Dave on a Rock: Part I
Living Large on the Big Island
That’s me. Standing on a rock. On an even bigger rock in the middle of the Pacific — the Big Island of Hawaii. Sun scorched. Lava born. Pushed up by force, time, and a planet with a mean temper.
Islands are rocks, really. Just larger versions of the ones you skipped across a pond as a kid. It’s land that poked its head through the sea’s surface like a newborn crowning. It looked around and said, “I like the joint,” and decided to stay.
And that’s exactly what I wanted to do. Stay. Not come home. Never come home. Just stay on that big beautiful rock in that big beautiful ocean where life would be…beautiful. But as is the case, reality gets in the way of fantasy.
So on my inevitable return to my so-called life, people would inevitably ask, “So Dave, what did you do in Hawaii?” My answer? Absolutely nothing. Which is exactly what I wanted to do. But upon further reflection, we did manage to do some things while continuing to do no things. Which I will get to. But first things first…
19.9376° N, 155.8706° W
We stayed on the Kohala Coast, on the leeward side of the island, about 30 minutes north of the airport. The Mauna Lani Golf Villas. Sounds swanky, doesn’t it? It was. I don’t golf, but boy howdy, I wish I did. So why did I vacation on a golf course if I don’t golf? Good question. Here’s my good answer: we got a deal — one of those friends-in-high places kind of deals. Or in this case, family with well-heeled neighbors.
There were eight of us: three of my four older sisters, my niece, her husband, and their two little ones. Now that my kids are grown up and my 28-year marriage blew up, it was the type of multigenerational meet-up I didn’t know I needed. Low on stress, high on togetherness. Ohana, with a capital “O,” and not just because it’s the first word in the sentence.
As a side note, I did try golf decades ago. It was my attempt at respectability. Apparently I kept picking up my head — whatever that means — but it didn’t sound promising. Tiger Woods I am not. I also heard you need to play four times a week just to stay bad. Who has that kind of masochism baked into their schedule? Oh, right – golfers.
The Dwelling
The condo was two stories, three bedrooms, and three baths (available on vrbo). But this wasn’t your usual bland beige box with a seashell print over the sofa. The place was recently remodeled and looked like it’d been lifted straight off the pages of Architectural Digest. Think Hawaiian kitsch — but upscale. Polished. Stuff that was paid for with a black Amex card. Fun and playful, but elevated and stylized.
It was like Don Ho had dinner with Anna Wintour and they both agreed on taste: three-foot-tall bronze table statues that weighed more than your carry-on. A surfboard mounted on a wall — but hand-painted, more like a gallery piece. The Hawaiian-themed wall art had thick, undulating wooden frames that felt like they were carved straight from a breaking wave. Even the high-end kitchen appliances had that luxury stainless-steel feel Thomas Keller would approve of.
More of the Dwelling
The carpet leading to the top floor was so plush, so decadently soft, my feet sighed when I walked on it. A minor luxury perfectly placed. But the crown jewel for me? A bronze hula girl lamp. Flick the switch and she came alive — hips swinging in hypnotic, circular rhythm, grass skirt swaying like she was dancing for the gods. She wasn’t just a lamp. She was a mood.
The linen closet? Fully loaded. Towels, thick and thirsty. And more bottles of reef-safe sunblock than a Whole Foods skincare aisle. (Quick tip: In Hawaii, all sunblock is mineral-based. None of that chemical stuff that nukes coral reefs. You can’t claim to love paradise and kill it at the same time.) And if you left your snorkel in another hemisphere — no problem. The garage was a treasure trove of fins, masks, and floaty things in various stages of usefulness.
Blue Hawaii
I wasn’t planning on watching any Dodger baseball on this vacay. But on our second night, I was halfway into building my first Mai Tai of the evening—light on the juice, if you know what I mean—when my sister, sunk deep into the sofa, doomscrolling, said: “Hey, Ohtani’s pitching tonight, first time with the Dodgers.”
That was it. The match was lit. I walked into my room, cracked open my suitcase like I was prepping for the zombie apocalypse, and pulled out my faded, Dodger blue t-shirt. I was now ready for church. The game was on at 4 p.m. local time. All eight of us ended up watching. Even my niece’s kids. Wyatt’s five. Celine’s three. Both officially Dodgers fans now. They don’t even know why yet, but they will.
We played the San Diego Madres, er, Padres. Things got ugly. But it was the kind of messy rivalry baseball delivers so beautifully. In the end we walloped the friars 6-3, which made this particular victory drop-dead gorgeous.
Next week on Dave on a Rock: Part II – Black sand beaches, a windstorm, fresh fish tacos, a luau, the locals, and…the volcano?
