a short-sleeved collared shirt and leather shoes. To me, those were the duds of a dad. I learned that word, "duds," from him, which he called fancy clothes, like those worn by TV cowboys including Roy Rogers, Johnny Mack Brown and Tex Ritter: shirts with ornate piping and fringe on the sleeves, scarves around their necks and boots with embossed patterns. His wardrobe was much plainer, yet as he aged and society became more casual toward men's and women's apparel, he started to wear Western-style duds and blue jeans. He loved country-Western music and got a kick out of learning that singer Tennessee Ernie Ford lived in the red house above our neighborhood.

    You load sixteen tons and what do you get

 another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me cause I can't go 

I owe my soul to the company store

At least a working man could get a day off which made Saturday our grocery-shopping day. My dad worked about six miles from our house at the main U.S. Post Office in downtown Los Angeles.

He drove us to the market in his Studebaker. My mother didn't drive or even consider getting her license. She didn't trust cars and mechanical things, preferred to do everything by hand, or on foot. I've seen a picture of her as a young woman riding a horse, but never near an automobile. The trip to market depended upon my dad.

Sometimes we waited in the car while my mother shopped: my dad, me and my younger sister, Mimi. That was her nickname, given to her by herself. "Me, me-me." She could not pronounce her real name, Mary. An adult neighbor of ours said to me, "I know that's me-me Are you, you-you?" I guess he thought he was being funny. I found it annoying. I didn't get the joke.

My dad parked his car in the lot behind the market. While waiting for my mom, I lay on the back seat, soothing myself by running my finger tips over the woven upholstery, staring into the blue sky, listening to the rumble of car engines, peoples' voices and slamming of heavy metal doors. 

I had heard my parents talking about trees and flowers. They referred to them by name, rhododendrons, hibiscus and geraniums. Wide-leafed banana trees adorned with green and yellow bananas grew in our front yard. Stalks of greenish-red rhubarb sprouted in the dirt next to our house, from which my mom  baked rhubarb pie, a family favorite. She poured lots of sugar into the bowl with the chopped pieces of celery-like rhubarb, creating a syrupy sauce that gave the tart rhubarb a tangy, almost sweet flavor, which tasted even better with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

"What's the name of this tree?" I asked my dad, pointing at the large tree next to our car, mesmerized by the mighty trunk and gnarled bark. Long branches covered with thin green leaves hung from the tree like the cloak of a king. The canopy produced a wonderful, shady place in the parking lot.

"It's a pepper tree," he said.

A pepper tree, I thought to myself, a strange name for this magnificent tree. I imagined small bits of hot black pepper hidden on the narrow leaves. I didn't realize that pinkish-red peppercorns would appear when it flowered.

Since that particular Saturday in 1952, whenever I see a pepper tree, its feathery leaves, drooping branches and thick muscular trunk, I can sniff the woodsy fragrance from memory and feel the easy comfort of my family.

© 2021 Kevin Samson from working-title memoir Silence of the Oranges.

 

 

Beyond the Rainbow

Linda (Lombardi) Samson

Forty-five years ago today Linda (Lombardi) Marie Samson died at age 29 in an automobile accident on our way home from Lake Tahoe. Our terrible loss affected the lives of me and her two daughters, Molly and Vanessa, in immeasurable ways, as well as, I'm sure the lives of her friends and anyone who ever met her.

She possessed a glowing presence. She laughed and cried, understanding well the emotions of joy and sorrow. She loved to help those in distress, befriending many wandering souls who had lost their way. Her heart loomed large.

We knew each other since high school. We grew up together. We experienced our good and bad times, always finding our way back.

Thinking about her today, on the heels of September 11, puts me in a contemplative mood.

I don't believe I could have survived without the help of my friends. In particular, Kim (Fredericks) and David Safir, Paul and Bette Ann Greene, Abner and Maria Greene, Jenny Mackintosh, Michelle Dugar, Fred and Tony Lombardi, my sister Mary (Samson) and Mark Fotheringham, and my parents Dorothy and Frank Samson.

The greatest fortune came my way when I met Barbara Beverly who would become my wife and mother of our children, including a third daughter, Bryna. The timing and ease of our meeting, as well as her motherly instincts, came naturally as though an unknown pretense were guiding us, a force from beyond.

Some say there is no such thing as coincidence. I would agree, with the caveat that our universe may be simpler, more connected than we can possibly understand. Its randomness is every bit as true as its perfection.

The greatest loss resulting from Linda's passing, is that Molly and Vanessa never had the opportunity to know her better. And Linda never experienced the pride and satisfaction of how wonderful they and their children have become. 

Or perhaps she knows.

The Day the Music Died

The eccentric souvenir of the human shape

Wrapped in seemings, crowd on curious crowd

                                                    -- Wallace Stevens

New York City firefighter calls for help amid the rubble

The morning of September 11, 2001, I walked lightly into the front room, as I did every morning before going to work, rolled out my yoga mat and turned on NPR news. Stretching my back while resting on my hands and knees, I heard that two airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City.

The news startled me, my ears suddenly alert. We were under attack. Yet the voice over the radio spoke evenly with little emotion. I jumped up and called to Barbara who was still in bed.

"Something terrible is happening," I said. "Turn on the TV!"

By the time I left for my office, I understood that the airplanes were commercial jets that had been hijacked by suicide terrorists. Two additional airplanes attempted similar attacks, one on the Pentagon.

My initial thoughts were who are these terrorists who would so dramatically kill innocent people and themselves? What were they thinking? How perverted. How misled. How fortunate that we Americans, in our free country, would never entertain such an idea.

Twenty years later that thinking seems so naive. I sought comfort through a type of patriotism. That morning when I met my colleagues at work, I wanted to express gratefulness in the midst of chaos.  I hadn't learned yet about the extent of destruction, the horror for ordinary folks doing their jobs for themselves and their families.

I soon felt a greater sense of unity with my fellow Americans. 

The moment called for mourning and clean-up and we watched the FDNY perform heroic acts attempting to save lives and locate bodies amidst the toxic, choking air and rubble. You could almost smell the dust while watching the reports. But nothing could allow you to feel the unmitigated fear in the hearts of the victims careening to their death, or honestly imagine their voices, their final words or screams.

Before we had a chance to fully understand and digest what happened and why, the hawks flew in. They saw opportunity, souring, if that were possible, the already foul taste of our losses. Revenge filled the air. Blame. Racial stereotyping. Egos on fire. Sabers rattled.

"Shock and awe." This would be our strategy when we invaded Iraq. Why Iraq? Not because the leader of the terrorists was there. Because of unfinished business with Iraq's dictator. Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which they didn't. Because our leaders could not appear weak. Blah, blah, blah. The same old tune that was played in Vietnam: shuck and jive.

I talked to a good friend about it, who insisted we had to attack. "Would you send your son to fight in Iraq?" I asked. 

"Oh, no, he's not going," came the reply, tossing off the idea as if it were a far-fetched joke.

I attended a paddle-out that was arranged by a small group of surfers to protest going to war in Iraq. Paddle-outs are typically held when a fellow surfer dies. A circle is formed in the water, prayerful words are given followed by hooting and splashing. It feels ancient and sacred, a moment of brother- and sister-hood.

Very few surfers came to the protest paddle-out, causing the woman surfer sitting on her board next to me to say: "I don't understand. Doesn't everyone want peace?"

"Well, you know surfers," I replied, leaving it at that.

Many of the young hot-shot surfers were driving around in pick-up trucks with American flags fluttering in the wind. In the daily newspaper, the surf columnist wrote: "It's time to kick some ass in Iraq."

When the bombing started, I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to cry. So began debacle upon debacle, for the next 20 years, only making matters worse. The hawks will tell you that it was worth it, because there has not been a major foreign terrorist attack on American soil during that period.

That's true. Most terrorist activities have been from within, shooting children at schools, or people in nightclubs, or folks attending concerts in places like Las Vegas. The worst president in the history of the U.S. was elected, who based his election campaign on a fear-mongering racist platform. Last January thousands of his followers staged a coup d' etat when they rampaged our Capitol because they didn't agree with our democratically held National Election.

I'll continue to look for silver linings and trust the hope in my heart, but September 11 will always be a day of mourning and sorrow for me.

 

Sharkey the Surfer Man

"Out of the water I am nothing." Duke Kahanamoku, legendary Hawaiian surfer

Copywrite 2021

There's a lot going on in Paul Theroux's latest novel, his 32nd, Under the Wave at Waimea, about an aging big-wave rider who resides on Hawaii's renowned North Shore. The title evokes Malcom Lowry's 1947 novel Under the Volcano, whose 12 chapters were symbolic of months in a year and more. Theroux's story takes 13 chapters, which no doubt has meaning, not the least is bad luck.

Beyond the title, at first I wondered if it was a thinly disguised tale about Popeye the Sailor Man, since the protagonist is linked to the ocean, boasts tattoos on his arms and falls for a woman named Olive. Silly me.

The story is about a 62-year-old surfer, Joe Sharkey, a hero and icon, at the end of his best days, who in a drunken, pakalolo-induced moment accidentally kills a man riding his bike. Sharkey was driving in the dark with Olive, 20 years younger than he, a health care nurse. The event sends Sharkey into a funk and a gnarly wipeout at Waimea, a notoriously dangerous wave.

The remainder of the book presents Sharkey's detailed back story, eventually returning to the accident, which Sharkey refused to honestly address at the time. Olive is instrumental in helping him sleuth out the identify of the unknown victim in the hope that this knowledge will restore Sharkey's failing self identity.

At age 80, following a prodigious career of writing books, author Theroux remains a master at his craft. He's got the surf talk down, Hawaiian-pidgin style. His descriptions are rich and sensational. Sharkey serves as his alter ego: a macho surfer who does not read, whose only life is in the water. Why read when you can surf? It's not that he is illiterate, rather it serves no purpose for him. He's got all the sex and adulation he could possibly want. Although his age has begun to reveal that his popularity is as temporary as a wave that rises in the ocean, swells to a liquid mountain of energy only to turn to foam and disappear.

The up-and-comig young surfers don't know him, see him only as an old guy in the water. His day is past, Now what? The water has been not only his identity but his escape from an unfortunate childhood.

In one chapter -- the Year of the Rat -- Sharkey meets a woman surfer, May, from a Chinese family and believes he has finally fallen in love, a relationship with a woman that is more than sex. Her strong connection with her ohana (family) impresses Sharkey who has no family. He meets May's family at a Chinese restaurant in Honolulu during Chinese New Year. This scene is possibly my favorite in the book.

Along the way Sharkey meets up with an old friend, the famed, drug-addled gonzo writer Hunter S. Thompson who presents Sharkey with his lastest book, a Hawaiian tale called The Curse of Lono. Sharkey accepts the book knowing he will never read a page of it. Thompson figures in several chapters symbolizing celebrity from the perspective of a writer. Here is another theme: the misplaced values of celebrity and privilege. Thompson the writer is afraid of the ocean, yet the surf community holds a sacred paddle-out for him following his suicide. Sharkey the surfer receives a pass after he kills a man, because of his local surfing cred.

A surfer friend who has read Under the Wave told me that you could drop the parts about Hunter Thompson and it would be a better story. I believe you could easily eliminate 200 pages of this 400-page novel and still have a decent story. Yet I read the whole thing and enjoyed untangling themes and scenes that were worth the trip. The final chapters solve the mystery of Sharkey's victim, and teach him the lesson of compassion. In a metaphorical sense, Sharkey the Surfer Man finally eats his spinach.

Time for a Little Kuleana

Best rental deal on the island. Tourists give me a wide berth.

Four weeks ago when we arrived at the Kauai airport, we had never seen so many people here with their luggage and gear and kids and dogs. It was startling. Understandably, people are amping to travel, to get out of their homes where they've been stuck sheltering, take themselves away to a tropical island, forget their troubles and the daily dose of grim news.

I know. I am one of them. And it's a complicated situation. As Governor of Hawaii David Ige recently stated: "It's not a good time to come to Hawaii."

As you've doubtless heard, rental cars in the islands are going for as much as $500 a day.

Friends on the island have loaned us a Kauai cruiser and based on our calculations we are saving more than $10,000! That sounds ridiculous, but it's true! 

About 50-percent of the restaurants here are shuttered, many because they cannot find enough employees. We heard that two cooks walked out of the kitchen of a popular dining establishment during happy hour, because they were simply overwhelmed.

We have not attempted to go out for dinner. The few places still serving evening meals are swamped, wait lines are too long, reservations impossible. At the Westin Resort in Princeville, occupancy is about 25-percent and most visitors are driving their expensive rentals to Foodland super market to shop for items to cook in their rooms. The resort restaurant is open limited hours with a limited menu.

Electric bikes have proliferated and are dashing down pedestrian paths like wild horses.

The road to Hanalei, one of the most popular and beautiful locations on Kauai, is closed most of the day.  If you choose to go there, you will sit in your car and wait. Hawaiian time is flexible, meaning you must adjust your schedule to go with the flow. Which can be unpredictable.

The road is closed due to a landslide that keeps sliding. Following heavy rains in April of 2018, when 50-inches came down and swamped Hanalei destroying homes and cars and the main park, Black Pot Beach, a mudslide forced the closure of the only road in. Residents of Hanalei, Ha'ena, Wainiha were left stranded. They had to vacate or bring in supplies by boat.

That road was cleared and the hillside was bolstered, repacked and covered with heavy-duty netting. As far as access, all seemed fine. Then early this year during several days of serious rainfall, that netting was pushed away as if it were made of paper mâché. The resulting slide of the hill revealed new problems of unknown tunnels that may be compromising the firmness of the earth there, which is mostly red, volcanic dirt that turns to mud when saturated.

Currently, there is one lane that is passable, a narrow ledge above the Hanalei River Valley that defies modern engineering. Its camber tilts downward. Pass at your own risk, as so many are doing three times per day, with long lulls in between. Man's faith in his ability to subdue nature is astounding.

It is borne of the same arrogance that has convinced the white man that he is the chosen conqueror of native peoples. This story goes deeper than an invasion of tourists. Throughout the islands we conquerors who will pay $500/day to drive a Tesla are called malihinis, newcomers. We first arrived with the great voyager Captain James Cook, and remember what happened to him.

Many islanders cheered the Governor's statement. Many visitors decided to keep their reservations and come anyway. I learned while working at a seaside amusement park that people, at least we "Americans," will do what we please no matter what the sign, or the guy with the badge, says.

The governor's pronouncement was in reference to the rising cases of COVID throughout the islands caused by the super contagious Delta variant and opening the island up because the economy depends on tourism. This disconnect  -- we want tourism but not too many -- is a problem. The term "over tourism" has been on the lips of the executives of Hawaii's Tourism Authority.

At the same time, Hawaiian real estate values are rising by the minute. Forget a grass shack anywhere near the beach. Zuckerberg dropped $53 million for a 600-acre spread near the shore. Other tech warriors and entertainment poobahs are grabbing up the land in a modern-day gold rush.

Children of islanders who have been here for generations are forced to leave to find jobs.

Whatever this all means, one thing is certain: the astounding beauty of Hawaii will emerge the victor. The issue for us crazy people is can we adjust?  Can we tread lightly? Can we respect traditions of those whose land we took away? Can we accept limits to our luxuries? Can we all get along in the true spirit of aloha?

It works both ways. Some islanders are resentful, but if surface optics mean anything, many more have been imbued with generosity and friendliness that make Hawaii so welcoming. It aligns with the sway of the palms trees, the scent of gorgeous flowers and song of tropical birds; the drift of ocean currents and liquid motion of life beneath the sea.

Hawaiian music and dance -- the hula -- intertwines with this land- and seascape.

A popular word today among the Hawaiians is kuleana, which means responsibility. That's probably what we all need more of, if we want to embrace true aloha.

The Stones' Straight Man

Charlie Watts, 1941-2021

Around 1964 when I was in high school, my buddies and I knew the names of all the Rolling Stones. There was Mick Jagger, the sly lead singer, Keith Richards on guitar, Brian Jones on guitar, Bill Wyman on bass guitar and Charlie Watts, the poker faced drummer. They were the antidote for the Beatles.

Our high school house parties were known for drinking, smoking, making out and goofing off, all to the music of the Rolling Stones. Each high school in our pocket of Southern California had their party band -- be they surfers or greasers -- and ours was the Rolling Stones. 

Their blues-based sound was raw with a defiant tone, certainly more dangerous than the high-pitched harmonies of the Beach Boys or the smooth styling of Marvin Gaye, who had their followings.

Little did we know that Charlie Watts, whose death was announced yesterday at age 80, was an essential ingredient to the music of the Stones. He was a jazz drummer, not a rock n' roller. Reportedly, it took a while for Keith to convince Charlie that Elvis was the real deal.

Charlie would have been happier playing in small clubs with Miles Davis or Charlie Parker. The Stones dug into their pockets to hire Watts as their man with the sticks.

When "Satisfaction" hit the top of the charts in 1965, I counted the minutes every hour until the song was played again on KHJ Los Angeles AM radio. I turned up the sound on my car dial and sang along, loudly.

When I'm drivin' in my car, and the man come on the radio
He's tellin' me more and more about some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination

I can't get no, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey
That's what I say
I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

"Watt's backbeat gave early hits like "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" steady testosterone drive, and later tracks like "Tumbling Dice" and "Beast of Burden" a languid strut," according to Ben Sisario in the New York Times."

"To me, Charle Watts was the secret essence of the whole thing," Keith Richards wrote in his 2010 memoir, Life.

One reporter referred to Watts as the world's "politest man." When the guys started to party, Charlie hit the sack. He was married to the same woman for 50 years. When the guys were debauching, Charlie was pressing his tailored suits. His appearance was in dire contrast to the flamboyant outfits of Jagger and Richards. He looked like their accountant.

His drumming style, too, was the essence of understatement. He played with economy of motion, hitting the back-beat a micro-second behind Richard's aggressive lead guitar. Emotionless. Steady. Reliable.

I regret that I have never attended a Rolling Stones concert. Like Charlie, I prefer smaller more intimate settings. I doubt that he would have attended a Stones' concert if he weren't in the band. Yet I've always looked forward to hearing their latest work. And I'll never tire of listening to the Stones' classic tunes that always spark a youthful uproar from my past.

Thanks, Mr. Watts. May you rest in peace.