Oh Hawaii...

The three of us had never been to the big island and Jase and Nigel had never been, period. But there we were, bleary-eyed and stunned at the Kona airport.

“Where are the walls???!!!” Nigel asked. 

Ah yes, in tropical paradise, there are no need for walls at the airport. Simple thatched rooftops to guard against the rain is all that’s required. (The Kona airport is both adorable and seductive.)

Throughout those torturous months of chemo, I had imagined this vacation, myself laying on a towel underneath a palm tree, reading. But now that Hawaii was a reality, I found that laying about was the last thing I wanted to do. 

We were on the island that boasted physical activities! And heavily potholed dirt roads that required four-wheel drive. Secluded beaches, interesting hikes, amazing snorkeling, and of course, an active volcano. There was much to be done!

Our condo was situated near downtown Kona by the ocean. It had the architecture and tired look of a 70’s stucco building, complete with an open-air atrium of palm trees and tropical flowering plants. The slate tile installed in the walkways was from another decade, perhaps the 90’s. I imagined the building must have been painted light pink in its first iteration, however, it was now tan and sky blue. The letters on the sign, Kona Reef, were simply painted over in baby blue to match the building’s upgraded aesthetic, but the R had been lost along the way so it was hand-painted onto the stucco and faded enough that a passerby might accidentally read it as Kona Keef.

It was perfect. 

Ours was a corner unit that faced the palm-treed beach and ocean. Every morning we watched surfers bobbing in the waves. Sometimes there were teams of rowers gliding peacefully across the glittering horizon. Everyone looked so far, far away. I couldn’t imagine being that untethered from land, especially on one of the most isolated islands in the world. 

In the evening, the town paused to watch the sunset. Cars pulled over onto the side of the road and people sat on rock walls or the sandy beach, quietly entranced by the sea. We all waited for the green flash, that elusive magic that happens once the final sliver of sun sinks below the horizon. Sometimes the hippies stood on their dreadlocked heads in twisted yoga poses, their tanned bodies awash in rosy orange light, everyone’s faces illuminated by the sun’s glow. 

We never saw it. Faraway clouds always managed to wreck it. And right when we’d be holding our breath thinking, It’s almost here! It’s almost here! the sun would disappear behind an invisible pile of cotton balls (the vog turns the horizon into a white soup that blends perfectly with other types of water vapor) and all we’d get was the golden outline of a stratocumulus invader. 

But we did so much! Kayaking and snorkeling and boogie boarding and hiking. We took a helicopter ride. We tasted coffee and macadamia nuts from local farms. We bumped along hellish dirt roads in our SUV rental in search of pristine beaches. I bought fruit with unusual names like sour sop, dragon and rambutan and presented them on plates for breakfast (Jason and Nigel stabbed at them tentatively with their forks). Once a Philippine vendor gave me a handful of calmansi for the strawberry and rainbow papaya I had pulled out of the wooden bin. A bright green gecko scuttled around the fruit. Another time, when I asked the native who had rented us kayaks if I could use her bathroom before we launched, she responded: 

“Number One or Number Two?”

“Number One.”

She pointed at the ocean. 

I had packed three books and didn’t read a single one. We were busy exploring! I remember looking in the mirror amazed by a bruise in the middle of my forehead and with no idea how it had arrived there. Only when we returned home did I count 16 more all over my body and 12 additional scrapes and scabs. When people exclaimed, “What happened to you?!” I had my reply.

“Hawaii, naturally.”