The Lei of the Land

Ozzy Osbourne once said: “Imagine going to bed in black and white and waking up in color. That was the Beatles.” Strip away the musical reference and that’s exactly how I feel when I land in the Hawaiian Islands. Like Dorothy waking up in Oz — minus the Munchkins, which would freak me the hell out. Unless they were serving Mai Tais.

In Hawaii, color is everywhere. Bright, beautiful, vivid, shining color. I’m talking turn-the-saturation-knob-until-it-snaps color. Subtle it is not. The mountains? Greener than the felt on a Vegas craps table. The water? So blue it looks like liquid sapphire.  The flowers? Cotton candy for your cones and rods. And don’t even get me started on the smell of plumeria. 

As I stood on the curb at Kahului Airport waiting for Monica to pick me up, my mainland anxiety evaporated, replaced by a warm hug of tropical air. 

Welcome home, David. 

Thank you, Maui.

And with that, I was centered. Any trepidation I felt about meeting a female friend for the first time in over forty years was gone. A sense of calm settled over me. A sense that no matter what happened on this trip, it — whatever “it” was going to be — was going to be okay. Was I right? I was about to find out. 

There she is.

Aloha, Monica

I wish I could tell you exactly what my first words were when Monica pulled up to the curb. I wish I could tell you they were something profound. Something clever. Something straight out of When Harry Met Sally. But the truth is, I don’t remember. 

It’s just that forty-five years is a long time to rehearse a moment in your head. And when that moment finally arrives, the brain has a funny way of going blank. What I do remember is her smile. And just like that – snap – forty-five years vanished in about a second and a half.

And there we were, nineteen-year-old kids again – until I made the mistake of catching my reflection in the passenger-side visor mirror.  Yikes. If I was nineteen, what the hell happened?  Life, apparently. And gravity. Then again, Hawaii has a way of making you feel younger than you are.  

And we were off.

The Condo

The day I arrived, the Los Angeles Rams were playing the Seattle Seahawks for the NFC Championship. Being a huge Rams fan, I did not want to miss the game. I knew Monica was a die-hard Packers fan, so I was hoping she’d be okay with it. She was. She even had the TV on, paused, when we walked through the door, so I wouldn’t miss anything in case my flight was delayed.

And what did I spy sitting on the kitchen counter like a thoughtful little Post-It note? A bottle of Jack Daniels, because she knew I liked the brown stuff. God love ya, Monica. The Rams lost. But in a way I didn’t care. I did, but I didn’t. I was in fucking Maui. 

The condo was spectacular. It was a corner unit on the ninth floor. Spacious and airy. From the kitchen you looked right and could see the mountains rising to the east. Step out onto the balcony facing west and there was the Pacific in all it’s glory, with Molokai winking at you from the horizon. 

The building was called the Kaanapali Ali’i, on Kaanapali Beach, a short walk from the cheerful tourist mecca known as Whaler’s Village – a master plan of oceanfront restaurants, bars, and shops that cater unapologetically to the sunburned tourists who swarm there. A place where “retail therapy” is more than a catchphrase. I left with a stupidly expensive $70 sweatshirt to prove it.  Pricey? Yes. Comfortable? Oh, hell yeah.

The Haole Hour

Monica and I spent many a night at Whaler’s Village. It was a mere five-minute walk from our condo, and an amusing ten to fifteen-minute stumble back. In other words, absolutely no need to get behind the wheel of our rental. I guess age does come with perks, like responsibility.

The top spots to dine, drink and debauch include Leilani’s on the Beach, Hula Grill, Maui Brewing Company, and a smattering of others. The in spot where all the cool kids hang is called Monkeypod Kitchen. We could never get a table. It was that crowded. Every. Single. Night. But we managed to wrangle spots at the bar several evenings. Fine by me. The bar is where the action is anyway.

The big draw is their signature Mai Tai. Sure, its got your usual rums and other tropical accomplices, but the drink’s real swagger comes from a tangy topping of honey-passionfruit foam, spritzed tall and puffy like a ’60s beehive hairdo. This makes the cocktail less sweet than your standard-issue Mai Tai, but it is a refreshing spin on the classic. 

Insider Tip: If you’d like a nosh with said beverage, you can’t go wrong ordering the Taro Ravioli starter with chevre, watercress, and chili garlic oil. Mwah! Chef’s kiss. 

Actually, order two.

It’s that good.  

And that small.  

Lahaina Strong: From the Ashes

Not to throw a sandy, wet beach towel on things, but one can’t talk about Maui without mentioning the town of Lahaina. Or should I say, what’s left of it. On August 8, 2023, a wildfire swept through this small beachfront burg. It was the deadliest U.S. wildfire in over 100 years, killing over 100 people. The town, as I remember it, is now gone. Hiroshima gone. 

As you drive the coast toward Lahaina, the mood shifts. The burned-out buildings, torched automobiles, and tons of ash have been cleared away. The visible scars are gone. But the invisible ones remain. There’s a heaviness as you pass through what’s left of the place. You can feel it in your chest. (Parts of Front Street, the historic part of town where the famous Banyan Tree stands, remain closed to this day.) 

As you skirt the city, there’s a small side street that intersects with the main road. It takes you a bit deeper into the town. It’s called Hokiokio Road. It’s a short strip of asphalt. Solitary and barren. Except for the 50 or 60 small white crosses that line the street from corner to corner. A solid gray heart lies at the center of each cross, with each heart marked with the Ichthys symbol, commonly known as the “Jesus fish.” 

Grief and faith. 

Side by side. 

It hits hard.

But there is hope on that beautiful blue horizon. Small temporary housing units dot the hills to the east, along with pockets of construction. The same is true for the western part of town closer to the water. But I was surprised at how little new construction has been done. We talked to some locals who mentioned the dizzying hoops they need to jump through to get a building permit. I don’t get it. Why the government can’t speed things up for people who’ve lost their homes and businesses is beyond me.

Bureaucracy.

The one thing that never burns down.

Don’t Hate Me

All right, confession time. I lied. I said Part III was going to be the final chapter of the Maui saga. Turns out that was wildly optimistic. There’s just so much more to tell. Plus I still need to wrap up our vacation gamble. Meaning: did it pay off? Or was reconnecting with Monica after forty-five years a really, really bad idea? 

Also, practically speaking, a lot of people are reading this on their phones. And at well over 1,000 words, Part III is veering into TL;DR territory. That’s the kiss of death in the digital world. Thirteen hundred words on the printed page? Meh, one Stephen King paragraph. But in the blogosphere, it’s War and Peace. 

So bear with me. No need to gather the villagers, light the torches, and start sharpening pitchforks just yet. I’ll get the next — and yes, final — chapter out soon. 

Scout’s honor.

Though, for the record, I only made it as far as Webelos. 

Next up on Dave’s Maui Memoir: The Final Final Chapter (I Promise): Whale watching (OMFG), other sights around the island, and the inevitable question — will Monica and I ever vacation together again? Stay tuned.