the great escape.

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27 march 1997

10:43 p.m.

Dear diary, I'm back from Kaua`i... finally. Unfortunately, my sunburns haven't gotten any better, my midterm paper isn't any closer to being done, and on top of it all, I found a number of things missing when I got back home: Most of my last paycheck (originally designated as "vital savings"). My lucky (i.e., shoulda-been-replaced-anyway) toothbrush. A tube of off-brand, Amway-esque toothpaste (courtesy mom). One of three disposable cameras (purchased at the airport for $23 each). A sock. Approximately eleven months' worth of accumulated stress and anxiety. It was heaven. Four days on a small forest island, surrounded by mountains and waterfalls; traveling lazy, winding roads through lazy, charming towns; walking on beaches of natural sand while admiring an ocean of breathtaking blue; spending nights staring at a star-filled sky and drifting to sleep listening to nothing but the sound of rain falling. It's hard to believe that place and this one -- with its rumbling buses and screaming ambulance sirens -- co-exist in the same state. Or even in the same universe. Wisely choosing an extension over enduring my whimpering, Derek agreed to stretch our stay a day longer than planned. It'll likely leave some hell to pay at our respective workplaces, but it was worth it. Very much worth it. I've got a purse full of folded receipts that I'll probably never sort out, but by sheer weight they clearly add up to a substantial chunk of change. All told, I think I'm out nearly $500, and that's despite having the luxury of free transportation and a place to stay. Now, every few moments or so, it strikes me. I spent a great deal of money. Spent it on something totally unplanned, totally indulgent. A luxury expense, pure and simple. And it feels great. The money issue is pretty moot, anyway. However many minus signs I'll be plugging into my checkbook, they're vastly outweighed by the spiritual benefits I've reaped. This trip has done wonders for my mental state. Frankly, I'm not sure if it was because it was Kaua`i, or because it was not Honolulu. Although I didn't know I was being weighed down by the hustle and bustle of everyday urban life, it became readily apparent when I escaped from it all. The minute the plane touched down at Lihue Airport, it was like the karmic interference of a million frenzied brains was suddenly cleared away, leaving only Mother Nature's pure, soothing signal.

The days blended together. I can't remember half the places we visited. I can't even remember the names of the people we were with, but frankly, neither could anyone else (Derek was called Donald on a number of occasions). It seemed as if everyone was busy escaping something, busy reveling in doing absolutely nothing productive. There were six of us... that much I recall. Derek and I the odd couple, everyone else -- including our generous, somewhat hyperactive host -- coworkers of Greg. We spent our first day there lounging around a beautiful old plantation-style Lihue home, sporadically playing a bad game of Monopoly, watching badly-edited segments on "Kaua`i Visitor Television," confusing the resident dog and standing around the piano while Greg showed off. (My three years of piano lessons were apparently well countered by five years of not practicing, leaving me only able to play ten bars of a Bach piece and the theme to "The Young and the Restless.") Someone rented "A Time to Kill," which we watched while feeding on what was unquestionably the most heavenly batch of baked potatoes and yams ever prepared. We closed the night with an argument over the film's ending (despite the dearth of dry eyes, I thought the verdict was preposterous) and three rounds of "You Don't Know Jack" (I came in second with $59,000). Derek and I got the expansive basement to ourselves. The next day, for some bizarre reason, someone decided to get up at five-thirty in the morning, sniffing at the pouring rain and insisting Comet Halle-Bopp would be visible from "the other side of the island." As would a lunar eclipse. We were dragged into the van and hauled up the east edge of Kaua`i. We drove in ten-minute increments, stopping to survey the sky at assorted parks and beaches and lookouts. Each time, there was more grey and less blue. Each time, nonetheless, we harbored hopes that the next rise or patch of trees was obscuring the very spot the comet was glowing in all its glory. Eventually, somewhere past Hanalei, the road ended. We found ourselves at a small beach park, populated mostly by chickens. We stood on the beach while the sun came up somewhere behind us. Every rare moment, a break in the clouds would reveal the moon. But no comet.

There was, however, a Hawaiian monk seal. My heart leapt up into my throat when we spotted it. It looked like a long, shiny grey rock 'til it lifted its head and yawned. Maybe eight feet long, it was just lying in the sand, just beyond the reach of the waves. You had to watch it for a while to see its side rise and fall with each peaceful breath. We were close enough to see the glassy black eyes of an honest-to-god endangered species. Everyone just stood and stared in wonder. We were frozen in place. Those of us with cameras moved in super-slow motion and clicked off a few. Time stood still for what had to be twenty minutes. Then, it lifted one fin, let out a huge sigh, and rolled over onto its back. It blinked at us. Minutes passed. Then, another sigh, another roll. I desperately envy that seal's sense of leisure. One... roll... at... a... time. And each new pose was more adorable than the last. Finally -- and the release almost brought tears to my eyes -- the water washed over it. Wave after wave came, and with each one, the huge, lumbering creature became more and more graceful. As the clouds broke again, it glided into the surf and disappeared. No one said a word most of the way back. We stopped at a supermarket so Greg could pick up a few copies of the Star-Bulletin in which his much-anticipated Marilyn Manson concert review appeared. Ten steps into the house, everyone passed out. That night, we took a late night drive up to Koke`e, one of the highest, northernmost points accessible to domestic vehicles. The road, dramatically described as among the most trecherous on Earth, turned out to wind more wildly than a trip up Tantalus. We stopped when the road did, and briefly stood in the biting cold to stare up at the swirling clouds, gasping and sighing when we caught the odd window into the star-clogged sky. When it started to rain, we loaded into the van and drove down to a lower lookout. Though they were lost in night's shadows, the full moon cast enough light for us to see the outline of Kauai's famous cliffs and ridges below. We talked and laughed and talked until -- sometime after midnight -- I fell asleep. Greg, missing his boyfriend, opted to leave on Tuesday, so we spent the morning squeezing in as much tourist stuff as possible. We saw the blowhole at Poipu, browsed a few shops in Kapa`a, ate lunch at the island's most famous saimin shop (Murata's?), and during our last stop at an ABC Store, rescued a lost white cat and sent it home with the clerk at a nearby travel desk. After dropping Greg off at the airport, we headed for the nearest beach. My week of meticulous skin care was quickly undone. Our last night there, we went to The Movie Theater (okay, I exaggerate -- they've actually got two theaters on the island) and saw "Liar Liar." Funny thing... Jim Carey didn't annoy me as as he usually does. It must've been the overall mirth the island stirred in me. We slept in and caught the noon flight back to O`ahu. Far, far sooner than I'd have liked, I was back in my apartment, staring at my overflowing laundry basket... dropping another clump of sandy, damp garments onto the pile.