The Kapoho Chronicles: Trip 1

As the summer of 2014 approached, I found myself gainfully employed by a Landscape company -brought in initially as the arboriculturalist and stonemason for a major project- I quickly found myself included in nearly every aspect of the company. This took up a massive amount of my energies, but I still somehow managed to find time for my usual extra-curricular antics. Things were going well for me; I had stable employment again, reasonably priced co-habitation in Suquamish that also granted me a workspace for my projects, had begun exploring the creation of hand-drawn digital art after being gifted an iPad, and was an active member within a creative and supportive social scene. This respite from overt difficulty changed in June of that year, as the very room that had been my welcome refuge since my return from a 4 year hiatus in Southern Oregon (following my father’s recovery from advanced renal-cell carcinoma then sudden death in a motorcycle accident 3 years later) was promised out instead to a family member in need. This resulted in my having to find lodging within a price range determined by what apparently was no longer a “living wage” within the region. Soon the temporary campsite at my (ex)parents-in-law’s property increasingly began to appear as becoming a longer-term residency.

It was also around this time that the six-figure landscape installation I had been working on ran into some financial mismanagement, eventually resulting in my being shorted $6275 for my labors. This final blow ensured that I would indeed be living out of a storage unit for the indefinite future. Fast-forward this humbling lifestyle change a full year where, after taking a month off for a sanity-restoring motorcycle trip down to Los Angeles to visit my daughter, I was contacted -somewhat out of the blue- by a lifelong friend regarding his recent purchase of a project house in Hawaii: it seems he required a strong and able assistant to help with its resurrection. As I had spent well over a decade of my early adulthood employed in multiple construction disciplines (and with my physical prowess already well established), it seemed like a “no-brainer.” I immediately made arrangements to take another leave of absence from the landscape company, and once granted, eagerly accepted the offer for an all-expenses-paid work-trip to the Aloha state.

As my late September departure from the mainland dawned (following 4 full days of boathouse related antics during which I was able to take a brief respite from the rigors of “tent life” by sleeping cradled and snug within a Monk’s v-berth), I packed up the tent, my 4wd closet, nabbed a carry-on and basic snorkel gear from storage, and disembarked for the all-too familiar embrace of Portlandia. Once I had successfully arrived, the “Wednesday Special” that greeted me at Bill and Linda LaPolla’s comfortable urban abode consisted of a hearty chicken dinner rendered complete with a multi-beer chaser. After this heart (and belly) warming welcome, the remaining evening was dominated by the quest to achieve sub-50lbs “checked baggage.”

The next morning Bill and I staged a semi-frantic exodus -loading gear while simultaneously consuming our liquid breakfast- then patiently negotiating early morning rush-hour traffic in order to get to the airport the recommended two hours ahead of our scheduled 9:30 flight. Once both the 49.995 pound tool-crammed suitcases were successfully weighed in and sent to the baggage cart, we hustled through the DHS security check with our carry-ons in tow (containing the entirety of our clothing and personal affects) whereupon Bill was immediately pulled aside for scrutineering and subjected to some rather intimate fondlings…thus prompting the comment:

“…aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner first?”

(and the cheeky reply)

“…they don’t even pay me enough to buy dinner for myself!”

I, however, somehow managed to escape such personal attention, merely receiving confirmation that metal buttons show up on a scan, and the immediate and irrevocable loss of my careworn (but much treasured) “torch” lighter. Perhaps it was the very sacrifice of such a precious thing that resulted in our disparity of experience during screening? I can only hope so…it was both a desired and necessary tool for the adventure that awaited us.

After an uneventful 5 1/2 hour flight on the ever-gracious Hawaiian Airlines, we landed in Honolulu where we spent most of the near 3 hours of our layover at “Stinger Rays Tropical Bar and Grill” each indulging in a celebratory shot of tequila, and enjoying the “liquid aloha” of a Longboard Ale…or two. It was during this respite in our travels that I first became aware of subtle (but still perceptible) social divisions regarding local islanders, ex-mainlanders, and tourists. Even though most public employees somehow managed to conduct themselves with a well-practiced air of “aloha” the same couldn’t be assumed of the rather broad variety of ethnicities identified thereabouts as “local.” Consequently, I became acutely self-conscious of being yet another “malahini” during my initial exposure to the ethnically diverse mix of travelers navigating this strategic mid-Pacific Airport. Having no where better to go during our layover, we chose to loiter our newly discovered inter-cultural watering hole until just before departure time, somehow managing to locate the proper gate of our inter-island jumper flight (a familiar routine flying Hawaiian) just in advance of the 1st-Class boarding call. The following hour-long flight between the islands helped me get a better sense of their distinct remoteness within the vast, open expanse of the Pacific: a revelation that might best be described as “humbling” and perhaps even a bit “claustrophobic.”

Once on the tarmac in Hilo, we acquired our rental car (“…no truck for you…”) and made the 1/2 hour drive via HWY 11/130 to the salty old frontier town of Pahoa. Arriving at this remote late-colonial tradepost as daylight waned (and unsure what exactly might await us at the empty house still 20 minutes distant) we acquired for our future use a single burner campstove, service set for two, basic kitchen utensils, a French press, cookware, a large cooler, towels/cleaning supplies/toilet paper, selected some “on the go” snacks, filled the cooler with ice/beer/perishables, and purchased a take-out meal from an undeniably “local” restaurant (rather optimistically) named “A-1 Chinese.” Next, a dark and mysterious drive along HWY 132/137 into the south end of Puna took us past towering Albizia trees, expansive farm lots, Green Mountain/Green Lake, the Cape Kumukahi Lighthouse, and eventually delivered us at our destination: a remote, meandering grid of streets and houses abutting the Wai’opea Tidelands known as “Vacationland.” After a quick pit-stop at the Porta-Potty provided for reef-bound tourists in the gravel parking lot just outside the main gate, we navigated our way down the winding, darken streets to our “vacation/job site” for the next 2 weeks.

As the house had sat vacant upon the verge of jungle for nearly 8 years (having only recently been tented and fumigated to rid it of its long-term vermin squatters) and slated to be gutted of its interior by the newly arrived owner and his all-too-willing assistant, we had decided to initially camp out on the back lanai -aided and abetted by Vacationland’s resident Property Manager (and massuese), Mitzi. This selfsame person had only days before traveled into Hilo and purchased for our immediate use; two cots, two sleeping bags, two folding chairs, as well as a modest assortment of other specialty camping items. She had also facilitated the hook up of basic utilities on site, compiled a list of well-vetted local sub-contractors, and it was this attention to detail (as well as her care and concern for others welfare in general) that have since revealed her as a dear and lasting friend.

Entering the house for the very first time, I began to fully conceive the immensity of the project that lay ahead of us. Turning on the antiquated main breaker (after first checking that there were no burnt fuses, of course) we were greeted by the labored, squeaky whirring of the rusted, decades-old refrigerator. Cautiously cracking open its door, we were heartened to see the limpid glare of its still functioning single-bulb, the mostly-intact nature of its door seal, and the surprising lack of any overtly-offending odors. After another celebratory beer and an “A-1 Chinese” take-out feast upon the cool concrete of the back lanai, we quickly settled in; first stowing our personal affects beneath our cots, unpacking the grocery bags of their meagre contents, unboxing and stowing the camping gear, and then releasing the tools from their check bags. We spent the rest of the evening touring the empty rooms; checking lights and outlets, cleaning the countertops and cupboards that comprised the open kitchen, confirming that the stove also still functioned (the oven smelled suspiciously of rodent, thus was deemed ‘unusable’), and then finally enjoying more “liquid aloha” while relaxing upon our deck chairs -all while acclimating ourselves to a foreign cacophony of sound and smell.

Morning found us rudely awakened by an excavator (a necessity for gouging a hole in the lava mantle for installation of the anaerobic/UV septic tank-we shall not discuss how such waste was originally disposed of), operated by a young man whose skill with the machine far exceeded his young adulthood. Soon thereafter, we were informed of the most recent ever-evolving plot-twists regarding the project with the prompt arrival of Mitzi, where it was confirmed that the house would be without a functional bathroom (or any wastewater containment) pending the successful installation of the still MIA sewage tank. This obviously created a bit of a problem. In a semi-ironic twist, Bill had prepaid for the use of a neighboring rental just south of the project house (“Jack and Donna’s”) to coincide with the latter arrival of Linda and her close friend Cheryl in a week’s time. Prompted by the preceding turn of events, Mitzi had already taken the initiative and made alternative arrangements for us to use its bathroom facilities in the meantime…

…as long as we didn’t officially ‘move ourselves in’ …yet.

With that problem settled, as the relentless jack-hammering of old pahoe-hoe lava continued at the front of the house, Bill and I hacked a preliminary trail marking the perimeter of the property line in the back…then continued further past the backyard punawai (essentially a landlocked tidal pond once quite common to the area) until at last blocked by the looming presence of a 50s era Ah Ah flow, covered at its margin by a thick, invasive tree line. By doing so, we realized we had inadvertently managed to retrace the footprint of previous clearing efforts to the jungle’s-edge. It inspired within us a desire to reestablish this open ground, as doing so promised to not only improve airflow around the house, help create a more defensive perimeter against invading swine, but might also allow the planting of a native orchard/garden in the future.

As would become the routine in the days and weeks (yes, even years) ahead, Bill/I kept ourselves busy with a steady sentence of hard-labor as might betray our rural upbringing. Meanwhile, whenever she might find herself passing by the house (she lived only a couple lots further up the street), Mitzi would also stop by; giving us updates, checking on our progress, generally just being neighborly -or, as she might phrase it: “living aloha.” During one such visit she informed us of a storm warning that had just gone into effect (extending through the weekend), involving the close approach -but not landfall- of Hurricane Niala. Largely undeterred by such news (due to neither of us having any real point of reference), we just continued diligently plodding along, accepting delivery of our preordered 35 ton dumpster around midday. We also managed to climb up onto the roof -prompted only in part by news of the approaching storm- to determine what repairs might be in order there.

As the afternoon waned, the young excavator operator, having finished with his jackhammer/bucket work (and after observing our slow and laborious removal of the encroaching jungle earlier) recommended we “…let the hydraulics take over now.” After successfully negotiating a cash settlement for himself, he and his full-size excavator then disappeared into the thick undergrowth of the back yard. As he began methodically carving back the invasive foliage, we quickly realized what took him a mere hour to accomplish could easily have taken us the rest of the week! Following a brief break after the completion of the task (which included open speculation regarding the future septic installation), Bill and I went inside and cut out a section of plywood sub-floor in order to grant future access into the more remote portions of the ungraded crawlspace. This act was in preparation for a full load of crushed gravel which was to be delivered and then relocated beneath the house sometime in the weeks ahead. Satisfied with the day’s progress, we took a preliminary tour and dip in the tidelands to wash off the day’s sweat and grime, then returned to the house for a meal that nearly used up our remaining supplies. Our second tropical evening in lower Puna concluded in much a manner as had the first with a round of beers, acclimation, and continued good cheer.

With a dumpster now on site, the next morning began (after coffee and “on the go” breakfast) with our depositing any/all loose debris that had lodged beneath (and around) the house during its recent encounter with hurricane Iselle; Old tarps, shredded Zodiacs, dimensional lumber, old corrugated roofing, battered trash cans, flotsam and jetsam of every imagined shape and size… all were dragged out from within the unfinished, ungraded, wholly unforgiving crawlspace and tossed in the bin.

Such diligence eventually revealed a discrete stash of ‘treasure’ left behind-likely long forgotten-by the previous owners. These items included (among other things) a miraculously intact “Capiz shell” hanging screen, a “Las Vegas Utility Inspector” hard hat, vintage macadamia nut jars, two crusty but decidedly “Tiki” light fixtures, a stack of “well seasoned” cast iron skillets (as well as two rather unusual matching ashtrays -one of which was put to immediate use), all of which we accumulated into a “safe” corner of the main living space. This “treasure trove” would grow quite sizeable by trip’s end (with many of these items repurposed as lanai decorations in the finishing stages of the project). Mitzi arrived around midday with a local contractor in tow, in order to discuss the terms for his employment after our preliminary demo/prep trip was concluded. During this initial meet/greet, Eric graciously offered the loan of any tools we might need in the coming weeks, a friendly gesture which we readily accepted…and, in a decidedly “Hawaiian twist” (one we have by now come to expect) there was still no word on the ETA of the wayward sewage tank.

Undeterred, and with two full days confirmation that the refrigerator (somewhat miraculously) still functioned, after a quick rinse off in the punawai, followed by the usage of our future rental’s outdoor shower, evening found us traveling boldly back into Pahoa -occasionally inundated by torrential precursors of the still distant tropical storm- in order to stock up on a week’s supply of groceries; included in this more extensive resupply was a 30-pack of “work beer,” a sixer of “desert beer,” as well as a gallon of Kirkov vodka and a tub of Tang to enable the creation of “Cosmonauts” (a Salish Sea “live-aboard” specialty which has also become a well-established “island tradition” for both of us). Thus, upon our triumphant return and indulgence in a hearty meal prepared by the deft hand of my diversely talented friend, host and workmate, the evening’s festivities quickly degenerated into a light-hearted blur of inebriation, post toil relaxation, speculative planning, all while the time-worn but treasured Capiz shell wall hanging began earning its nickname as “the Storm Detector:” its increasingly manic “jazz improvisations” accurately indicating equally gusting winds.

On Saturday morning we took advantage of the exceptionally low tide to finish removal of the remaining waterlogged crawlspace debris from the natural puka that the house had been built upon. Once such stranded flotsam and jetsam were added to the still-yawning dumpster, we headed into Pahoa to acquire the yard tools needed for the upcoming task of “levelling” this uneven and sunken grade beneath the house (via hauling wheelbarrow loads of gravel into access points within -and around- the structure, then manually distributing these piles into the lowest portions of the crawlspace). Arriving at the local Hardware store we purchased a round-nose shovel, a gravel rake, and wheelbarrow, adding a pruning saw and a gallon of blackjack (to enable stop-gap roof repairs prior to the storms arrival) for good measure.

Upon our return to Vacationland that afternoon, one of the local “aunties” (who could be seen habitually patrolling around the neighborhood on her golf cart, all while keeping a keen eye on the locals/tourists who routinely visited the tidelands), hoarsely called out to us from her mobile guard-post parked near the front gate on Kapoho Kai road:

“WATERS UP!”

Neither of us could help but laugh at this rather stern exclamation, as her tone was so insistent -desperate even- and the phrase just seemed so… random… obscure… mysterious (…mere utterance of the phrase by either of us still results in a shared chuckle). However, while motoring our way back through the community, we found ourselves rolling through some unexpectedly deep, flowing “puddles.” Once at the house, we then fully realized that the “WATER” was, indeed “UP:” the large punawai behind the house (as well as the shallower puka beneath it) were already overflowing -and this was hours before the scheduled high tide.

Now both intrigued and distracted, we postponed the days remaining workplan, and went out exploring instead. First, we walked two houses down the street to the discrete ‘local’ path leading to the tidepools inlet. Once we had tentatively waded into the knee deep water, we then followed a local/Australian and his significant/Sheila along the wholly unfamiliar but now well-submerged shoreline …only to watch them snorkel away into the incoming surf! Undeterred, we returned to the road and made our way toward the communities “waterfront promenade,” wading ever deeper into the approaching storm-surge. Once amongst the elevated houses of the waterfront, we passed a parked, unmarked mini-van which opened to reveal a prim Polynesian and her cameraman, there to capture local channel KHON news coverage of the event. After stopping for a quick conversation (advising them not to continue driving further) we continued onward ourselves, at last beginning to fully comprehend the extent of even a passing storm’s effect: The water already came up to our waists in spots, and a shifting morass of broken curbs, signage, lava boulders, and steadily eroding asphalt made one’s footing treacherous.

A third the way along our “storm surge stroll” we came across a wild-haired elderly man standing upon his first-floor lanai 30 feet away and elevated some 10 feet above our heads. He yelled at us across the gap:

“The water here is only thigh deep, but further on…” (first making indications of waist height, then pointing to my phone) “…that thing…GONE!”

I laughed, and tapping upon its military-grade protective case, replied: “This thing…WATERPROOF!”

He shook his head at that, and as if speaking entirely for his own benefit muttered “…I’ve lost too many of those things already…”

We continued on, slowly working our way against the press of the current. Pausing a moment to take more pictures, we were both surprised to see a white Jeep abruptly pulling out of a short-term rental house’s driveway just ahead of us. I heard Bill grumble under his breath:

“…I really don’t want to have to save someone today…”

To which I nodded in agreement (both of us having had ample experience with such selfless endeavors previously -perhaps the byproduct of a rural upbringing). We watched with increasing concern as the apparently agitated driver, after backing into around 16” of incoming surf, shifted from Reverse to Drive, accelerated, abruptly stopped, and then tentatively advanced into increasingly deeper water before stopping again. As the incoming rollers began rocking the now semi-buoyant rental vehicle, the door opened, and out leaned a mixed-Asian beauty, dressed in little else than a fashionable white bikini. Turning to us she called out in a desperate tone:

“…do you think its safe?”

Our heroic natures now re-inspired, we immediately rallied to her aid. After some further scouting, it became apparent that the road ahead wasn’t any safer than the way we had already come (easily three feet under water, and increasingly becoming littered with shore debris), and so we pushed, pulled, and generally redirected driver and vehicle back to the relative higher ground of the driveway from which they had come. We then set our collective will towards convincing her to “wait it out” until after the crest of the still-rising tide…her counter was she had an early evening flight to catch, and was worried she would become trapped (thus missing her flight) if she lingered much longer. In an effort to help dissuade her from making a rash decision she might live to regret (and perhaps to also assure ourselves we were offering sound -not selfish- advice) we exchanged contact numbers, asked her to delay leaving until hearing back from us, and then began the wet slog to Mitzi’s in order to get the latest update on the storm.

Once again wading our way past the “phone loser” house, we noted that the KHON news crew had now assembled upon the relative safety of his raised deck and were conducting an interview with him. As we passed by, we were seen and greeted with a wave, with the reporter shouting out across to us:

“…how’s it out there?”

We then paused our rescue effort a moment in order to report our findings back across the gap (conducting an impromptu interview of our own it seems) all of which was captured on film by her cameraman. After this brief exchange, we made our way up the street and found Mitzi (also lingering on her elevated lanai), accompanied by her sister Kim, brother in law Rob, and neighbors Dieter and Gail, all enacting their best afternoon rendition of “living aloha.” After some hurried consultation, speculation, and consensus, we left them to their vigil, assured that the tide was still likely to begin its ebb by late afternoon…leaving plenty of time for our presumed “damsel in distress” to successfully make her evening flight. When poor phone reception made such cellular confirmation impossible, we slogged all the way back to her rental bearing the good news -as well as celebratory Cosmonaut fixin’s- in person (the latter in order to help calm raw nerves and re-establish a mood of “aloha” as we passed the time).

After a modest cocktail and lively conversation that covered such broad topics as house remodeling, parenthood, Japanese anime, the “freedom of insignificance” and “solar tsunami’s,” the time for her eminent departure arrived. After an exchange of well-wishes and Email addresses, she then cautiously made her way through the wheel-deep current and eventually back to her mainland life in California. To be honest, I’m still amazed at the amount of faith in humanity one needs in order to accept the advice/company of two unkempt strangers randomly wading by on a flooded street…but am thankful she did and also for the brief period of correspondence that followed (I sincerely hope her life is unfolding with all the growth and promise she envisioned). Upon return to our project house, our now mildly-inebriated states disallowed any real work (its a rule we have), so Bill and I continued our pursuit of “liquid aloha” instead, enjoying the backyard punawai (while simultaneously clearing its bottom of loose stones), foraging a makeshift meal from our food reserves/leftovers, and then swapping overtly nostalgic tales regarding “what once was” and dreams of “what could have been” late into the evening.

Our Sunday demolition began in earnest with a “full-contact” stripping of the interior (down to the studs), inspired in no small part by the previous days delays/distractions. All the while we kept an ever wary eye upon the weather: just in case a change of outlook required a resulting change in routine. We managed to finish the bulk of this tear-out without incident nor further delay (although a visit from Mitzi did allow us take a series of rather whimsical photos as requested by our now distant “damsel”). Afterwards, we set our collective will toward the extraction/relocation of some resident landscape plants to better utilize the space/terrain made available following the excavations for the sewage tank/leech field. With afternoon waning, we went back inside for a final inspection/assessment regarding the “current structural state” of the house in order to incorporate any such concerns moving forward. After a quick dip in the punawai and a more thorough indulgence in the neighboring outdoor shower, we changed into fresh clothes and headed into town in order to change up the routine and sample some more of the local cuisine.

Braving the increasing storm showers, we arrived in Pahoa among roaming hoards of locals -all of whom seemed intent on their own, varying degrees of “storm preparation.” After a few passes through downtown, we finally managed to find a spot on the outskirts, parked the car, and began our walk along the gravel shoulder into the main strip. As most eateries were already full to overflowing, we settled on a more sparsely occupied pizzeria, where our overly-friendly reception was met with a rather lengthy wait (the local observation: “…where your order is never less than 20 mins late”). It was a pretty good pie, regardless, and soon enough we were on our way, bellies full and with a bonus 4 slices for lunch on the morrow. As we continued back along this streetlight challenged portion of oldtown (just past where a local nightclub pumped out a heart-stopping volume of Disco/Rave), a voice drifted out from within a darken alcove:

“Heya cousin…”

I turned in time to see a native islander lean forward from out of the shadows and give me a nod -I answered with a return nod and reply of “Heya”- as he slipped once again back into the velvet darkness. Rather than intimidation many visitors might experience from such a “back-alley” encounter, I felt a profound -even personal- embrace of acceptance: no longer another mere haolie, apparently I had been recognized and acknowledged as “relative” instead? I was left feeling equal parts honored and humbled. Pondering implications throughout that evening, it has continued to inform my experience on the islands ever since. Memory of the gesture still generates within me a sense of personal responsibility, of duty to a greater ohana, even. But, it also leaves me at a loss…as how, exactly, would I properly express this impulse? Do I even have a right to, as mere guest to this distinct culture of the Pacific? In the time since that first visit, my deepening desire to show proper respect has perhaps made me even more self-conscious when interacting with natives islanders.

It will always be, first and foremost, their aina…

The next day we both rose early in order to greet the sun as it dawned upon the tidelands. A still lingering full-moon assisted our cautious clambering out to the jutting lava point of lands-end at Wai’opeau. After a casual discussion regarding “tips for open water snorkeling” (I was an avid SCUBA diver in my youth, first introduced by my Danish girlfriend’s Oceanographer father before receiving formal PADI training), I then waded out even further upon the awakening tidelands, scouting potential points of interest. I was eventually stopped by the heavy, storm-influenced wave action, and so returned to dryer ground, content with my preliminary surface exploration. Arriving back at the house after sunrise, we began the rather delicate task of gutting the main bathroom (the house design was akin to that of a Hogan: its roof beams sloping away from a central peak supported by a massive hearth, behind which resided the bathroom) and remaining ceilings. Around midday both the septic tank and its crew made a surprise appearance, and after they spent an hour or so wrestling it from the truck-bed, we indulged in some quality time with the owner/employees of the company: all present being fluent in the language of “Tradesman Banter.”

Later that afternoon (after the much anticipated arrival of “beer-thirty”) Bill and I decided to blaze a trail to the lava field through the invasive treeline in back…and after a mere 30 yard hack-n-scramble, found ourselves overlooking a rugged landscape of aged Ah Ah boulders. Clambering up the nearest (and largest) of these, we noted an “all-terrain” roadway heading in a roughly northerly direction, which we quickly set off upon. After a couple hundred yards of further ascent, we found ourselves in a little grove of Ironwood trees, from which a flat roadway -an arrow straight green belt of grass and wild orchids- cut a swath westerly through the grey, lichen covered boulder field. It seemed a place of miraculous -even mystical- beauty: perhaps the result of midnight Menehuni labors, or even the enigmatic remnant of some ancient mythological event (although most likely the result of another long-since abandoned development plan)? We immediately dubbed this anomaly “the Green Road” and vowed to return on some later date for further exploration. Returning to the house, we once again availed ourselves of our future rental’s outdoor shower, then retraced the drive to Pahoa’s local cantina for pints of Pacifico and plate-size burritos to match…where (after saving a local surfer-child’s skateboard from oncoming traffic) I again received acknowledgement from the native denizens of the darken alcove.

Rising early again the next morning, we decided to wander down to the oceanside construction site that would eventually become Mitzi’s brother’s house. Doing so allowed us assess the skills of Bill’s future island-side building contractors (Eric and Jeff), observe the sunrise from Vacationland’s asphalt “promenade” and inspect what impact the storm-surge had upon the roadway there. The damage found was extensive enough for us to speculate how a certain white Jeep was able to navigate such unscathed (followed by the sobering realization that it likely didn’t). We returned to our work-tasks and in a burst of inspiration, finished the tear-out of all remaining plumbing fixtures/furnishings. With the basic wall layout (and their contents) now completely exposed, we began planning the frame-out to relocate doors and interior (non load-bearing) walls. This required us to spend many hours taking measurements in the oppressive heat and stagnant air of the eaves, resulting in frayed nerves and low morale.

In order to recover our diminished state of “aloha” (after also conducting a spontaneous -and rather nasty- discarded coconut frond cleanup along the property line), we took a much needed mid-day break and went down to the tidelands for our 1st snorkel session. Walking out along the shoreline as far as practical before stowing our towels/packs (a tactic intended to take us past the bulk of tourists closer in), we slipped into the tropical Pacific nearest where the inlet funneled out into the more open water of the sheltered tidelands. I was immediately overwhelmed by the clear visibility and profusion of life: the kaleidoscope of color presented by the countless varieties of fish, invertebrate, coral and stone…the further I proceeded from the shoreline, the greater the variety revealed until my first Wai‘opeau experience was rendered “complete” by the all too brief underwater sighting of (not one, but) 3 sea turtles! We lingered at the tidelands awhile after coming back to shore, excitedly chatting about our discoveries before returning to the house -where we were greeted by the septic crew, having arrived to finish setting the tank in the hole jackhammered from solid rock to receive it.

After more “good ol’ boy” good times (seems working class banter is a trans-Pacific skill), and another fond “fare-thee-well,” Bill and I returned to town: this time for a much needed resupply at Mahalo Market. When we once again sauntered up to the register with a cart full of food, mixer, large bottles of liquor and multiple 1/2 racks of beer (we were attempting to stock up for the eminent arrival of Linda and Cheryl) the cashier slyly asked us:

“…are you guys having a party?”

Bill and I exchanged a glance and a chuckle. One of us said: “…you asked us that last time.”

“…yeah, I know…” to which the only honest reply could be the sharing of a hearty laugh. We were indeed a party it seems: a party of two.

We then ventured back into old town, where we sampled the menu of an excellent authentic Thai restaurant there. Strategically placed signs gave notice to any pretentious poser: “Don’t order too hot- no returns”. Bill had a scorching (“3” out of “5”) fish stir fry, while I sampled a more demure (“1”) seafood soup (which has since become a beloved staple of mine). While returning to our now-routine parking spot on the outskirts by alternatively walking down the middle of the street (an effort to not disturb the numerous locals camping the boardwalk), we were recognized by one who then waved and called out to us:

“…whazzup fellas…?”

An open question which, at the time, seemed to us as “unofficial acceptance” into the local community. Returning home in a good mood with full bellies to a now well-stocked bar, we concluded the night with cocktails and further philosophical musings regarding island life.

Wednesday we set our sights toward general cleaning/tying up of loose ends, as we had pre-planned on quitting early for a little evening recreation. We stripped back a sizeable section of tile flooring in order to help determine the extent of termite damage we had discovered previously, and once satisfied the damage was minimal(ish), began to finalize our plan for more extensive interior wall re-framing. The septic crew showed up to pour the concrete needed to “anchor” the tank (a necessity at the tidelands, as otherwise the rising/falling of the tide -not to mention future storm surge- might find it breaking loose of its plumbing). It was also around this time that our 17yd load of crushed gravel showed up…and we immediately became distracted planning and then enabling a means for its successful dispersal beneath the house. As the day waned towards evening, we finally put away our tools, cleaned ourselves up, donned our most presentable duds, and headed off down the Red Road for the weekly public celebration at Uncle Roberts.

We soon found ourselves swimming through a sea of unfamiliar but (mostly) friendly faces, emboldened by our consumption of a tequila shot and Longboard ale. We wandered the craftsman tables, trade booths, the tantalizing assortment of food venders, all while stepping in time to the reggae infused tunes performed by the local house band (all local hoapili and/or ohana). Eventually our empty bellies prompted us to purchase some fresh-grilled lamb and salmon from a vendor, source another couple beers from the bar, and settle down at a table, feeling increasingly at home and at ease. Once again within such a mixed cultural vantage point, I couldn’t help but once again observe the different behaviors of locals and tourists…the former were relaxed, open, flowing with the moment. The latter seemed generally tense, closed, and preoccupied; at times even unknowingly making a spectacle of themselves. For instance: a big brute of a guy with a “Metal Mulisha” t-shirt (hanging out with 3 skinny young adults -almost like they were a band, and he their security) began wandering aimlessly around the dance floor with a near empty bottle of Crown Royal and a mostly-spent 1/2 rack of Budweiser, all while randomly making loud Tarzan-like “jungle calls” (which then began to be mimicked by 3 presumed frat boys at a distant table). Meanwhile looks of disdain were subtly exchanged in amongst the gatherings of local ohana (and more overtly by those performing on stage). This increasingly uncomfortable scenario, heightened by our all too apparent physical exhaustion level, prompted us to leave earlier than we had originally planned.

Thursday was the long-anticipated “Airport Day:” the scheduled time for Linda and Cheryl’s arrival on the Big Island. Anticipating this, we limited our day’s chores to stripping back more of the time-worn linoleum flooring, and marking out the remaining interior walls for relocation. As neither of us had much motivation beyond this point (and were likely suffering the affects of too much “liquid aloha” the previous night), both of us cracked a “work beer” for lunch at noon, instead. As this officially marked the end of any real labor for the remainder of that day, we puttered around for the next couple hours cleaning up the grounds and jobsite for its “afternoon inspection” before endeavoring to pick up the gals from the airport…but while Bill made this necessary trip into Hilo, I chose to take a walk down to the tidelands instead. After picking my way past the maddening crowd to a remote outcropping in the more obscure southwestern portion of the bay, I donned mask/fins/snorkel and slipped once again into the warm Pacific.

The portion of the inlet I had chosen was completely separated from the main channel, and so I had my first experience within a portion of the reef that was “less traveled” (and an entry point which became much preferred in the years that followed). The fish there seemed more “social” somehow -as if just as curious about me as I was of them. I made my way further SW (away from people, with a school of tangs trailing behind) until the increased tidal action -the reef ‘flushed out’ into open water at this less prominent section of the breakwater- combined with the knowledge that I was snorkeling solo and largely obscured from public view, bade me to return nearer the shoreline out of a greater need for caution. While I worked my way back against this stronger current, I noticed something flitting by my periphery -old conditioning had me immediately scanning for any threat- and imagine my relief when I spotted a large sea turtle (well over 3’ tip to tail) circle around me before heading out through the deep trough into open ocean! Having now successfully completed my day’s honu sighting, I made it back to the relative safety of the more sheltered inlets, where I began to encounter other snorkelers -each wholly immersed in their own personal experience.

Returning to the house hours later, I first greeted my new housemates (who were in midst of inspecting our progress to date), rinsed myself/gear off in the outdoor shower, and then shuttled my personal affects from the back lanai of the jobsite to my newly assigned room at “Jack and Donna’s” (which we were now officially allowed to occupy). Access to my open, lofted space was via a 10’ vertical ladder, thus it was a “no-brainer” that a tree climber would be relegated there for the duration. Bill prepared a superb Spam stir-fry for our newly-arrived cohorts, after which he and his wife wandered over to Mitzi’s to celebrate Linda’s return to the islands with a few local friends. Meanwhile, Cheryl and I stayed at the rental house getting acquainted (it was our first real face to face meeting), waxing philosophical over any/all topics the influence of cocktails presented. Once reunited again, we all stayed up quite late that night, enjoying each others company and the renewal of aloha that accompanied it.

The next morning started slower than usual, with everyone suffering more than a bit from the previous night’s festivities. After first greeting the sunrise from the tidelands, Bill and I eventually made our way over to the jobsite. Through the course of this challenging day we managed to frame up (using lumber salvaged from the tearout) a second bedroom, as well as relocate all relative closets and doorways. When Eric and Jeff stopped by for a visit around mid-day they were visibly shocked by the progress two presumed haolie’s had managed in a mere week’s time (and, so began our ever growing “punatic” reputation). Meanwhile, Linda and Cheryl, after heading back into town in order to exchange some unused camping items/hardware, returned to the house with an even greater volume of food and alcohol! Since by that time we had already fulfilled our allotted construction chores for the day, late afternoon found us all heading down to the tidelands for a swim…and the resolution of any further doubts I might have had regarding “feeling welcome” (from the reef residents, at least).

Looking back on the experience, I can only describe it as “most blessed.”

The shoreline was over-crowded due to it being Friday, so we established our spot of entry nearest the head of the bay. Unfortunately, the water there was still hazy/murky from the “flushing” of tannins (and I prefer not knowing what else) as a result of the recent storm surge. This fresh/salt water ‘halocline’ started to clear about a hundred yards out, until eventually we found ourselves in a large, deep, mostly barren pool crowded with a baker’s dozen of bloated, bleach-white tourists buoyed by air mattresses and arm floaties at the surface while they made feeble splashing motions trying to follow the few Tangs and/or Moorish Idols that darted past some 20’ below (it occurred to me -as I also darted past below- that they all seemed akin to flotsam/jetsam one might find adrift after a tsunami). Continuing on past the narrow entrance to the inlet, we observed where the first of the truly substantial coral growth began, and the related increase in all other varieties of sea life that accompanied it. As Bill continued to follow this transition straight out towards the distant break-line, I turned easterly toward a coral-filled submerged lava tube that had been brought to my attention by one of the local residents (likely Rob, Dieter, or neighbor Stephen). Once I had crested over its rather shallow lip, my eyes were greeted with every type of local coral, crowded one atop another within its 20’ depth: pillar, fan, elkhorn, brain…and all in a dazzling variety of colors.

As I explored this house-sized hole in the rock, I noticed a uniform, greenish shape at its margin near where the lava tube (whose collapsed roof granted access to the puka) continued its descent into darkness. Duck-diving down in order to close the roughly 20’ distance, I realized it was a mature turtle (around 4’ from tip to tail) apparently asleep on a rock shelf. Both exited and awestruck, I observed it for some time before deciding to risk seeking out Bill in order to share the discovery with him. Cautiously leaving the hole, I then furiously propelled my way to where I presumed Bill was, somehow managing to spot him out near an underwater feature we later dubbed “Old Beach.” Reaching him at long last, I swam up behind and touched his ankle -causing him to jump violently- and after apologizing (its not polite to grab people sight-unseen underwater) stammered out a likely nonsensical explanation before just asking him to “…follow me.” As we propelled our way back toward the “honu hangout,” I noted the greater numbers and variety of fish nearer the open water: wrasts, triggers, butterflies, puffers, parrots, tangs, moorish idols…and then managed to spot a barely discernable shape cruising fluidly across the bottom:

an octopus!

As I detoured my previous course to follow this elusive new quarry, it turned from beige to spotty, to crimson/maroon and then darted into some rocks, where it became both motionless and camouflaged with the bottom. Distracted now, we both watched it sporadically flash between distress crimson and various shades/textures of the seafloor, as if unsure whether we were friend or foe. In time I realized we were likely unduly traumatizing the trapped cephalopod (who had found its remote refuge in only 5’ of water), so I motioned Bill back towards the nearby coral filled hole. As we crested over the lip I pointed down toward the mature sea turtle, still resting placidly some 10’ below. We lingered there quite awhile, alternatively pulling ourselves cautiously down near the still form (so still in fact, that I began to fear that it might have been sick-or worse). It was unusually large -resulting in my speculation that it might have been the one I’d seen the previous day- with a beautiful shell of fissured green. At times it would crack open a sleepy eye and look at us (as if we were mere children, trying its patience), and so, in an effort to not disturb it any further, I eventually continued quietly on my way: first cautiously exploring the deeper corners of the collapsed tube, then heading back over toward the octopus. Meanwhile, Bill’s persistent mask issues (facial hair does not a good sealer make) prompted him to head toward shore.

The octopus had calmed some, and was now consistently remaining the pattern of the bottom again (even cycling the refracted sunlight that played across it) and so I watched from a more discrete distance, waiting for it to emerge, fascinated by the seemingly alien being. It was far from oblivious to my presence, however, as it still kept an ever wary eye upon me, and would not stray from its shelter, regardless. Having finally grown impatient with the stalemate, I bid it “fare-thee-well” and returned to the “honu puka” for one last update before returning myself to shore. As I pulled myself over the shallow lip and into deeper water again, I was then shocked as “Ma turtle” fully opened her eyes and fixed me with a stare (prompting me to spontaneously bow to her in due respect), and then arose from her rocky bed to the surface, splaying-out while hovering suspended (spread-eagle with her head at the surface and underbelly towards me) only 15’ distant, all while the backlight of the sun created a radiant halo-effect around her form. From there she took 8 or 9 deep, slow breaths/exhalations all while fixating me with her calm stare before diving down and settling back upon her resting place once again. She seemed completely undaunted by my presence, and I felt another profound, self-conscious flush of acceptance and responsibility.

If pressed to make a comparison, I would liken it to a religious experience.

Popping my head above the surface, I could see my human companions now readying themselves to leave (it seems all too easy for me to lose track of time while out on the water), so I began making my way back towards the head of the bay, now especially unimpressed by the placid waters of the “dead zone” that so many seemed content experiencing at the tidelands. However, as I approached the rock outcropping and stunted Ironwood tree we had congregated at, I noticed the flash of a large red shape on the bottom just inside the shadowy, submerged mouth of a puka there…closing the 15’ to the bottom, on my first attempt I managed to see what might have been a torso? On my next, perhaps the undulating sweep of a tail? On my third, much closer attempt, I managed to clearly see -in full profile I might add- the toothy maw and head of a very large Moray eel: its body some 8’ long and whose torso seemed near equal in diameter to my thigh! A primitive panic washed over me, but I contained it long enough to get another, clearer view of the sea monster, gently swaying with the current while its jaws gaped rhythmically with every intake of water through its gills. My nerve held for only a few moments more, however: my flight instinct finally overcame my curiosity. Swimming well wide of the cavernous opening in order to come ashore, before I even had a chance to report on my newest sighting, I overheard Bill comment: “…must have been looking at the eel…” Gathered together on solid ground again, he/I exchanged insights on all we had seen out on the reef, and tried (somewhat vainly) to impress upon Cheryl and Linda how ‘benign’ the snorkeling and amazing the reef was beyond the inlet…and perhaps we might also have influenced opinion, if not for the eel. Not even I could put a dismissive spin on that encounter.

Need I mention that I never again entered the bay from that particular location…?

We returned to the house, where we had a delightful meal of strip-steak, beans and salad lovingly prepared by Cheryl/Linda, with all enjoying the end of our first official day together on the Big Island. Mitzi also stopped by for an evening visit, as we began to fully settle into our new life at “Jack and Donna’s.” Elevated as it was on pilings some 10’ off the ground, it received much more of the daily onshore/offshore flow of breezes than did the project house. This made it quite comfortable for general lounging, but it lacked a punawai, so for the remainder of the trip we would find ourselves alternating between the two depending on our predilections. If one preferred to indulge floating in a warm salt water pool with a cold drink in hand, then the project house would become the logical destination, whereas if you preferred a mostly fly-free experience involving book and armchair, the rental would accommodate. Between the two, one could always find a suitably relaxing place to hang out (except, perhaps, during the workday). Regardless, everyone decided to turn in early that night, no doubt hoping to complete a full days work the next in order to make up for the previous day’s distractions.

We were awoken early that Saturday by the sporadic patter of rainshowers on the metal roof. After acquiring coffee, I arrived next door to find Bill already involved in a myriad of minor tasks. By 9:00 we were fully engaged in stripping out the remaining wiring, outlets, fixtures: in some cases all the way back to the (now deactivated) fuse box! After an impromptu ceremony honoring its long and loyal service life, we then unplugged and hauled the fridge out near the dumpster (along with the hundreds of feet of wiring, ceiling fans, light fixtures, cook stove and other miscellaneous electrical devices stripped from the house) to be picked up for recycling by a scrap collector later. The cupboards, counters, and kitchen wall soon followed. After concluding that task, we then focused on completing our interior frame-out (including another 3hr shift within the sauna that was the ceiling crawlspace), finally concluding we were finished with the day’s carpentry -but not the task itself- when we used up the last stick of salvage lumber on site. In the meantime, Cheryl and Linda had prepared a delicious brunch of “Spam hash” and sliced Mango which they delivered for our consumption on the back lanai -and it was certainly an improvement on the “catch as catch can” meals we had grown accustomed to. This change in routine helped mark a most welcome milestone after 10 days laboring in the tropics.

Holstering our hammers, we then armed ourselves with rake and shovel, and began the rather daunting task of transferring 17 yards of gravel under the house. Any optimism we might have harbored regarding the ease by which we might enable this evaporated along with the volume of sweat that quickly accumulated upon our collective brow: the dense weight of the gravel, combined with the tight confines of the crawlspace meant that it couldn’t simply be coerced into place via gravel rake (such only allowed shallow surface dragging/smoothing) as we had originally planned, so we were forced to source another round shovel, and then redistribute the wheelbarrow-sized gravel loads with it, from upon our knees, while simultaneously hunched over by the low joisting/beams…it goes without saying that this was the very definition of “backbreaking labor.” After a few trial rounds, we settled on a rotation of 20 wheelbarrow loads “in crawlspace hell” and (switching places in order to enable the ability to stand upright again) 20 wheelbarrow loads “contributing to crawlspace hell.”

Then, in an ironic twist, the gentle rainshowers that had awoken us that morning turned into a steady rain, then steady rain to torrential downpour. This meant that within minutes of his much-anticipated escape from crawlspace confinement, the “designated shoveler” would find himself wringing wet, nearly blinded by the sweat-laced torrents flooding his eyes, and would soon be welcoming the rather unforgiving shelter provided to the “crawlspace spreader” again (both were miserable options, regardless). In spite of such difficulties, we doggedly soldiered on, and at times I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the sheer audacity of the conditions we endured…it almost seemed like we were in “the ‘Nam” or some other notoriously traumatic tropical experience -except for the unseasonably cool temperatures and the fact we were free to ‘take leave’ whenever we chose. After hours of this drudgery, we finally received a welcome break in hostilities with the call to clean ourselves up for dinner…Cheryl had spent most of the day painstakingly preparing an exquisite Ramen dish from scratch: A perfect recipe for warming our now-chilled bones. It was absolutely delicious, and after two stiff Cosmonauts, bed was a most welcome destination.

On Sunday Bill and I rose stiffly, and after a hastily foraged breakfast, all of us jumped in the rental car and went down to the local Maku’u Farmers Market in order to peruse the local produce, and see what gifts/collectables might be found there. I picked up a few modest gift-items for friends and relatives, we all sampled some of the more compelling offerings from the food carts in attendance, and Bill and I indulged in kava for the very first time (it was a resounding hit and has since become an island staple for both of us). Returning to the house around noon, reinvigorated by the influence of kava, Bill and I changed into our work-clothes, and resumed our self-imposed sentence of hard labor. Meanwhile Cheryl and Linda became preoccupied with preparations for the imminent arrival of Tony and Sandy (Bill’s brother and sister in law).

Sometime around early afternoon we heard a familiar voice shout out: “…where the heck are you guys at?”

This exclamation announced to the gravel crew the official arrival of another LaPolla on site. After finishing the “20 load turn” we then gave Tony a tour of our progress to date, as well as sharing an abridged mental list of all pressing tasks yet undone. To his credit, Tony immediately volunteered his services, and we readily accepted the gracious offer. With the arrival of these new guests (they were staying at a modest rental just up the street nearer Mitzi’s) we gladly concluded the day’s labors to focus instead upon socializing. Meanwhile, the 4-course meal Linda and Cheryl had meticulously prepared was consumed, everyone became reacquainted (it had quite literally been decades since I had seen Tony last), cocktails were served, and eventually everyone slipped off to sleep.

The next day, while “the boys” gathered on the raised lanai of our rental for coffee/breakfast/labor assignments, “the girls” prepared themselves for an island-wide tour prompted by it being Sandy’s first visit to the islands. While they loaded up the car and departed for a two-day sightseeing trip to Kona (and back), those remaining behind girded their loins for another deployment of “Operation Gravel.” Having 3 now involved in the rotation promised a most welcome respite from the grueling routine of days previous (namely: an opportunity for a rest break) but this hope was short lived. It wasn’t long before the elder LaPolla was forced to throw in the towel…his body just couldn’t sustain the abuse. After a brief (expected?) ribbing from the increasingly salty recipients of this news, Tony quickly regrouped and in a praiseworthy gesture of self-redemption, set himself instead to the thankless task of stripping every single exposed sheetrock/finish nail remaining within the structure, as well as chipping away at the remaining linoleum tiles still stubbornly attached to the subfloor.

Redemption, indeed…

As the workday waned toward evening, we once again halted progress in order to indulge the arrival of “beer thirty.” After a quick rinse in the outdoor shower and a welcome change out of our grimy, sweaty clothes, we gathered our gear and headed down to explore the tidelands with another snorkel session. Working our way out to the most prominent departure point once again (no sense tempting the Moray’s mood), each slipped on their mask/fins, and headed out: Bill and Tony sticking close to each other, I roaming as freely as I am prone to. I’d wager we all had an equally good time that afternoon regardless of experience level -realize strong tidal currents can cause even an experienced snorkeler concern when exploring the waters of an isolate archipelago in the middle of the Pacific! Regardless, we all returned safely to the rental house with plenty of stories/insights to share and the first round of evening cocktails to mix. After foraging a meal out of the now extensive leftovers in the fridge, we stayed up late into the evening indulging in a long-deferred Wilderville reunion.

The next day started off much as had the previous, with each diligently attending to their self-assigned tasks. Bill and I submitted to our gravel duties rather reluctantly at this point (body/mind now loudly protesting further abuse) but we persisted knowing that the sooner we finished, the sooner we could be freed from our self-imposed burden. Hearing the constant din of activity commencing upstairs from Tony’s labors was a welcome relief, regardless…after all: every effort he expended was that much less on the ”to-do” list for us. By early that afternoon we had finally succeeded in distributing the last wheelbarrow of gravel beneath the house. Then, allowing only a brief moments pause for celebration (and with many hours of daylight still remaining), all of us focused our efforts toward finishing the preliminary landscaping at the front of the house: mainly to reestablish its “curb appeal”…a largely “neighborly” gesture. We spread the remaining piles of pumice left behind after the septic backfill, transplanted shrubs from the immediate frontage of the house, and then began dry-stacking retaining walls from the copious amounts of rock that had been meticulously piled against the front lanai by the previous owners.

As that afternoon settled into evening, the girls made their triumphant return, and after sharing colorful tales of their many adventures travelling to and from the North Coast (truth be told: it made my then-bedraggled self kind of jealous), an extravagant feast was prepared which, if memory serves, involved usage of the barbecue grill, included numerous side dishes inspired by roadside discoveries, and even culminated with a locally-sourced desert. As the sun set on another full work-day in lower Puna, the house-lights were dimmed, candles were lit and “liquid aloha” flowed freely…this was the first time since arrival where it felt to me like we were actually on a vacation, and it was well into the next morning before all managed to find their beds.

Bright and early that next day, with Tony and Sandy choosing to spend some quality time exploring paradise together (and Linda/Cheryl content just relaxing and recovering from their previous two days as tour guides), Bill and I headed out for our first materials run into Hilo in order to pick up some lumber, nails and other miscellany at a builder’s warehouse I’ve long referred to as “the Despot.” It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Certainly no stranger to the prolific national home improvement chain, I noted some immediate differences from those I’d resorted to shopping at on the mainland. First off: most everyone was friendly! Employees could be heard cracking jokes, with locals also contributing to the noticeably lighter mood. Secondly: materials were substantially more “picked through” than one might be accustomed to on the mainland (where such practice is often viewed with disdain) while much of the exterior lumber and sheathing was found to be in a decidedly “pre-saturated” state. The final difference that quickly became apparent was a more expansive definition of “subject to stock on hand.” Due to the increased time/effort involved with shipping goods to the island, what one might normally assume to be “in stock” on the mainland might not be immediately available at all: lets say one were needing a common but high-demand item (2 1/2” deck screws for instance)…one might not find that particular item on the shelf for weeks. Alternatively, even successfully locating an object of one’s desire within the premises offered no guarantee, as it might simply be on display -awaiting pre-order and potential arrival in no less than 8 weeks time (this rule applied to many tools, plumbing/lighting fixtures, and most appliances).

These latter differences in particular required one to have a readily deployable attitude of aloha at all times.

After safely returning with our rather haphazard load to Vacationland (we have gotten quite skilled at maximizing a rental vehicle’s storage/hauling capacity since), we set our sites on finishing up the last of the framing so as to ensure that everything was made ready for the subcontractors who would arrive in our wake. We somehow managed to complete the master bedroom/bath in the short time left to us that day, but had to cut short any further progress in order to clean ourselves up for another Wednesday evening spent at Uncle Roberts. Leaving early enough to arrive before nightfall (so as to explore the black sand beaches that the traditional Hawaiian village of Kalapana was once famous for), we then all broke off into small groups, and meandered our own pace around the festive gathering. Knowing that this was to be our last visit there for the trip, I set my sights on finding any remaining gifts from among those offered by the local craft-persons in attendance.

After a lap or two around the venues (during the course of which I purchased for myself a carved antler sea-turtle necklace, in honor of my experience with makuahine honu), Bill and I returned to the bar for our celebratory shot-n-beer. Imagine our surprise when we noticed kava was also on the menu! Our “liquid aloha trinity” now rendered complete, we found ourselves a table nearest the band and settled into the steady groove flowing effortlessly off stage. Soon we were joined by our companions, and it wasn’t long before Linda and myself found ourselves out upon the dancefloor, no longer able to keep our rhythmic sensibilities contained. The night settled into a comfortable state of being; a broad sampling of cuisine was tasted, refreshments flowed freely, our moods became light and playful, the night’s velvet embrace feeling almost intimate.

On the ride home everyone was in great spirits, the banter becoming familial.

The next day everyone seemed to rise with renewed vigor. Although Bill and I still suffered the dull fatigue of successive days of hard labor, we knew our time for its completion had nearly drawn to a close, and though likely bittersweet, the long flight home would also bring with it a sense of relief. With such contrasting thoughts in mind, we doggedly set ourselves to completing the short-list of remaining tasks, and finishing up the framing of the central bath. This included expanding the shower stall to encompass the recess once occupied by the “little fridge that could,” and closing off any/all holes through the walls and floor (most especially around the central hearth) that might allow the passage of future rodent squatters. We cleaned out any remaining construction debris inside the house, and then venturing outside, did much the same with the grounds and landscaping: “prep and cleanup.” By the end of the workday, we managed to again find ourselves neck-deep in the punawai, sipping beers and tossing out any loose stones and rocks we could pry loose from its rough bottom.

As the day waned, we refocused our attentions on gathering all the tools together into one place, and then selecting out that which would be returning home with us to the mainland. We crammed and compressed down the contents of our now-overflowing dumpster, and once that was achieved, officially declared the work-trip portion “finished.” Returning to the rental for a proper shower, we made ourselves presentable for the evening’s grand event: a “block party” (of sorts) where a select group of local friends and neighbors had been invited to the house for a potluck meal. In spite of assurances that select food items would be arriving along with our guests, Linda and Cheryl had been working hard all day on their own preparations for the event, and as the time for arrivals approached, it showed: the table they alone had set beneath the shelter of the elevated rental house was simply spectacular! Even the locally-sourced centerpiece was, in a word, “perfect.” After Bill and I had redistributed every available chair around the vicinity of our makeshift table, we were finally ready to receive guests. They all arrived promptly at the designated time, each with their specially prepared food offering. After an initial period of mingling and mixing, each found their place at the table -toasts were made- and the feasting began in earnest. I’ve no account of how many different dishes I sampled, nor how many bottles of wine, beer or ounces of alcohol were consumed that night (and I’m not sure any of that really matters).

The state of being the gathering produced was that of “aloha,” truly.

During the course of the evening, a resident of the house immediately to the North of Bill and Linda’s project dropped in (bearing freshly picked mangos from his farm lot if I remember correct). Stephen was a rather enigmatic figure who, during the course of our labors, could be regularly seen coming and going from the tidelands with his snorkel gear (often in the company of a dive buddy: generally Rob or Dieter). At other times he could be seen pedaling to and fro on his bicycle. When seen, he might wave (perhaps offering a few words in greeting), while other times it might be assumed lost in his thoughts. We had already become well acquainted with one roomate that also accompanied him that night: his long-time canine companion, Umi (who likely considered ALL OF US trespassers upon HER already well-established territory). Following his unexpected arrival that evening, Stephen and I spent hours engaged in a rambling, in-depth conversation that covered countless digressions of mutual interest. It was towards the end of our conversation that it occurred to me we owed him an apology for having endured weeks of construction din (not to mention our often loud late-night lanai ramblings). My attempt was quickly dismissed with a simple shrug and a comment along the lines of “…it happens.” I decided that night I liked Stephen’s particular type of “aloha.” It felt…familiar somehow.

Eventually the night passed, midnight loomed, and the last of the wine bottles were emptied. As guests began to take their leave, good tidings were exchanged, and resolutions made to have a similar gathering upon our return. It was a wonderful way to conclude what had largely been a work-focused and socially-isolated visit to the Big Island for Bill and I, and proved an excellent way to replenish our mood of aloha for the flight home. We truly were blessed to find ourselves taken in by such a collection of local characters, who no doubt were already quite tightly-knit. As mere malahini, we had no rightful claim to their friendship, let alone inclusion into their lives, and yet, that’s precisely what we received: “living aloha,” indeed. Gathering up what remained of the night’s feast into the fridge, we cleaned the dishes, pulled the tablecloth for laundering, and called it a night…there would be plenty of time the next day to finish what remained of our preparations for exodus.

Friday introduced me to a routine that would become quite familiar in the coming years travelling to the Big Island: along with the usual loads of laundry and packing one might expect in preparation for flight, it was also considered customary to “put the house back in order.” The list of tasks this included was an overall cleaning, collection of all garbage/recycling, the seemingly endless loads of laundry (not to mention one’s preliminary packing), and corralling of any free-range furniture and/or other furnishings that had somehow managed to wander off to the far reaches of the property. After sampling a leftover brunch, Bill and I then went back over to the project house where we collected, cleaned, and stowed the remaining tools which would be left behind; organizing them all neatly into the outdoor storage enclosure residing in the open carport of the lanai. We then packed the (significantly lighter and now singular) checked bag for its return with us. Also on our “to-do” list was any final preparation of the jobsite for the eminent arrival of island-side contractors, and creation of detailed notes which would inform future instructions sent later in the form of Emails. We persisted with these tasks knowing that if completed quickly enough, our last day in paradise could be spent visiting with our local friends. Pretty soon all that remained undone was the stripping of beds the next morning, just prior to our departure for Hilo International.

Having arrived at our collective stopping point, we joined the casual daily local gathering down at the tidelands, spending a relaxing midday enjoying the place in the best manner each saw fit. Quite enamored now of the reef and its occupants, I chose to spend most of my remaining time in the water, making what farewells I could manage to any/all of my presumed aquatic friends. As if in response to my intent, I encountered Ma Turtle (we shall just assume it was her) and some fellow honu, once again lingering out near the current-heavy deep trough. As the day began to wane so did my body temperature (dressed as I was in only board shorts and a long-sleeve sunshirt), and so I rather reluctantly returned back to shore, sensing hypothermia as a likely outcome if I remained in the water much longer. Shivering and with chattering teeth, I bid aloha to our Vacationland friends, and then hurried back to the house for a hot shower. Rinsing my snorkel gear for the final time, I laid them out to dry on the lanai of the project house, where they (and our well worn workclothes) would be wrapped in garbage bags and stowed alongside the tools (and collection of treasures) left awaiting our return.

This simple act carried with it a profound sense of closure for me, as it, more than anything prior, foreshadowed our eminent departure…

Once we had all gathered at “Jack and Donna’s” again, the decision was made to spend our remaining afternoon commuting upslope in order to visit an old friend/work associate of Linda’s. Wayne could most easily be described as a “total character:” Owner of the local feed store, he was also a full-time horse trainer, bronc rider, pig hunter, as well as proud father and grandfather. Upon arriving at his rather expansive island property, it was a bit of a shock seeing in Hawaii what might well have been a typical horse ranch from the region of my birth! After formal introductions, meeting his ohana, and some rather colorful small-talk, he asked if any of us would like a tour of his acreage…and all of us nodded in agreement. Noting then that his UTV would only (barely) seat 1/2 of our group, he turned to me and asked: “…you ever driven a quad?” Even though I only had a couple times back in my youth (yet having lifelong experience on two wheels -both on and off road), my reply was merely a dismissive shrug and single word: “…yep.” Once everyone had gotten settled into their assigned vehicle (Bill climbing aboard behind me after I finally remembered how to engage/disengage reverse), we all set off on our safari/ranch-tour. I immediately found myself struggling to match Wayne’s rather brisk pace. Luckily, we had ample opportunity to catch up now and again, as we were confronted by any number of fences which sub-divided his land into parcels. At each such fence-gate we were let through, the gate diligently closed behind us, and then Bill and I quickly brought “up to speed” on the current tour highlights.

After this exhilarating experience navigating the muddy, hilly “back forty” of Wayne’s ranch (with an understandably nervous passenger hanging on for dear life behind me, no less), we then returned to the ranch-house for snacks and refreshments. In the course of our remaining visit we were spellbound by tales of his family/upbringing, being a pig hunter and guide, as well as his life and times on the professional rodeo circuit (Wayne, then in his 70s, wasn’t allowed to compete within his age bracket, as he was still deemed as having an “unfair advantage”). Once the late afternoon had waned to early evening, we reluctantly bid farewell to our gracious hosts, gratefully accepting their offer for another visit to the ranch in the future. On the drive back we all seemed recharged from simply having spent time in the presence of this close-knit ohana overflowing with such mana. Having returned just after dusk to “Jack and Donna’s,” our last meal of the trip was a smorgasbord of any and every kind of leftover in the fridge, and a broad sampling of all unconsumed beverages. Knowing a full day of air travel awaited us on the next, we lingered long into the early morning before finally succumbing to sleep.

I’ve also a suspicion that we were all quite unwilling for the trip to end.

Waking up with the dawn (as per usual), we finished stripping the beds, loaded up the rental car, and met up with Tony/Sandy for a quick breakfast/group photo before heading into Hilo to catch our plane. Even though this long flight back was largely unremarkable, I am still left with an initial impression of feeling well steeped in mana as we slowly returned to our decidedly “non-aloha” lifestyles on the mainland. After a couple days of lingering in PDX, I retraced my path back to Washington State where I resumed my usual routine there…mostly. For there remained now firmly lodged within the spirit; a lingering sense of island magic, an unsolicited (and thus unexpected) feeling of acceptance and belonging, and a burning desire to return. This latter impulse was soon granted audience, as another request for my services on the Big Island was both expressed and confirmed within weeks of our return to our mainland lives.

This next trip was slated to occur a month or two after the turn of the year, and would involve removal and rebuilding of the lanai shed in order to accommodate a washer/dryer space, a reconfigured storage room, and (eventually) an outdoor shower. There was also the continuing landscaping/property maintenance to contend with, as well as any addendums to the job list that always seemed to present themselves. In the meantime, the interior wiring, plumbing, and sheetrock were slated to have been completed, and the first round of painting also finished. We hoped to “hit the ground running” again as we had the first trip, with one caveat: with the physical toll of our diligent and unrelenting work ethic still a lingering concern, the next trip was planned to be different. This time, more of the schedule would be set aside for exploration and sightseeing, less time dedicated to the grindstone…

…but alas, old rural dogs are apparently resistant to such new trickery (as will be further detailed in the next installment of the Kapoho Chronicles).

Aloha!

Real Tales and Tall Stories

A collection of first-person accounts that chronicle life changing and/or noteworthy events that helped influence the development of each author's unique identity.

View Group