Dave on a Rock: Part II

Big Island. Small Wonders.

Sure, there are volcanoes and waterfalls. But to me, the Big Island’s appeal isn’t in the grandeur, it’s in the “blink and you’ll miss it” stuff: the goats you see grazing on the side of Queen K Highway; the locals that turn you on to a hidden gem of a restaurant; pocket-sized towns with out-sized charm. Small, sometimes imperfect, wonders that turn into big memories.

Hurricane Hapuna

 Hapuna Beach makes all the lists: “One of the most beautiful beaches in the world.” “Best place to lose yourself on vacation.” That sort of thing. To me, it was a sun-drenched siren song. I like beaches. I like losing myself. And let’s face it, there are worse detours.

So after a proper island breakfast of bacon, eggs, too much POG, and English muffins slathered with guava jam so decadently sweet it should come with a diabetic warning, we packed ourselves into our two rental cars and rolled north like a tropical caravan.

Fifteen minutes later, we hit the bluff-top parking lot. The view? Postcard-perfect. The wind? Less so. Think hairdryer-in-a-hurricane. Vicious gales off the Pacific, flinging sand hard enough to exfoliate your spleen. The kind of wind that makes you rethink everything—your hat, your plans, your decision to ever get off the sofa.

The only relief was underwater, where the sand couldn’t follow you. So that’s where I stayed, bobbing in the indigo currents while the rest of the family stayed on land. Needless to say we didn’t stay too long. My sister summed it up best: “I got sand in my mouth and it wasn’t even open.”

“Broke da mouth.”

That’s pidgin for “so delicious it hurts.” Now, Hawaii doesn’t exactly make the short list of global food capitals. But if you go off the beaten tourist trail you’ll find places that will absolutely wreck your palate in the best way.

Take Kohala Burger and Taco. A humble box of a place without much of an atmosphere in a nondescript, semi-rundown strip mall somewhere up the Kohala Coast. So why go? Because they serve the best damn fish tacos you’ll ever eat. The kind you write home about, like I’m doing now: fish that was swimming just hours ago, wrapped in warm, locally made corn tortillas that taste like they just came off your abuela’s stove. Topped with crisp cabbage and mango salsa with just the right amount of heat. And to drink? An ice-cold Dole Pineapple Whip, the real deal.

Ever heard of a malasada? Me neither. They’re basically a donut with no hole. (Why waste real estate, right?) They came to Hawaii in the 1800s by way of Portugal. But make no mistake, this isn’t some dainty European pastry. These are spherical fistfuls of fried dough, light and fluffy inside, with a slightly crusty exterior. They come with a variety of fillings like ube and custard. Or no filling at all.

I’m not really a donut guy, but my one sister (ex-pastry chef) said they’re a must-eat. So we stopped at a food truck on the side of Queen K Highway and ordered a dozen. They make them fresh, right there, in the truck, on the side of the road. We got a variety of flavors and fillings. My favorite? Plum sugar coated. OMFG. Standing in the dirt parking lot, with sugar crystals falling on my shirt, I nearly wept as I ate it.

One last foodie item I touched on earlier but I feel deserves a little more love: guava jam. No hype, this is like a slap of sweet, tropical sunshine in a jar. Put it on toast, your finger, someone else’s finger, (hey, I don’t judge). Just don’t die without trying it.

Relax, It’s Just a Felony

There’s a frontier feel to the Big Island. Not dangerous, exactly, just…relaxed. Maybe it’s the isolation. Maybe it’s the heat. But rules, in the traditional sense, were notably absent:

• In the seven days we were there, we never saw a cop. Not one. No patrol car. No speed trap. No Johnny Law writing tickets to tourists in rented Jeep Wranglers blowing through stop signs. Nada. Not that I minded the lack of police presence, it was just an interesting observation.

• At a luau, some kid, maybe fourteen, was double-fisting Mai Tais like he was at a Jimmy Buffett concert. No one blinked. (Come to think of it, that would have been me at fourteen.)

• Two boys, no older than twelve, went hot-rodding through our condo community in a golf cart – all speed and zero supervision. The kid driving had one hand on the wheel, the other flung casually over the passenger seat like he was cruising down PCH in a ‘72 Cutlass convertible. Swagger comes early on the Big Island.

• A female bartender, mid-thirties maybe, slinging drinks while holding her baby. I couldn’t decide if it was wildly irresponsible or oddly beautiful. Probably both. The infant seemed cool with it. Everyone else was, too.

• Motorcyclists? Helmetless. I mentioned to a bartender one evening that I was surprised there was no helmet law in Hawaii. He said something to the effect of “Oh, there’s a law, just nobody gives a shit.”

It seems the Big Island doesn’t run on rules. It runs on vibes. And honestly, I kind of respect that.

A Town Called Hawi

One morning, I needed to move. Needed a direction. That’s when I saw a dot on a map. The dot was a town, a town called Hawi (pronounced HA-vee), on the northern most part of the island. For some reason I had to visit it. Luckily, I was able to convince everyone else to ride shotgun with me. It was barely 30 minutes away, but once we arrived, it felt like a different world. And that’s exactly what I was after.

Hawi is the kind of place you go hoping the universe might whisper something to you. But if it doesn’t, you’ll settle for a slice of banana bread that’ll knock you sideways.

It’s got souvenir shops. Art galleries. A yoga studio. And a breakfast place with killer burritos served with a side of live music. There’s also a healing center. And a hippie outpost selling tinctures, crystals, and salves in tiny jars.

But there’s more to Hawi than singing bowls and tarot cards. King Kamehameha I was born near here—the man who unified the islands. And you feel that. Even if you don’t know the history, you pick up on it somehow. When I was there it was like I’d microdosed a tab of serenity; a feeling, you know? That slow Hawaiian hum you can’t fake.

I’m not sure the rest of my family felt it the same way. Maybe. The little ones (five and three, to refresh your memory) were already angling for shave ice. And you can’t blame them. But for me, for one brief, shiny, kaleidoscopic moment, something clicked into place, whatever it was. All I can tell you is I left Hawi feeling lighter than when I arrived.

Aloha, Aloha High

I’ve been home a little over a month now. My ‘aloha high’? Gone—faded faster than my Banana Boat tan. Reality is back, loud and fluorescent. But every time I catch a mental glimpse of that hula girl lamp, or the edge of the Milky Way while standing in the wet grass at three-thirty in the morning under a cloudless black sky, I feel something stir. A flicker of that island calm. Maybe it’s still in me, buried under the noise somewhere.

The Big Island doesn’t try to impress, it just does, but with a wink. It’s slower, a little rougher around the edges. Weathered, but with a refreshing honesty.

You don’t come here to be seen, you come here to feel free. No one’s hovering. No one’s watching. And if they are, they sure as hell aren’t telling you what to do. It’s like civilization took a smoke break and never came back.

Time blurs.

Rules bend.

Memories, made.

Aloha, big guy, until next time.