Last Call at Bar Maui

Tropics or Tundra?

One place on our to-do list that we to-did was Maui’s “House of the Sun.” Otherwise known as Haleakala National Park. This dormant volcano is the kind of place that makes you feel like you took a wrong turn somewhere around Mama’s Fish House and ended up on another planet.

One minute you’re in flip-flops wearing Banana Boat Sport like it’s English Leather. The next minute (okay, two and a half hours later) you’re over 10,000 feet in air thinner than Karen Carpenter on Wegovy. Walking through rust-colored rock stretching out like a lunar landscape straight out of a ‘50s sci-fi film. If NASA faked the moon landing, this could’ve been the set. The Eagle has landed, indeed.

It’s also eerily quiet, in a way that almost seems suspicious. 

After scoping out views of the Big Island floating in the distance, and marveling at the blanket of clouds below us and nothing but ice-blue sky above us, Monica and I decided to hike down into the crater. It was otherworldly. I felt like Buzz Aldrin. 

Haleakala is a popular destination among a certain breed of human called “morning people.” The type who set their alarms for some ungodly hour, then drive up steep, winding roads in pitch darkness just to watch the sunrise. Bless their hearts. I’m sure it’s spectacular. Spiritual, even. Me? I’ll take my life lessons at a more reasonable hour, preferably after brunch. And my third Mimosa.

Oh, and here’s the part the Chamber of Commerce hides at the bottom of the brochure in mice type: it’s freakin’ cold up there. I’m talking I-can’t-feel-my-toes-anymore cold. So if you go, bring a light jacket or hoodie. Or a full-on REI expedition parka. Your call.

Haleakala is absolutely worth the trip. It’s beautiful, strange, a little unsettling in all the right ways. But if I’m being honest? Our day in the sky paled in comparison to a more down-to-earth adventure. 

Whale watching.

Ahab and Moby

Maui is one of the premiere spots on God’s blue earth to observe these creatures. The sweet spot is a patch of water that sits between the islands of Maui, Lanai and Molokai. Luckily for us our seven-day hiatus from reality was smack dab in the middle of whale season. Monica celebrated another lap around the sun the day we set sail on the catamaran Gemini. And what a birthday present she received that morning. 

To quote George Costanza, “The sea was angry that day, my friends.” Okay, maybe not angry, but definitely miffed. Choppier than usual. I was glad I took my Dramamine. Boarding the catamaran through crotch-deep waves was a bit of a challenge, but once we launched from the beach it was, as they say, smooth sailing.

Most people found their “spot” along the outer edge of one of the twin hulls. We found ours upfront on what’s called the trampoline, the mesh netting slung between the hulls. It was like having a front-row seat to the action. Which, for the first half or so, was no action at all. 

Then, out of nowhere, came this burst of commotion. A small boat about fifty yards in front of us hit the jackpot. Whales. Right next to the boat. Both sides. I admit, I was envious. But just like that, our luck changed.

The whales headed straight for us.

“Waiter, there’s a humpback in my soup.”

You know how koi will swarm when they see you with a handful of those pellets?  That’s what this felt like, only on a much larger scale. We were swarmed by whales. 

First they were to the left of the boat. Then the right. Then both sides at once. Several whales even swam under the Gemini. From my vantage point on the mesh trampoline, suspended about three feet above the water’s surface, it felt like I could reach out and touch them. 

There was so much action it was hard to keep up. One whale would surface next to the boat and force a breath out of its blowhole. Whoosh. A rainbow formed in the mist. (The thought of being sprayed with whale snot briefly crossed my mind.) 

On the other side, a whale lifted its barnacle-encrusted head out of the water, swiveled its massive noggin, and checked us out like we were the ones on display. Maybe we were. 

A female with her calf trailing alongside slipped into view. Then the classic whale tail (you know the shape) rose out of the water, came down hard, and slapped the surface. On and on it went. For close to an hour. Nonstop awe.

You know you’re seeing something special when crew members start grabbing their cameras. The professional photographer on board, the one hired to take souvenir shots for tourists, was crying she was so delighted. 

You run out of superlatives trying to describe a scene like that. One person came close. They said it looked like “whale soup.” Strangely culinary, but quite accurate. Waiter, I’m going to need a bigger spoon. I asked one 20-something, surfer-looking crew member how this compared to other sightings. I forget his exact words, but something along the lines of: “Dude, this was fucking awesome.” 

Yes, it was. Dude.

Although I’ll never look at a bowl of seafood chowder the same.

Packing Up the Memories 

There’s so much more to tell. About our day trip to the small town of Pa’ia. Our lunch at the Hali’imaile General Store in upcountry. And the day we went as far south as the asphalt takes you, ending up at Makena State Beach. Breathtakingly beautiful.

But this trip was less travelogue and more people-logue. It was about two old friends – childhood friends, mind you — seeing each other again after a forty-five-year break. Two old friends who were there for each other when one lost a wife to divorce, the other a husband to a fatal accident. Two old friends who reconnected on an island in the middle of the Pacific when they, too, were adrift in the middle of a huge life change. 

Was this a one-and-done experience? No. Will Monica and I see each other again? Definitely. We already have a standing reservation to come back to Maui every year at the same time. And replay it all over again. 

I’ll go back and visit her cathedral in Chattanooga. She’ll visit me in SoCal and stay at my pied-a-terre. In the Theatre District. In a city that’s Newport Beach-adjacent. In other words, my apartment in Costa Mesa.

There was even some talk about going on a three-week Mediterranean cruise in August. “Talk” being the operative word. I’m not really one for cruises. She loves them. But hey, YOLO. (Now where did I put that Dramamine?)

So that’s the story. No grand moral. No Hollywood ending. Just two friends, one beautiful island, a long shot gamble, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes, every once in a while, life steers you to exactly where you’re supposed to be. And who you’re supposed to be with.

Some trips change your life. 

Others just remind you that you still have one.