So Much for Flying Under the Radar

The Divorce

Not Linda’s. Not Monica’s. Mine. After 28 years, my wife and I quietly decided we reached the end of the asphalt. No screaming. No pointing fingers. No flying dinnerware. Our marriage simply ran out of gas. And, truth be told, neither one of us was particularly interested in finding the nearest Chevron. 

It was all surprisingly civil. We went with a mediator — no courtroom theatrics, no legal sharks in expensive suits. Everything got split right down the middle. Easy freaking peasy. In the end, she got the house. I got my freedom. Honestly, I think we both walked away winners.

At some point I’ll give my divorce the full Dave on the Rocks treatment. It deserves its own barstool and a stiff pour. But for now, Maui takes center stage. So where was I? Oh, right…

At some point, not knowing my post-marriage circumstances, Monica texted me something benign and cheery like, Hey stranger, what has life brought you lately? 

My reply? 

You might want to top off your glass first.

The Accident

In the summer of 2025, I was up in Northern California white-water rafting with my brother-in-law Mike and my son Alex. Man, that was a trip and a half. I wrote about it in a Dave on the Rocks piece at the time. If you haven’t read it, check it out here. Spoiler Alert: The river briefly baptized two of us. One person (Hi, Alex) fell in twice. Yeah, it was 7 Up…Wet ‘n Wild. 

Anyway, the day Alex and I were flying back to Southern California, my phone lit up with a text from Monica that stopped me cold: Hi David. Mark died in a freak accident. Call me when you get a chance.

Mark, Monica’s husband, had been cutting down a twenty-foot pine tree on their property.
Something went terribly wrong. The tree came down on him. Monica ran to help. She called 911 and did everything she could while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Mark died at the scene.

A small part of me broke right along with her.

Maui Wowie

Because of what Monica was going through, we stayed in close contact. The celebration of life came and went. So did the guests. But Monica’s grief lingered. I could hear it in her voice when we spoke. Even from two thousand miles away, I felt a quiet pull to help somehow. 

Monica loves to travel. She’s like Magellan. Always going to some far-flung corner of the globe. (Do globes have corners?) I hadn’t been on a vacation vacation since my divorce. And she was itching to get away from the cathedral house – and the memories. 

We discussed getting together for old time’s sake. But where? California? Tennessee? Nah, too lower forty-eight. Costa Rica? Belize? Nope, too “Midnight Express.” 

Bingo! 

Maui it is.

How I Met Your Smother

This was my thinking: circumstances change people. Time changes people. Life rewrites the script. Monica was no longer the nineteen-year-old who lived with me in San Diego. And I was damn sure not the same nineteen-year-old who once helped her steal lemons out of somebody’s backyard because we needed them to keep our tequila party on track.

Monica and I were no longer the same Bonnie and Clyde who rolled into Ensenada with a carload of friends, parked ourselves at Hussong’s Cantina, and drank margaritas until one of said friends threw up on a Federale on the way out. And no, before you ask, we did not end up in a Mexican jail. Don’t ask me why. I genuinely don’t remember.

With forty-plus years of water under the bridge, we were no longer the same people. Not even remotely close. We were living entirely different lives, with entirely different routines, some of which now required stretching. 

Could we, realistically, share a condo in some sun-splashed, overpriced paradise for a full week without her wanting to smother me with a decorative throw pillow? I was willing to find out. And so was she. 

I did, however, quietly relocate the throw pillows once we got there. You know. Just in case.

Next up on Dave’s Maui Memoir: The Final Chapter…what we did, what we didn’t do, and the inevitable question: would we do it all over again?