Year of Living Hopefully

Driving my car

through town on a recent overcast morning a skateboarder appeared in the left corner of my windshield. My foot slammed on the brakes, my car skidded left as I gripped right. My reaction was faster than my thinking. 

I spotted a human figure through my rearview mirror, head-covered in dark clothes, grab his or her skateboard and tenderly walk across the street to the sidewalk. Maybe he realized how close he came to being hit, possibly killed. 

I found myself trembling. 

So close.

I was reminded that things can change in an instant. 

So precious. This life.

Every second. A gift.

Here in Santa Cruz we move in close quarters with pedestrians, bicyclists, skateboarders, tourists and clueless wanderers. It behooves us all to stay alert.

As 2021 comes to a close, I want to shout out a "thank you" to those who take a moment to read my scribbles. It's been a roller-coaster year of hope one day and fear the next, mainly due to COVID and its increasingly contagious variants. The partisan rancor of a divided nation also plagues us. Thanks for hanging in there.

Two of my readers, that I know of, passed away this year, although not from COVID: Bill O'Hara, a longtime friend from high school, and Lee Quarnstrom, a writer with a resume to match Damon Runyon. They both lived the high life. I salute them.

As I face my 75th birthday next month, I consider that three-quarters of a century puts me on the short end of the curve. Now's the time to write that novel and tell my sister that I love her.

My beautiful wife Barbara celebrates her 73rd birthday today. Happy birthday, honey. We will mark our 40th anniversary of marriage on Christmas Eve. Thanks for believing in me, sweetheart. I love you. We met as neighbors on a circular street, two pilgrims clinging to the bend in the road. 

We raised three independent, gifted daughters, Molly, Vanessa and Bryna, who have contributed intelligence, compassion and levity to the world. We came together with each of them this year, and husbands Jason and Mike, as well as their children Summer, Piper, Samson, Finn, Viva and Mystiko, although never all at one time. 

I yearn for the day when we can all sit together.

We shall dance and howl as we have in the past. Drink wine. Take walks at sunset. Eat donuts at sunrise. Listen to good music. Savor delectable meals. Tell stories. Smell the roses. Laugh our heads off.

May you all embrace love, hope and happiness this holiday season and into the new year.

Drive carefully.

Pearl Harbor Day

Frank C. Samson, 1945

Look around today and you will see Old Glory, the flag of the United States of America, flying at half mast.

That is because 80 years ago today, Dec. 7, 1941, the U.S. Naval Base at Pearl Harbor in Honolulu, Territory of Hawaii, suffered a surprise attack by Japan.

More than 2,400 Americans were killed, nearly 1,200 wounded, eight U.S. battleships were sunk, 169 Navy and Army Air Corps planes were destroyed and 129 Japanese aircraft were shot down.

The following day, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan.

War is hell.

My father, Frank Cameron Samson, had shipped out of Pearl Harbor on the battleship USS Idaho in June, missing the attack by six months. He spent six years in the Atlantic and Pacific theaters in battle support situations. His final deployment was on the USS Midway aircraft carrier. As a fire controlman he maintained and fired a range of military weaponry.

He never talked about his war experiences. 

As a farm boy from the plains of North Dakota, he had never seen a mountain until he traveled west on the train as a young adult. 

"I was awestruck by the Rocky Mountains," he said.

I can only imagine his long days at sea and intense moments during combat. He believed in service to his country and never complained. Ever. 

Frank was the son of Scottish immigrant, David Samson. His mother, Jeanette Harvey, homesteaded in Minnesota in the early 1900's.

My father found peace and contentment doing things with his hands, which were large for his small stature. A devoted rock hound, in his later years he made beautiful bolo ties, broaches and pins from gems and minerals. He also planted and tended lovely gardens. He devoted his life to my mother, Dorothy Herron Samson, a native of Havre, Montana. They were married in Seattle in October of 1945, following the war.

Controlman Frank C. Samson passed away on August 17, 2006, one month shy of his 91st birthday.

Thank you for your service, Dad. So glad you got out of Pearl Harbor before the attack.

Love, Kevin

Coming Home for Thanksgiving

Happy Gratitude Day from Kauai

The waves rise in horizontal blue lines as they approach the shore. They peak when the under current reaches the shallow bottom, they curl and crash into plumes of white foam. A surfer's ride may last a couple of seconds before the rider tumbles into the soup. It's over in a flash and a splash.

The short-lived beach break in Manhattan Beach does not stop surfers from grabbing their boards and heading out. You see the same people every day. It's their routine: The long-haired older guy who drives the El Camino. He's already out of the water by the time we see him peeling off his wetsuit in the parking lot. And there's the gal with the big white smile, long dark hair who's likewise caught her morning stoke and getting dressed behind her SUV.

"Good morning!"

She beams.

Barbara and I have just descended the hill next to the currently renowned Bruce's Beach, a terraced park of grass and trees that rises behind the lifeguard station operated by Los Angeles County. That section of the park was recently deeded back to the Bruce family, descendants of the original owners of the land who were run off by the authorities in the 1920s because of their dark skin. In those days they were politely called Negroes.

The Bruce family is the new lease holder. The remainder of the park still belongs to the city of Manhattan Beach.

Activity in the park has blossomed lately, says a longtime resident with a view of the park. "It's nice," says Bettelu, Barbara's mom, from her birds-eye window view.

Park-goers reflect a diversity of skin colors and ages, from toddlers to grandparents. The vibe is mellow.

We've come for Thanksgiving weekend to spend time with Bettelu. Our daughter Vanessa and her sons Samson and Finn arrive for our grateful feast. Husband Mike stays home with flu-like symptoms.

We're all trying to be careful during these days of COVID, and especially protect our most vulnerable family member who is 96 years young.

Our daughter Molly and her family (Jason, Summer, Piper and doggie Dolce) were all set to join the celebration when Piper came down with a cold. At the last minute, they called off their trip from San Rafael to Manhattan Beach. We all grieved with disappointment but made the best of it.

Thanksgiving table in Manhattan Beach

Vanessa presents Samson's birthday cake

Samson and Finn

So our Thanksgiving dinner was lightly attended. Samson, who just turned 13, contributed mightily by baking two pies -- banana cream and chocolate pecan -- and creating one cranberry salad with walnuts and marshmallows. His culinary interests tend toward the sweet side.

We all participated by helping ourselves to slices of pies and scoops of cranberries, as well as turkey, mashed potatoes, artichokes and a delicious Brussells sprout concoction prepared by Vanessa. She also entertained us with holiday tunes she played on Bettelu's piano.

Molly's table setting in San Rafael

Molly sent us photos of her last-minute Thanksgiving table arrangement at her home. And daughter Bryna on Kauai texted a photo of her setting for the holiday, which she called Gratitude Day, per her always-fresh and never conventional perspective. I'm sure her children, Viva and Mystiko, appreciated her gratefulness and organically inspired holiday cuisine.

In the morning, Barbara and I walk from 27th St. along the Strand to downtown Manhattan with our dog Frida. This is our ritual. I'm not fond of riding beach breaks and tumbling in the surf like a rag doll first thing in the morning. I always bring my wetsuit, however, and I have a board stashed in Bettelu's basement.

Along the way we pass and chat with the "surfer boys" who hang out at Marine Street, checking the surf and maybe heading out to the drink. Barbara calls them "surfer boys" because she's known some of them since elementary school in the Fifties. She grew up here. It's not the same beach town of middle class families that it was then. Most of the boys cannot afford to live here anymore. They come from places like Long Beach and drive the freeways to get here and meet their buddies at the beach.

"It's so crowded in the water it's beginning to look like Malibu," says one of the guys.

They should see Santa Cruz.

At the Manhattan Beach Pier, we turn up hill from the beach toward town. Green lights shaped like a Christmas tree shine at night at the end of the pier. It's a landmark. So is the Shellback Tavern just up the street, the only funky drinking and eating establishment in town, where you're liable to run into professional volley players or maybe an LA Laker.

Barbara's brother Bob owns the Shellback and if we're lucky we might see him ordering supplies early this morning. The doors are open and the bar empty. It reeks of disinfectant as Julio busily scrubs and mops, refreshing the place for a new day after last night's partying. If you want to watch sports on TV, this is the place.

Shellback is an old nautical term for one who has crossed the equator.

We head up to one of the coffee joints with Frida where locals with their dogs shuffle around, grabbing their morning fix and gabbing in front of Peet's. We slide through, order our cups of Joe, procure a bagel at Noah's next door. We bag one to bring back to Bettelu.

There's a Trumper at a table outside who goads people for wearing masks. Most are. He's a fixture, advertises his politics with his DT camouflage regalia. People accept him, many probably agree with him. It's a well-heeled conservative town. If you want to sit among liberals you go to Santa Monica.

Vintage and late model Porches, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Lexus and Cadillac SUVs line the parking spaces like a car showroom. Wealth and sportiness are on display.

As a hometown girl come home, Barbara does not know these current locals. It's a change of pace for us. The homeless population hovers at about two.

Sunset in Manhattan Beach Nov. 22

The Green Flash

The day we arrived, I walked Frida down to the Strand just before twilight. The pristine blue sky had begun to fade. The silhouette of Catalina Island drew a shadowy line on the water. I stopped to stare at the gold sun as it sank behind the watery horizon, until its final glimmer of light.

That's when I saw the green flash, a split-second halo of spectral green light. It winked, a reminder of nature's sometimes subtle grandeur and the concept of mindfulness. Pay attention. When the Zen Buddhist monks enter the zendo (temple) they lead with their foot closest to the door hinge. It's a reminder to be mindful of every step.

Curious, I googled the green flash that appears at sunset and sunrise, although rarely seen.

Ever since Jules Verne's 1905 novel The Lighthouse at the End of the World, the green flash has engaged peoples' imagination. Pirate lore claims it signals the return of a dead soul. It has shown up in numerous poems and songs and plot points in novels.

"I saw the green flash," I said to Bettelu when I returned to the house.

"You did?" she said.

"Have you ever seen it?" I asked.

"No," she said.

I could tell by her expression that she still considered me the oddball son-in-law from Santa Cruz.

Diet for a Small Family

My days as a chef were short. They were out of necessity more than anything else. I had two daughters to feed.

My staple recipes came from Frances Moore Lappe's small paperback book, Diet for a Small Planet, the 1975 copyright edition, The original copyright was 1971. 

I didn't need glasses to read the tiny print, which now appears fuzzy and impossible to discern without a pair of spectacles. I still own the same book. A couple of the recipes have remained family favorites over the years. Namely, Clam Spaghetti and Monastery Lentils.

When first published, Lappe's book "virtually created the publishing category of food politics and turned [her] into what she once self-deprecatingly called, "the Julia Child of the soybean circuit," according to a recent piece in the New York Times https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/20/style/frances-moore-lappe-diet-small-planet.html about the author and the 50-year anniversary of her little book that created a big shift toward our approach to sustainable food.

It's a vegetarian cookbook with emphasis on whole grains and fresh vegetables. The recipes are simple and the resulting dishes healthy, emphasizing complimentary protiens. Not being a strict vegetarian, I incorporated Italian sausage into Lappe's recipe for whole-wheat and soy flour pizza.

I haven't made that pizza crust in years. 

I did make the Clam Spaghetti dish for my dear Mother-in-Law during a trip to Southern California a few yeas ago. She loved it, or so she told me. Perhaps what she really loved was having me cook for her for a change.

Understanding how adventuresome she is about food, I had given her a copy of Diet some time before that, but the latest edition did not contain the recipe for Clam Spaghetti. 

Thanks to Frances, I was able to provide healthy meals to my daughters. The book has always had a special place in our kitchen, and in my heart.

Following is from the recent New York Times article:

'[Diet for a Small Planet] was published during 'a very idealistic time for American youth...  There was also this idea of the personal is political. Her book filled the blanks.'

Today, a similar desire for personal and planetary health pervades the culture. There's been such a consciousness shift around food that fast-food restaurants new serving plant-based burgers, and climate change activists are once again calling for cutting consumption of beef, though for different reasons, including its outsize impact on greenhouse gas emissions.

Surveying the current landscape, Lappe mentioned with approval the proliferation of community and school gardens and the thousands of farmers' markets around the country. 'These didn't exist 50 years ago.'

But Ms. Lappe is troubled by the way healthy eating has become an elitist activity, saying of $12 green smoothies, 'That's not what I'm all about at all.' She's also ambivalent about plant-based meats made in a lab. While they contribute less to climate change, they are not a solution to fixing our broken food system.'

'It keeps processed foods as our staple. The answer is healthy foods that come directly from the earth, or as close as possible.'

Nowadays people seem to eat much better, and much worse. Processed foods loaded with sugar dominate the supermarket shelves, and nearly 1 in 7 Americans now have diabetes. 'Food is life itself -- and we've turned it into a killer. It's jaw-dropping.'

I feel very grateful to have had a mother who cooked from scratch. And my wife Barbara has continued the same tradition.

Recipe for Clam Sauce with Garlic and Wine from Diet for a Small Planet copyright 1975:

avg. serving = approx. 12 g usable protein,  28-34% of daily protein allowance

Start cooking:

1/2 lb spaghetti   

Drain juice from 2-3 8 oz cans minced clams and set aside

Saute'

1/4 cup olive oil

2 cloves garlic minced

Stir in:

clam juice

3/4 cup chopped parsley

2 tbsp white wine

1 tsp basil

1/2 tsp salt

dash pepper

Now add clams and heat through while you drain the spaghetti. Serve over spaghetti. A special dish that is no trouble at all! For a feast include garlic bread and Caesar salad.                                                             

                                                                                                                                                              

Come All Ye Faithful

I haven't published anything

on my blog for a few weeks, since the World Series, which was won by the Atlanta Braves. I did write a story about spooky Halloween trick-or-treaters that mentioned the final WS game and the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead. 

I may have tried to cram too many subjects into two pages. Although it is surprising how much you can say with little space. Space is all we really have. That, and faith.

I read my Halloween-etc story to my writing group but never posted it. 

Reading out loud to an audience is the best way to understand what written words sound like, where the inflections should be, if the rhythm and pace are working, if I can pronounce the words. Often I cannot. Is it com-pare-a-ble, or compra-ble? Is it lever (as in Leave it to Beaver) or (I drove my Chevy to the levy) leh-ver?

By the time I felt ready to post the Halloween story, it seemed as stale as a three-day-old bagel. Thanksgiving and the holiday season were approaching at break-neck speed. So I started a piece about Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, which led me into a few rabbit holes and I wasn't digging where I was going. 

As we approach the festive season, we remember seasons of yore, some of which didn't go as well as we had hoped. Like when Uncle Edgar helped himself to one too many cocktails and the ceiling came down. Or it seemed that way when he began insulting the hosts who knew better than to invite him in the first place. The guy who never says a word until that sixth bourbon and water.

That's not mentioning the searingly hot subject of politics at a family gala. There's more than a turkey on the table.

The stakes are higher than ever because of COVID. Raise your hand if you've had it. It's astonishing how many have been afflicted, and are still alive to talk about it.

And you received two vaccinations? A breakthrough. Is there a better word? Like breakdown.

So we have a rebellious daughter who is not vaccinated, doesn't believe in it, never has, never will. All politics are phony, pharmaceutical corporations are bent on greed, mainstream news feeds on fear and injecting toxins into your body is dangerous to your health.

She relies upon manifesting her desires by calling upon Mother Universe and all the far galaxies of orbiting stars that have already spun out but were -- err, are -- a few light years ahead and the past is future and we may, as integral parts of the whole, overcome our traumas from past lives before they even happen.

In other words: herd immunity.

I've had two vaccines and a booster.

I am basically a rule follower. I have faith.

Fauci the expert says do it and I do. It's my nature. In Fauci I trust. I realize that there are many here amongst us who sincerely believe that Fauci is the Devil. Or drop the "D." A rapacious capitalist animal torturer.

Go on Facebook if you don't believe me.

Don't mention FB to me, though. I swore off after I heard that Zuckerberg changed the name to Meta. (cue Twilight Zone theme.)

Knowing how Z looks when he gets an idea in head scares the hell out of me. You've seen the photos. Is he for real? He may be one of those avatars. I know he's digital. Saw it on Instagram.

I just want a peaceful holiday season with my family and the in-laws. Can't we just get along for a few hours. Okay, minutes. Talk about sports and music. Maybe play music. Eat pie. Dance a little.  We surely can.

But what if they're not vaccinated? Are they invited.? Do we not get together in an indoor environment with our daughter and grandchildren because they are unvaccinated? What about my 96-year-old great-grandma-mother-in-law? She's had all her shots. 

If we make it through this Holiday Season unscathed. At peace in one piece. It will be a miracle.

I believe in miracles.

As Sister Gualberta said: Faith overcomes doubt. Faith is not knowing but believing.

I'm going into the holidays with a hopeful spirit, a great measure of faith, looking forward to a martini on Christmas Eve.

Cheers!

There: I got a jump on the holidays. Do I still have to go shopping?

Reading Baseball Signs

Jimmy Piersall flies like a hawk into home plate

The seasons have changed but one last rite needs to be settled as we celebrate Halloween.

The World Series.

I cry because my black and orange Giants are not playing. The colors of Halloween. 

The 2020 World Champion Dodgers are done. No pretty blue colors in the Series this year. No Los Angeles celebrities in funny hats and shades behind home plate.

It’s the Braves and the Astros, Atlanta and Houston and who gives a damn.

This is a perfect time to fill our blank space — open base—with a story about my first baseball mitt, a three-fingered fielders glove, a signature Jimmy Piersall model.

It was one of my most prized possessions, made of brownish orange leather. I slipped my left hand inside and let my index finger rest on the back of the glove. That was the style, to add an extra degree of padding to the pocket, where the hardball would be caught.

I worked the pocket with my right fist, punching it over and over to make it pliable so the ball would stay in it.

I held my mitt up to my face and inhaled the warm smell of soft leather. I rubbed Linseed oil into the pocket to make it last. My mitt became a very personal part of me.

I played for Rod and Gun, a sporting goods store in Pomona that sponsored our team. Our uniforms were a grey flannel with dark pinstripes and a navy blue cap with an R on it. My number on the back was 9, which I happily discovered was the number that Ted Williams wore, maybe the best hitter ever to play the game, the last player to hit over .400 for a season.

But who was Jimmy Piersall?

I spent the summer with my mitt, slinging the wrist strap over the handle bars of my bicycle when I traveled. Every Saturday there was a baseball game broadcast on TV and I happened to be watching when Ted Williams, playing for the Boston Red Sox, stepped up the to the plate against the Cleveland Indians pitcher.

“Look at Piersall,” said the TV broadcaster, calling attention to centerfield, where the camera lens focussed in. It was my first chance to see him. In an attempt to distract Williams, Jimmy Piersall was running around in centerfield with his arms raised performing a war dance. He was ejected for breaking the rule of intentionally distracting the batter.

JP was a good player but he did odd things on the field. I learned much later that he was diagnosed by today's parlance as having bipolar disorder. A 1957 film, Fear Strikes Out, was released, based on his memoir of the same title.  Anthony Perkins, who played the infamous Norman Bates in the Alfred Hitchcock movie Psycho, was cast as Jimmy Piersall.

Because of my beloved baseball mitt, I felt a weird compassion and kinship with Piersall, who played 17 seasons in the Majors, and doubtless exposed the issue of mental illness to a national audience.

                                                                    ***

Near our LL field, there was a Tastee Freeze soft-serve ice cream joint. Following some games our coach, Mr. McCaskill, would treat us to ice cream cones. We’d all run across the field and jump over the fence to get there in a hurry. 

I learned from a story in today’s New York Times that the Atlanta Braves have relied on a secret weapon that has lifted their spirits during this pandemic-plagued season. That weapon: a soft serve ice cream maker in their clubhouse. This was the feel-good baseball story I was waiting for, a sign and connection.

I’m rooting for the Braves in this World Series.

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.