Wildfires, Happy Trails and Akua

Puamana, ku'u home i Lahaina

Me na pua ala onaona

Ku'u home i aloha ia  -- song by Auntie Irmgard Ahuli, 1937

Left to right, Tony Lombardi, Kevin Samson and Dave Fredericks. February 2023.

I'm not sure

where I first heard that Maui was on fire. 

I was not surprised since fires on the island are common, and drought has been an issue there for years. Then I saw a photo on Facebook showing burnt out cars along Front Street, the main road in picturesque Lahaina. That's not real, I said. That photo is from somewhere else, another bit of misinformation on social media.

Now we know the photo was real, an apocalyptic view of an island paradise.

It's been the lead story of every news source in the country -- more than 100 deaths and hundreds more missing --  tragedies of people caught in the firestorm and resulting hardships of survivors. The scenes and stories are shocking and heartbreaking.

Only the day before this perfect-storm scenario of hurricane-generated winds and wildfire, I received news that my best friend on Kauai (not Maui), Rick Carroll, had passed. He was 80, his health had been failing and the news did not shock me, yet there was a finality. He won't be there when we return, as we do every year.

Rick Carroll, writer, bon vivant, storyteller, photographer, jazz head, Porsche enthusiast, humanitarian, father, grandfather and friend to all he met.

Rick's obituary appeared on Facebook -- it seemed that breaking news comes first on FB. Barbara is not on FB so it falls to me to tell her the latest.

I do not always relish the role of town crier.

"Oh no," I said, an immediate reaction to what I had just read.

"What is it?" Barbara asked with alarm.

"Rick passed away." 

Her eyes welled with tears. "Oh no."

We talked about him and his surviving spouse Marcie, also a close friend. I read his obituary out loud, written by Marcie, who knew him best. We had a guest, Stephanie, staying with us who also listened. Conversation ensued about our friends and how much we would miss Rick's engaging chuckle and smile that would draw a reciprocating grin from all who knew him. One of his friends nailed it when he said,  "The world won't be the same without Rick."

The next thing we knew Maui was burning, becoming the worst wildfire disaster in island history. At least Rick didn't have to hear about it. He would have immediately felt the pain of the people, their loss, and made some kind of insightful gesture --  shared a poignant story. He was a prolific writer during his day as reporter for the Honolulu Advertiser, the island's major daily newspaper. He authored a series of books about Pacific islands and the spirit ancestors, or ghosts, of Hawaiian legend known as akua.

He was duly proud of his detailed book about Israel Kamakawiwo 'ole, entitled Voice of the People. We've all heard IZ's song accompanied by a simple ukulele, a medley rendition of Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World, which has been played at numerous memorials across the land. But we didn't know the significance of IZ's role in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement begun in the Seventies, built around resurrecting traditional Hawaiian music and language. Rick earned the trust of Israel's family to tell their story.

Bruddah IZ  passed in 1997 at age 39. I'm sure he and Rick are talking story and laughing together, two cultural traits of Hawaii's people, and lamenting the loss of Lahaina, once the home, ku'u home, of the Hawaiian monarchy. 

A few days later

as Lahaina lay in ash in the middle of the Pacific and tore at our heart strings, we were hit from another direction when we got news on FB that our good friend Dave Fredericks had passed. Dave was practically a part of our family. During the year before he relocated to Whitefish, Montana, he parked his rig in front of our house on weekends and crashed in our second bedroom. 

He always brought provisions to cook dinner for us. He was a master griller, a popular high school English and wood-shop teacher, talented builder, experienced fly fisherman and most of all a loving husband, father and grandfather.

Dave was married to a high school friend of mine, Kim. Dave, like Rick, brought a joyful spirit into our lives. He had already moved Kim into the artful craftsman house he had refurbished in downtown Whitefish where he joined her to spend summers with their grandchildren.

One cannot express the depth of the loss of Grandpa.

The summer following my retirement, I jumped into my Toyota Prius and drove to Whitefish, following up on Dave's invitation. Driving a Prius hybrid to Montana is akin to riding a lamb into a rodeo. Out at Flathead Lake where Dave had refurbished a cabin and built a separate bunkhouse, my puny white Prius parked next to his corral, Dave said, "You know what they call a car like that up here... a tampon."

We played horseshoes and counted the thousands of stars beneath the big sky at night while passing a bottle of single malt whiskey around the campfire among friends, family and neighbors.

Dave parked me in the shotgun seat of his Ford 250 diesel and we drove east to where the Rocky Mountains begin to rise like ascending spirits. We followed a narrow road on the ledge of the mountain to the top of the Continental Divide. We hiked to the end of the trail, talked story with a ranger and a few wanderers.

His constant grin beneath a wide brimmed cowboy hat, unruly eyebrows curled like bullhorns, Dave developed a visual persona that was hard to miss. He was a rugged man of the Western frontier with a heart of soft gold. A natural teacher, among his many lessons for his grandchildren was how to play a smart hand of Texas Hold'em poker.

A few of Dave's postcards

Dave kept in touch with friends by postcards he created from covers of pulp fiction novels, albums, religious guidebooks, whatever he could find that had a cultural connection to you. Receiving a postcard from Dave, with his scribbled notes, was like a getting a gift from an adventuring uncle.

Maybe Dave and Rick will meet up on the verdant meadows and sandy beaches of heaven. Dave passed away surrounded by his devoted wife, loving family and grandparents. A case of rare mucosal myeloma got him. 

Rick passed in a hospital bed in Lihue, according to his beloved Marcie. An attending nurse reported that when she peaked into the room just before Rick left us, he gave his toothy smile, lifted his hand and waved a shaka, the Hawaiian signal that says, hang loose, it's all good.

Rick's obit requested that friends and loved ones make donations in his name to the Hawaii Community Foundation; Maui Strong Fund to help support those affected by the Maui wildfires. Mahalo! 

I've felt on the verge of tears, awakening in the middle of the night from this nightmare of loss. I've had to reach for the strength of my two lost buddies for hope and inspiration. I pray for the people of Maui.

Ha ina ia mai ka puana

Ku'u home i Lahaina

I piha me ka hau 'oli

The story has been told

My home in Lahaina

Filled with happiness

Dave Fredericks at Logan Pass, Glacier Park, Aug. 2016. One of the few times I caught him without his cowboy hat.

One Pilgrim's Progress

Who would true valour see,

Let him come hither;

One here will constant be

Come wind, come weather.

There's no discouragement

Shall make him once relent

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.

--John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress

Maybe it's time for a modern-day American road-trip story. Not a romantic saga of a young man or woman searching for meaning in life through fast-driving adventure, rather a story about an older person, a populist in the most real sense, an unassuming character who has experienced a pedestrian yet full life, on a mission to save an old friend, literally, by putting one foot in front of the other.

This is the basis of the novel by British writer Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry published in 2012. It's her first novel, which has been made into a feature film currently showing in the U.K.

How eccentrically boring, you might say. A perfectly slow-paced story from stuffy old England. The protagonist is an elderly milquetoast and timid as a lamb. Where's the thrill? The edge? No plane crashes, guns or explosions?

Spoiler alert: I can't recall catching myself laughing so much as I did at the conclusion of this story. 

Retired in his mid-sixties, Harold Fry receives a letter from a former fellow employee, a woman, Queenie Hennessy, who expresses her gratefulness for having known Harold from working together years ago. She currently is dying from cancer.

Based on a subsequent chance meeting with a young woman full of positive affirmations -- "If you have faith you can do anything" -- Harold decides on the spot to begin walking to see Queenie to save her from dying of cancer. "As long as I walk, [Queenie] must live," he says.

No matter that Queenie lies in bed on the other side of  the country. No matter that Harold has only the vaguest idea of how to get there. No matter that he has no supplies, not even a cell phone, and will be walking in yachting shoes. He henceforth begins his pilgrimage. He locates a phone to tell his wife of many years Maureen that he is walking to Burwick-upon-Tweed. Tootles.

Underway on foot, Harold's mind drifts from present to past to future, with doubts, recriminations, sorrows, hopes, elations and more. He resolves to embrace the virtue of kindness. There is a son involved. A dissolving marriage. There is Queenie and their special relationship. And the inescapable hardships and surprises of the road and its characters.

Many are drawn to Harold, for deserving and selfish reasons. At one point he becomes a media sensation with a gaggle of followers. Think Forrest Gump. His fame, however, is ephemeral, while Harold trudges on to meet his destiny and his beloved Queenie. 

My wife Barbara found the book on a used book shelf at the Kilauea Bakery on the island of Kauai. While reading it she would occasionally chuckle. "You might like this story," she said. "It's right up your alley." The book cover, adorned with a flowery font, did not appeal to me. I had picked up Open Season, the original Joe Pickett story by CJ Box, on the free shelf at the Princeville Library for the plane ride home.

Back in Santa Cruz, I dove into Harold Fry's pilgrimage. My journey, from page to page, simulated Harold's step-by-step odyessy. I discovered Joyce's novel much more enjoyable, with unexpected turns and rewarding lessons of life. Box's story was formulaic with a predictable ending. Many novels today are written by contract. The publisher wants 400 pages. The writer is to maintain the formula that readers expect. Sometimes I feel as though such novels are all filler, no meat.

Joyce says she started writing the Harold Fry story when her own father was dying from cancer. "He was very frightened and so was I," she says in the back of the book. "I was appalled at the idea of not having my father. I was appalled at the idea of watching him die. But both happened, and while they did I wrote this story about a man who sets off to save someone else. It was my escape. My way of making sense. And somehow also my way of finding the flip side to my complicated, wild grief."

Again, I finished The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry laughing. 

320 pages.

She's Otter Here

Search for Cindy 841 attracts kayakers into kelp beds with official search boat in background. PHOTO:KCS

Surf is where you find it, according to legendary wave master Gerry Lopez. And there have been no waves breaking higher than an ankle snapper in Santa Cruz for more than a week, which has resulted in no sea otter seen riding waves.

It has been as flat as a linoleum floor, according to a local human surfer.

Does this mean Cindy 841, my name for the famous sea otter, has gone searching for better surf breaks?

Hardly. In fact, not only has the 5-year-old sea otter been openly recognized in local waters, but a new line up of sea otters has appeared to join her. 

"I've never seen this many sea otters together," said Mark Woodward, local photographer and a primary source of news and photos for media from around world. Woodward has been in close contact with scientists from the Monterey Bay Aquarium (MBA), where Cindy was born. Her oddly aggressive behavior of jumping on surfboards, and nibbling on them, has made her a world-wide sensation, including a deep trove of merchandise being sold on social media haling her as a water-borne heroine.

"Otter my way, Dude!" says one.

Yesterday a group of marine biology students from UC Santa Barbara arrived to observe the surfing otter. "They're making a documentary film about sea otters," said Woodward. "I've never seen so much equipment." But alas, no waves. 

Lack of surf seems to keep Cindy 841 at bay and away from humans. And there have been an inordinate number of lookie-loo kayakers paddling through the kelp beds to get an up close look at the furry surfer with flippers.

The authorities call it harassment of wild life, yet many of Cindy 841's fans believe they (the scientists with nets and cages) are the harassers.

An attempt this week by divers from U.S. Fish and Wildlife to catch her with a cage was near a joke, according to Woodward. 

Fascinating information about sea otters has emerged from the experts, such as a sea otter's bite is as strong as a 600-lb bear. And those otter choppers are nothing to scoff at.

In the meantime, as we wait and pray for surf -- although summer is not the surfing season in Santa Cruz -- attempts at catching Cindy will continue, as no doubt will the cries of "let her swim free." 

The good news, according to Woodward who gets his info from the MBA, once she is caught and tested she will be released into untamed waters, not kept in an aquarium. They'll just need to find a location with plenty of kelp, where she'll find food, but no surf.

Try telling that to a sea otter who has experienced the thrill of riding a surfboard. If you can catch her.

 

 

Sea Hunt for Cindy Continues

Cindy 841 bites into a crab leg. PHOTO: NATIVE SANTA CRUZ, MARK WOODWARD

Cindy the surfing sea otter is still at large, evading capture and enjoying the bounty of Monterey Bay. She has not been seen on a surfboard since Saturday.

The female sea otter was born five years ago in captivity at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. 

Marine scientists report distressed sea life, including sea lions and dolphins, seen in the Santa Barbara region may be related to Cindy's odd behavior of approaching humans, climbing onto and chewing surfboards. I have named her Cindy but authorities refer to her as 841.

The hunt for her continued today in the kelp beds off of West Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz. Local photographer Mark Woodward has kept in contact with scientists from the Monterey Bay Aquarium and relayed the disturbing report that scientists fear she may be infected, possibly from recent red tides.

An Associated Press cameraman was on the scene today. "We have interest from as far away as Japan," he said, shaking his head with a big grin.

Although most people side with Cindy as far as not being captured, if infected she could transmit her disease to other sea life. The problem is, how do you catch a clever girl like Cindy without hurting her, or worse.

"That would be a huge problem of negative publicity for the aquarium," said Woodward.

In the meantime, where is Cindy? Although authorities can track her because she's been micro-chipped, her whiskery face has not been seen today.

Cindy the Surfing Sea Otter

PHOTO: KSBW NEWS

Santa Cruz made the national... er' international, news recently with the story about its longboard riding sea otter. This is not a gimmick, a magic trick or a conspiracy theory about the takeover of our planet by furry sea otters with big teeth.

The little, now-fast growing town on Monterey Bay has been known for many things over the years and the surfing sea otter fits right into the story line.

Saturday I watched as Fish and Wildlife, Monterey Bay Aquarium and Seymour Marine Lab authorities attempted to lasso the playful otter in an effort to "rehome" the little beast. In the parlance of science, the experts have named the female otter the undistinguished appellation, 841.

Come on! 841 is an area code not a cuddly creature. Let's step away from bureaucracy and give the girl a name, like Cindy, Hildy or Ama. This would help humanize the otter, who appears to be a bit trickier than humans. This is a human interest story.

They were trying to catch the otter with a hand-held fishing net. Cindy the Sea Otter (I've taken the liberty to name her for this tale) saw this as a game, wriggling out of the net whenever it closed in, which was not often. She insisted on playing hide and seek, making the ocean experts look like kooks.

This game drew cheers, claps and laughs from the gathering audience on the cliffs above. 

The odds heavily favored the authorities, who came prepared with one person on a paddle board, another leashed to a surfboard, one small motor boat well-equipped with poles, lines and GPS, and a huge underwater net strung out to a flotation device.

Cindy's head popped out of the water as she grabbed -- otters have very dexterous arms and claws -- and appeared to nibble on the nose of the board. When the net came down, she was gone in a splash of sea water, only to pop up 20 yards away, seemingly with a big smile.

At times she climbed onto the surfboard, lying on her belly, just long enough to disappear into the deep when the net came near.

"They can't shoot her with a sedative because they're afraid she might drown," said one person who carried a camera with a telephoto lens and seemed to know what was going on. Presumably, he had spent the past few days on the cliffs, snapping photos and filling onlookers with information, including a photo that went viral and appeared in the New York Times, among other media, possibly Le Monde in Paris and the Albanian Daily News.

As the story goes, Cindy's mother gave birth to Cindy in the confines of the Monterey Bay Aquarium. She was raised in captivity, but kept blindfolded when humans were around, so she wouldn't get too chummy with people. Apparently that didn't work. She obviously has other senses -- like smell, hearing, radar?

To date, Cindy the Sea Otter has not bit a person, although I had a nip of a scare this morning.

While paddling in on my surfboard I spied a head with long whiskers and pointed snout pop out of the water about 10 yards to my left. It was probably a sea lion but I did not want to take any chances, having visions of  Cindy appearing on the nose of my surfboard three-feet from my nose with her big teeth and sharp claws.

From what I've seen, she seems playful with a strong connection to us human beings. But I didn't want to be the first person to feel her bite. On the other hand, I could have tried talking to her in a soothing voice.

What did I do? I paddled like hell.

Cultural Appropriation and the News

PHOTO:BS

We all have our little nicks. By that I mean words or phrases that are supposed to insult, perhaps demean, most definitely dig into those who might not agree with us. Cultural appropriation is one such cliche started by the political right to dig into bleeding heart liberals. If it has any validity, then all those surfers you see out there are guilty of appropriating the ancient Hawaiian sport of kings. They're not Hawaiians.

Of course we all think we know everything, because we read it somewhere on social media or someone we agree with told us so, or maybe we read it in the all-powerful mainstream media (MSM for most critics). In that case we know it's not true, can't be trusted. Or perhaps you trust MSM. I do for the most part, but not completely.

I like the mainstream media, with all its faults and problems, which begin with the fact that it is supported by advertising, not the government. I studied mass media in school. Advertising is supposed to allow a free press. The mainstream media is our Fourth Estate -- beyond Executive, Legislative and Judicial -- that keeps check on those other guys.

This is a unique system in our world where government propaganda is the coin of the realm, so to speak. We see this in other super powers like Russia and China where criticism of the government will get you a free ticket to the gulag, or worse. Try it in Saudia Arabia and you may end up in pieces in a bag.

So let's give ourselves some credit, in the wake of our nearly 250th anniversary of independence from the British Monarchy, where -- "by the way," a famous phrase of our former President who casually knew everything -- the mainstream media primarily consists of the government sponsored BBC and the flamboyant tabloids, where one can be slashed and hashed, verbally, on the front page. If I were a Brit, I would trust the BBC first.

But here in the young and frolicky USA, we don't have to trust the government because we have a free press, expressed in many forms beyond MSM, starting with Cable News, a moderate spinoff that is still linked to MSM. Example: the same guy -- yes, basically one guy, Rupert Murdoch -- owns and runs both the Wall Street Journal and Fox News. The WSJ is at its outer core a business and financial publication. Fox News, at its outer core, is a news channel. RM, at his inner core is a business man with an unwavering hard-right political perspective, where anyone and everyone is expendable.

If you watched the award-winning  HBO series Succession, you got an artistic glimpse into the world and ways of the RM family empire. Yes, it's ruthless and privileged and very interesting. This is our upper class in action. Maybe not as polished and refined as the British Monarchy, but every bit as powerful. It is one aspect of our Free Press.

We recently had a President who comes from this same privileged class, with the same posse of lawyers, investments and family. He has a name that has become a brand, which earns his fortune.

Incidentally, the two power brokers are currently having a spat. RM called the Former Guy a three-time loser after the results of the 2020 Midterm Elections in which the the endorsements of the FG went down in flames. This, two years after he lost the Election, which he, "by the way," claims he won. When you get to this level of influence, you can say whatever you want. And people believe it! It's a phenomena.

Who and what do these characters really care about? Their fortunes, of course. To believe anything else is foolhardy. If one can't leverage the other, insult him. Kick him into the dump heap. You're fired!

Enter the online world and social media, captained by the titans of tech, the revenge of the nerds, the would-be world dominators. It's a whole new ball game. It's as though the pitcher moved to right field and the right fielder moved to short stop. Every position changed, whether they knew how to pitch, catch or who to throw the ball to. They've thrown everything off.

The money comes easy for these guys, mainly through, you guessed it, advertising. We love products and these geniuses are placing those things we covet on the screen right in front of our eyes, behind which our desires fume.

You want to know the truth, what really happened? Google it. Although I've been told by one source that "Google is not a neutral actor." Here enter emoji face with eyebrows lifted and mouth like a black hole.

Everybody and anybody can basically say whatever they want. You like conspiracies? They're like candy to a baby. You want to find out what causes autism?  Have at it. It's your oyster, now baby. Short of shutting down the internet, governments of the world don't know what to do. Is George Soros behind this? That's one truth. There are now many truths. It could be an alien, your next door neighbor or Dr. Fauci. Everything and everybody is suspect. The famed Kennedy family has a wild card in their deck who wants to be President.

I have no idea what's going to happen. I do know that the guy who owns Meta, which includes FB, Instagram and now Threads (competitor to Twitter and the Joker of Tesla), looks like an alien, is buying up property on the island of Kauai and may soon own the island, and possibly rename it Zuck Island (my guess). He recently donated $75 million to the city of San Francisco's only public hospital, now named Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center, where, according to the hospital's Website, "Everyone is welcome, no matter your ability to pay, your insurance or immigration status."

It beats Trump Tower. Did Murdoch miss the boat? Does this mean that advertising wins? Is it true? 

Believe what you want. I'm heading to the surf for a little cultural appropriation. Maybe strum my ukulele afterwards. The ukulele came from Portugal, you know, the Hawaiians appropriated it. And made it their own.

Price of Paradise, a Letter

Michael Keale

Dear Leilani,

Yesterday I was flummoxed. 

That's a fancy word for bewildered or perplexed. It's the first word that came to me because it seemed to express my feeling of frustration, as though I had been hit from all sides and tied into a knot.

You told me that living on the island was like living in a third-world country, so what did I expect? My experience didn't come as a big surprise but it did set me back. I had to recalibrate, refocus and count the blessings of being here. I try to avoid the word blessings because it sounds religious and trite. Yet it fits.

We have fallen in love with the casual pace, natural beauty and friendly people. Even the television newscasters have become family, or ohana, as you call it. They laugh so easily and make us feel at home way out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, almost as if we were sailing together on the Hokulea, the replica voyaging canoe that has been retracing early Polynesian seafaring, and currently in a fjord in frigid Alaskan waters.

In addition to family, the locals seem to love adventure, like riding big waves and catching big fish, and coming together for kanikapila (musical beach jams).

I'm sure I mentioned that Hawaiian singer Michael Keale is our neighbor here at Puamana, and his lovely wife, Linda, who dances hula. He performs regularly here on the north shore at Tahiti Nui, Happy Talk and the outdoor stage at the Westin Resort. I often marvel that so many tourists are treated to his traditional Hawaiian voice and style. Do they realize he is the real deal? They're mostly focussed on their Mai Tais and pupus.

Puamana, besides being the name of our condo village, is also the name of a well-known Hawaiian mele (song) that sings the beauty of a homestead near Lahaina on Maui. You may not have known that, since you seem to stay so local.

Like you, we have made good friends here, including Rick and Marcie Carroll, who have spent about 40 years in Hawaii. Lovely people. Coincidentally, they were reporters at the San Jose Mercury-News when I started my career there in 1970. They can talk story about the islands, have been involved in publishing books on Hawaiian culture and more. Rick was a feature writer for the daily Honolulu Advertiser and Marcie directed her talents toward the Hawaii Tourism Authority in the 1980 salad days.

Through them, we met Tony and Carla Stoffel, originally from California, who have owned a condo at Puamana since the 1970s. Also lovely people. We all enjoy going together to hear our neighbor Michael perform whenever possible.

Barbara and I have also met many local folks at the morning yoga class three times a week at the Princeville Community Center. That's where I met Curly Carswell, the Renaissance Man of Kauai (blog post 5/21/21) and Skip Rush, acupuncturist, healer and tai chi master. Skip and his wife, Donna, introduced me to the ancient martial art from China. The basis for kung fu, tai chi has transformed into an artful, choreographed group expression in China. I wouldn't be surprised if it landed in the Summer Olympics someday.

Regarding tai chi, rather than bore you, allow me to simply say: the primary objective of tai chi is to relax. According to Peter Beemer, a visiting tai chi master, the second objective is "to relax more."

You always seem fairly relaxed, Leilani, so I doubt you would get too much more out of it. I find it fascinating because it delves so deep. Barbara just rolls her eyes and bends into downward dog.

Of course we have our wonderful daughter, Isabel Bryna, and grandchildren, Viva and Mystiko, who reside in nearby Kilauea, our primary reason for coming to the island. We love to have them over and to visit them. Viva always comes with her pet Chihuahua, Daisy. I think you would like her.

Maureen the Queen -- aka Mors or Mo -- and her hubby Carl are neighbors of Bryna in Kilauea. They are from Santa Cruz, as is Mors' daughter, Taryn, whose daughter Ili and husband Jake also reside in Kilauea. You'll find Mors most mornings riding the surf in Hanalei Bay. Howzit Mors! Shaka, girl! These days, Carl prefers his motorcycle.

Blue Buddha 2.0

Kauai Eats Cars

Not being a driver, Leilani, you may not know that there is basically one, two-lane road around the island. Traffic might jolt to a standstill at anytime. Kauai is an island of gorgeous waterfalls (wailele) that flow as streams and rivers to the ocean. Runoff and puddling is common. Roads are under repair somewhere on the island every day. A new section of road is good for about 11 years.

The resulting potholes, cracks and fissures wreak havoc on motor vehicles tires, struts and shocks. The salty climate is corrosive. "Kauai eats cars," says Arlen the island mechanic.

The price of paradise, therefore, is the cost of a reliable vehicle. The Kauai bus system is very good and will get you around the island -- only one dollar for kupuna (elders) -- but will involve a fair amount of timely scheduling and walking to and from bus stops. It could rain cats and dogs, excuse the expression Leilani, at any moment.

Those cars you see by the side of the road, some with the letters AV (abandon vehicle), indicate an auto parts cafeteria. They turn to skeletons within a few days. 

So you see, Leilani, how important (Hawaiian pronunciation: import-Tant) your ride can be. Our Blue Buddha (see blog post 5/1/22) served a valuable function with the exception of not always starting when the ignition was turned on. We poured a bundle of dollars into her -- new starter, battery, alternator, radiator fan, AC fan and more. Yet I cannot tell you how many times I found myself stranded at Pavillions in Hanalei under a rainbow.

We took the Buddha to see the car doctor, left her at his shop for the day while we joy rode around Lihue on the bus. One full circuit takes about 10 minutes. The doctor had his staff turn the Buddha's key every hour. She started every time. Sly girl. 

"I cannot fix her without a diagnosis," said the doc. "She has to not start."

That left me nowhere. In the Void, as the Buddha would say. 

Barbara began furiously reading Craig's List under cars and trucks. For a small island, Kauai drivers rack up the mileage. Most cars listed 100,000-400,000 miles, as if it were a selling point, a special feature. Anything with fewer miles cost $30,000. You can rent a car for $100 a day, or $10,000 for four months.

I decided to tour Craigs List and see what I could find. Within a few short minutes, there she was! Leilani, you know how excited I can become. I found a Blue Buddha lookalike, same color, two years newer with a mere 68,000 miles for $9,400.

Within minutes I had called the owner and we were on our way to Kapaa to see the vehicle. Rain was falling as though the heavens were crying. We were not disappointed. She appeared pristine, especially for her age, a 2007 Honda CRV. The owner, a gentleman of our age, said we had to be quick, a short test drive, he already had two offers for $8,500. One prospect had driven to Kalaheo to get his money.

The interior was impeccable, soft black leather seats, clean, handy shelf in back hatch area. Good tires. The test drive was short under rain. 

"Would you take $8,800?"

"You seem nice," he said. "Make it $8,700."

Deal. We would withdraw the money at the bank next door.

A van pulled into the driveway, the buyer returning from Kalaheo presumably with cash. The seller approached the van and returned. "He was not happy."

Surprise Surprise

Two weeks later I take this sparkling Blue Buddha 2.0 for its regular maintenance, oil change, tire rotation, lube. On the way, I hear rattling when the CRV hits road bumps.

When I return to pick up car, Arlen the car doctor meets me with a curious fatalistic expression: "I think it's time to sell."

Silence.

"I just bought her."

Big grimace from car doc. "How much you pay?"

I tell him.

Bigger grimace.

"I thought it was your other car," he said, referring to the original Blue Buddha.

"I sold it."

"How much?"

"A thousand."

Biggest grimace yet.

"You could have got $3,000."

"Not if she won't start."

He hands me sheet of needed repairs amounting to just over $3,000.

I am flummoxed, Leilani. I feel nausea creeping up my insides. My lips dry. My cheeks numb. I need tai chi, bad.

I simply had to tell someone. Being a well-mannered feral Siamese cat, a creature of equanimity, you, if anyone, would understand. 

Mahalo for being a part of the island blessings.

Leilani