Thursday
At the plantation the thing seems like a lark: a restaurant that serves tiki drinks and plunks you down on the shore to watch the mantas come in at night. (Get it? "Ray's" on the Bay?) The drive is brief enough and we are in just the right mood for something glamorous and a bit overpriced.
So we negotiate the terrifying driveway and are not at all perturbed by the rumbling sound in the sky and the spattering showers that turn to steady rain. But on a straight, lushly-planted drive above the timeshares of South Kona the sky turns pinkish red and instead of rain we're deposited in a mountain stream. The sky is a great bucket that just tipped. Storm gratings under the road vomit their overflow and every ditch, every depression is white with water. The surface of the road is actually stippled with whitecaps. The car drifts lazily over these slicks, suddenly without ambition to do anything in particular. I keep up the low patter, at least at times, to suppress the creepy feeling. I see a hill coming, above a nest of rooftops and what I hope to be our destination. I'm not looking forward to it.
About the time we turn into the parking zone the rain abates and we find the presence of mind to wonder at the acres and acres of parking and access. It's hard to tell whether we're in a resort, a darkened financial district or an airport. Eventually I find the great breezeway and two-way loop that means, in any setting, "Lobby". And with "lobby" comes "entrance" and "valet". The last practically runs out to meet us. He's extremely clean-cut, the sort of guy you find in slacks and polo on the golf course. He tells us to look for the Gold Tower. In fact, all the towers look gold: the exterior lighting, the streetlamps, all a rich yellow. Eventually I spot a grotto of reds and blues and flickering tiki torches that must be the restaurant. We make for it, temporarily losing ourselves in a maze of sweeping walks, bromeliads and koi ponds. Somehow we come up in a breezeway just outside the entrance.
The restaurant is a late '60s spectacle, with massive, sweeping terraces and deep rattan chairs arranged around tables that contain fire pits. The hostess takes us straight to one of these. We're not there long before Meredith points seaward. Powerful lamps illuminate the surf. The fin of a manta ray that looks about the size of a la-z-boy recliner peels up out of the water and slips in again. I see its mouth, like a bay within a bay, billowing complacently in the waves.
Then it's time for drinks. Our waiter, Willie, is extremely polished, with big, toothy grin and bulletproof demeanor. We order a Hibiscus and Bourbon and Dark and Stormy. They're a little slow in coming, as are our plates, but it's a busy night and it seems in bad form to quibble in a place like this. Farther under the roof, the tables make a reef in which the guests mill in little bait balls or sit in their cubbies like contented blennies. Further back is the grotto of the bar, all silver spines and blue dimness. It's a place to inflate even the most tired schoolboy James Bond fantasy.
After the food comes, a pair of wary cats come to stare up at the guests on the terrace and crouch near their exit between the bars of the railing. The black-and-white reminds me of Paulina and her ambition, and just for a moment I wish I was there with her. Meredith and I fuss over them as if they belonged to us. After a time, smaller versions come slinking through the bars.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Thursday
Pineapple Park is a 60s era motel, all low eaves and vertical siding. It is now a hostel and a place to rent surf and swim equipment, managed by a tiny Hawaiian woman with an even tinier dog. You see the dog first, clicking out from its spot under the counter. The walls are covered with advice, maps, rate schedules and photos of happy couples and families. The dog looks up at you as if asking for your approval. I give it to him and the woman pads out from some back storeroom and tells me that he generally barks loudly at strangers. I just smile and say "Oh yeah?" It must be my lost look.
The woman finds Meredith's equipment no problem, but she looks at my feet and tells me that I must take off my shoes. They, the feet, are long and narrow, to be sure. The fins she brings out are ridiculous. I see them and think of "Sea Hunt" with Lloyd Bridges. I do not see myself in them. I think even then I determine not to use them. I would regret it later, but only slightly. She tells us to be careful as we walk out the door. We load the stuff in the trunk.
The online listing Meredith found describes Kahaluu Beach Park as a good choice for novice snorkelers. From a distance it seems so, but reality soon intrudes. There's a moment of lightness when we see each other in our masks. We don't put on the fins. That would just be too much.
We study the beach. We realize with a growing discomfort that there is no sand at all, just head-sized black cobble. Farther out, maybe as close as a few yards, is a blurry line of yellow. But a yard is as good as a mile when you have to get into the water past your shoulders, and you have to get in on the rocks.
And when we get in, everything changes for Meredith. The mask feels like a device to drown her and the water pushes her around roughly like a bully at an open-air concert. She tries to find a place to stand and the rocks gouge and scrape her feet. The waves pull her out gently, then push her head-first toward the rocks. I do my best to calm her, take her by the hand and lead her to deeper water. Finally we finish fiddling with the masks and swim with our faces under.
It's paradise, with whipping and drifting schools of yellow tangs, elongated triggerfish and nameless silver fingerlings, shimmering like evening gowns. The white and ivory reticulations of coral and stone harbor deep violet urchins, orange urchins with spines like thick pencils, and in the bigger holes pink brain coral. I keep a hold of Meredith. It's hard to stay in that safe harbor between the shallows and the drop-off further out. After a time I decide to swim to deeper water; by now Meredith can make it on her own, though we stay within a few feet of each other. She signals to me under the water; the gesture is urgent, but not panicked. Her face, though, is strained. It's time to go in.
Coming in is much tougher than anything we'd done so far. Meredith is tired from fighting the current and the waves push her roughly into the rocks. She makes several attempts-- with my help-- to pull out of the undertow to stand and wade through the rattling cobbles. At one point the lifeguard even steps out of his shack, waiting. The third time she manages to break free and we wade in. I find a place to sit on the seawall and hold the towel around her and stroke her hair. My knee smarts. It's bleeding. She murmurs something about taking care of it and I tell her it's fine. I never should have taken you out there, I say. She leans her head on my shoulder and I stroke her hair. I curse myself for laughing off the fins. They could have saved us a lot of grief. But they also could have jammed in the rocks; who knows? Meredith's hair smells good, like heat and salt and a little shampoo. Her breathing slows. The sun warms us.
Pineapple Park is a 60s era motel, all low eaves and vertical siding. It is now a hostel and a place to rent surf and swim equipment, managed by a tiny Hawaiian woman with an even tinier dog. You see the dog first, clicking out from its spot under the counter. The walls are covered with advice, maps, rate schedules and photos of happy couples and families. The dog looks up at you as if asking for your approval. I give it to him and the woman pads out from some back storeroom and tells me that he generally barks loudly at strangers. I just smile and say "Oh yeah?" It must be my lost look.
The woman finds Meredith's equipment no problem, but she looks at my feet and tells me that I must take off my shoes. They, the feet, are long and narrow, to be sure. The fins she brings out are ridiculous. I see them and think of "Sea Hunt" with Lloyd Bridges. I do not see myself in them. I think even then I determine not to use them. I would regret it later, but only slightly. She tells us to be careful as we walk out the door. We load the stuff in the trunk.
The online listing Meredith found describes Kahaluu Beach Park as a good choice for novice snorkelers. From a distance it seems so, but reality soon intrudes. There's a moment of lightness when we see each other in our masks. We don't put on the fins. That would just be too much.
We study the beach. We realize with a growing discomfort that there is no sand at all, just head-sized black cobble. Farther out, maybe as close as a few yards, is a blurry line of yellow. But a yard is as good as a mile when you have to get into the water past your shoulders, and you have to get in on the rocks.
And when we get in, everything changes for Meredith. The mask feels like a device to drown her and the water pushes her around roughly like a bully at an open-air concert. She tries to find a place to stand and the rocks gouge and scrape her feet. The waves pull her out gently, then push her head-first toward the rocks. I do my best to calm her, take her by the hand and lead her to deeper water. Finally we finish fiddling with the masks and swim with our faces under.
It's paradise, with whipping and drifting schools of yellow tangs, elongated triggerfish and nameless silver fingerlings, shimmering like evening gowns. The white and ivory reticulations of coral and stone harbor deep violet urchins, orange urchins with spines like thick pencils, and in the bigger holes pink brain coral. I keep a hold of Meredith. It's hard to stay in that safe harbor between the shallows and the drop-off further out. After a time I decide to swim to deeper water; by now Meredith can make it on her own, though we stay within a few feet of each other. She signals to me under the water; the gesture is urgent, but not panicked. Her face, though, is strained. It's time to go in.
Coming in is much tougher than anything we'd done so far. Meredith is tired from fighting the current and the waves push her roughly into the rocks. She makes several attempts-- with my help-- to pull out of the undertow to stand and wade through the rattling cobbles. At one point the lifeguard even steps out of his shack, waiting. The third time she manages to break free and we wade in. I find a place to sit on the seawall and hold the towel around her and stroke her hair. My knee smarts. It's bleeding. She murmurs something about taking care of it and I tell her it's fine. I never should have taken you out there, I say. She leans her head on my shoulder and I stroke her hair. I curse myself for laughing off the fins. They could have saved us a lot of grief. But they also could have jammed in the rocks; who knows? Meredith's hair smells good, like heat and salt and a little shampoo. Her breathing slows. The sun warms us.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Saturday
We are exhausted from the trip and the plantation is quiet: the only sound the soft music and the occasional clink of glasses from the kitchen. We drive back into Captain Cook, a retail strip about a mile long fronting a hinterland of gravel drives, banana palms and mango trees, and pick up a pizza from Patz Pies, a local hangout in a tiny retail/professional plaza painted dark green. When we order the place is full, with a few sun-bleached and browned locals drawling by the front door and an older couple at one of the tables. The locals look to be in their early 20s and a type that I never worked up to, never even crossed paths with, and now see them in my rear-view mirror as something more than strangers. They probably snicker at me while I wait for the girl with long dreadlocks to take my order.
The pizza is big but thin, with great archipelagos of toasted cheese and chunks of Canadian bacon like monuments in the tide. We eat the pie at home and drink some red wine we found at the Choice Market, a split-level from the late 60s with shops on the lower level, or the first right off Mamalahoah Highway, and all the life and traffic up behind, in the upper lot. You walk in and the sweet smell of Asian groceries rushes out on the air conditioning. To our great joy we find not only a decent selection of wine and beer just inside the door but liquor, plenty of it, and lots of rum: my long residency in Oregon has made me unaware of the more relaxed liquor laws of many of the other 49 states.
We toast our luck over the pie and sleep like rocks.
We were led to believe from Michael's presentation the night before that breakfast would be mostly cold and mostly fruit, and we were prepared to accept this gladly as part of the way of things on the big island in general and at the plantation in particular, but we learn that his was a masterpiece of understatement.
The counter is covered with sliced fruit and looks like a stall at an open air market, with all kinds of local bread, boiled eggs, pancakes and some kind of shredded meat that he calls "kalua pork". I learn this refers to the way it is cooked, literally underground on a bunch of hot rocks and banana leaves and covered all over with burlap. It is excellent. For a finisher there is fresh mango juice and kona coffee, smooth and rich with no bitter edge. I think it is even better than the cold-brewed Tanzanian that I've had.
And then you drink your coffee and look at the bay and watch the tiny white lines and the cars like fire ants on the road and hear the doves and pheasant and just generally get into the feel of the thing.
Kailua-Kona is a sad whisper of a tourist trap, with a cracked and heaving terra cotta plaza that may have been handsome when Reagan was president and stores hawking warmed-over beach art and embarrassingly earnest inspirational posters. Interspersed among the kitsch are serious boutiques that cater to well-heeled tourists that have been caught short and need what they need. A few buidings in the center of town remember when the place was just a little fishing village and the seat of government for King Kamehameha, way back when he was just boss of the island. Hulihe'e Palace is here, along with Kamakahonu, Kamehameha's residence, who unlike the palace has been obliterated by more modern structures.
It's not a bad place to be, really, and it's pleasing to look down the alleys and streets at the volcano rock walls and enormous blossoming trees. After a while you get to warm even to the suspect types that seem to lounge around the sea wall or sit with their backs to the coconut palms growing on the leeward side of it. On a certain not-too-fresh stretch of Ali'i Drive we walk up to Fish Hopper bar. I'm not sure which is hopping, the fish or the fisher, but the place is within view of the street and holds out big, overpriced tropical drinks, which is just what we need. It's as they say, and we settle in at the bar and order a Mai Tai and a Zombie. The barkeeps are friendly in a slick, efficient sort of way and I even chat with the guy about his brother who lives in Eugene or somewhere. The drinks come and they are big and satisfyingly architectural, with great hunks of tropical fruit and palettes of pink and orange. They taste good, too, with just enough rum to overcome the mountain of ice that they all seem to require.
Meredith and I talk about the the two trails that brought us together and the many steep drop-offs along the way; a good bar seems the place to do this, as the best of them are places of refuge; you sit with your drink and wonder at the many ways you could have gone down out there. In Kona, in view of the Pacific, the symbolism is tripled. Perhaps we are aware of this. Either way, I feel that familiar sense of expansion as the rum moves in, that effect that turns everything into a map, but this time she and I are the ones walking beneath the little plaster mountains and glass lakes, pointing at each new wonder.
The drinks really are very good.
We are exhausted from the trip and the plantation is quiet: the only sound the soft music and the occasional clink of glasses from the kitchen. We drive back into Captain Cook, a retail strip about a mile long fronting a hinterland of gravel drives, banana palms and mango trees, and pick up a pizza from Patz Pies, a local hangout in a tiny retail/professional plaza painted dark green. When we order the place is full, with a few sun-bleached and browned locals drawling by the front door and an older couple at one of the tables. The locals look to be in their early 20s and a type that I never worked up to, never even crossed paths with, and now see them in my rear-view mirror as something more than strangers. They probably snicker at me while I wait for the girl with long dreadlocks to take my order.
The pizza is big but thin, with great archipelagos of toasted cheese and chunks of Canadian bacon like monuments in the tide. We eat the pie at home and drink some red wine we found at the Choice Market, a split-level from the late 60s with shops on the lower level, or the first right off Mamalahoah Highway, and all the life and traffic up behind, in the upper lot. You walk in and the sweet smell of Asian groceries rushes out on the air conditioning. To our great joy we find not only a decent selection of wine and beer just inside the door but liquor, plenty of it, and lots of rum: my long residency in Oregon has made me unaware of the more relaxed liquor laws of many of the other 49 states.
We toast our luck over the pie and sleep like rocks.
We were led to believe from Michael's presentation the night before that breakfast would be mostly cold and mostly fruit, and we were prepared to accept this gladly as part of the way of things on the big island in general and at the plantation in particular, but we learn that his was a masterpiece of understatement.
The counter is covered with sliced fruit and looks like a stall at an open air market, with all kinds of local bread, boiled eggs, pancakes and some kind of shredded meat that he calls "kalua pork". I learn this refers to the way it is cooked, literally underground on a bunch of hot rocks and banana leaves and covered all over with burlap. It is excellent. For a finisher there is fresh mango juice and kona coffee, smooth and rich with no bitter edge. I think it is even better than the cold-brewed Tanzanian that I've had.
And then you drink your coffee and look at the bay and watch the tiny white lines and the cars like fire ants on the road and hear the doves and pheasant and just generally get into the feel of the thing.
Kailua-Kona is a sad whisper of a tourist trap, with a cracked and heaving terra cotta plaza that may have been handsome when Reagan was president and stores hawking warmed-over beach art and embarrassingly earnest inspirational posters. Interspersed among the kitsch are serious boutiques that cater to well-heeled tourists that have been caught short and need what they need. A few buidings in the center of town remember when the place was just a little fishing village and the seat of government for King Kamehameha, way back when he was just boss of the island. Hulihe'e Palace is here, along with Kamakahonu, Kamehameha's residence, who unlike the palace has been obliterated by more modern structures.
It's not a bad place to be, really, and it's pleasing to look down the alleys and streets at the volcano rock walls and enormous blossoming trees. After a while you get to warm even to the suspect types that seem to lounge around the sea wall or sit with their backs to the coconut palms growing on the leeward side of it. On a certain not-too-fresh stretch of Ali'i Drive we walk up to Fish Hopper bar. I'm not sure which is hopping, the fish or the fisher, but the place is within view of the street and holds out big, overpriced tropical drinks, which is just what we need. It's as they say, and we settle in at the bar and order a Mai Tai and a Zombie. The barkeeps are friendly in a slick, efficient sort of way and I even chat with the guy about his brother who lives in Eugene or somewhere. The drinks come and they are big and satisfyingly architectural, with great hunks of tropical fruit and palettes of pink and orange. They taste good, too, with just enough rum to overcome the mountain of ice that they all seem to require.
Meredith and I talk about the the two trails that brought us together and the many steep drop-offs along the way; a good bar seems the place to do this, as the best of them are places of refuge; you sit with your drink and wonder at the many ways you could have gone down out there. In Kona, in view of the Pacific, the symbolism is tripled. Perhaps we are aware of this. Either way, I feel that familiar sense of expansion as the rum moves in, that effect that turns everything into a map, but this time she and I are the ones walking beneath the little plaster mountains and glass lakes, pointing at each new wonder.
The drinks really are very good.
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