Eddie Would Go

You know you're old when you tell your hip 23-year old co-worker that you're going to see Eddie Vedder tonight and she says, "what's Eddie Vedder"?

Hi'ya sunshine.

a safari with me

Yesterday was classic. Up at 6 am to hike down our mile-long driveway and up to the top of twin falls, looking down at the last drops of water flung high into the air before plunging into the pools below, with nothing more in view than a resulting stream carrying forth to the ocean. We walked around in circles and got tangled up in the brambly woods for an hour or so before stumbling upon a hidden yoga retreat center practically in our own backyard: tents with mailboxes, tide pools and pet cows were all a part of this open-plan living commune (at one point we realized we were actually standing in someone's kitchen- oops!) It was like LOST, only we weren't attacked by the others (yet) and I didn't get to make out with Sawyer like everyone else does (yet).

We packed the cooler and headed to the west side where Grandma's was unsettlingly huge for the likes of me and my novice self, met up with two of our favorite paddlers and drove on to Launiupoko to play, surf, snack, swim and try stand-up paddling for the first time. At least I can say I've mastered the belly flop (no feet-first falls allowed when there be sharp coral 3 feet below). After some blood & sweat, a healthy dose of talent & sarcasm, we went off in search of regatta scores at Hanakaoo Beach Park, made the rounds and settled at a little fish house for supper with some cool brews and yummy Mahi Mahi.

It's raining this morning, weather in waves like the ocean not 300 yards away. Somewhere between the natural music of thick drops falling on palm trees, the distant thrum of the sea current and the steady wind bristling through the thick brush that surrounds this house lies the secret to the universe. Or in this case, to a Sunday off at 9 am, coffee brewing, full of relaxing possibility. Mmm.

local motion notion

It's been an incredibly trying task attempting to delete the term "flip-flop" from my repertoire. A self-proclaimed closed-toes-shoe hater, I've always imagined a world where wearing flip-flops to work would be accepted and people would really listen to your ideas and appreciate your inner genius, wriggly toe exposure aside, and embrace their own inner flip-flop. Here, however, in my new digs, flip-flops are entirely accepted as "slippers," alas, making my understanding of the term "slippers," and everything they have come to represent (cozy winter nights, clean feets after a day on the subway) obsolete. Completely acceptable trade-off I should say. 

confession

when i find things this beautiful and amazing, my first instinct is jealousy- just for a split second- normally accompanied by an exclamation like "damn it!" or "f*!"- quickly followed by surprised laughter (at my reaction), and finally succumbing to "good on you, stranger, that's freaking fabulous." 

Current Example: A to Z

young at art

Two things worth honorable mention: 

Uno: M and I were invited to an uber authentic evening of bachata, merengue and bomba in a tiny club tucked behind the water treatment plant downtown, where all the 60+ year old Puerto Ricans meet up once a month and shake what their momma gave them. 

aka fascination street.

Dos: I caught the very last hours of the youth art exhibition down at the MACC and was reminded with a BANG why I do what I do and how proud I am to be a part of it. 

art maui

So there's this huge island-wide exhibition coming up showcasing the work of everyone who's anyone on Maui, from novice to emerging to established visual artists - and though I'd love to think of myself included in the everyone, it's been about 6 months since I've picked up my charcoal sticks and India inks and gone to town. I'm hoping to use next week's receiving day as my defining motivation that will reintroduce my brains to a visual lingo, but- but but but.

Race to Alau

It began just before 5 am, M' on the phone pacing around the bedroom mumbling through mental lists of camping gear, booze and random agenda details as his cell phone is vibrating at 4 minute intervals; teammates already on the road, dragging each other's arses out of bed and affecting adrenaline with every tick of the clock. "You've got 15 minutes babe- I'll be in the car- let's GO," goes the delicately sweet nudge of a wake up call. Awesome. You'll see me when the coffee's ready. The next 75 minutes consist of what may or may not be constituted as driving through the ess-turns and cliffside gravel roads that incomprehensibly merge to unveil the road to Hana, normally a relaxing, scenic 2-hour journey that Mr. M transformed into an epic battle against time and space. Thankfully we crept up on no less than 3 pickups hysterically balancing 40-foot canoes on their cabs, a clear sign that we were right on time, and eventually began to recognize the blurred faces of the drivers we continually passed, good stuff. A short while later we're all at the bay, unloading the boat, attaching the ama, setting up beach chairs, tables, food and snapping away to catch the moment. Hundreds of paddlers are here today, some casual hobbyists, others fierce competitors, all getting pumped for the 6-mile loop around Alau and back that will last just under an hour, a well-deserving excuse to throw back a couple of cases of cold beers and spend the night camping, eating freshly caught fish, and throw just about anything we can get our hands on into the wok, reinventing cross-cultural cuisine that would make even the most finicky of foodies damn proud. I'm one of only four folks in the group not racing today, just here lookin pretty in my gigantor sunhat that should keep most of those around me under a solid fortress of shady goodness. Everyone's incredibly friendly, making introductions and small talk that for once seem effortless, delighted to have an excuse to be here on this beautiful beach in this beautiful town with these beautiful people. It seems every time I turn around there's a new group of relatives swarming, talking smack with a wink and gearing up for their moment on the water. There's an announcement to gather on the beach as a colossal hand-held circle forms for the blessing, asking the spirits permission to enter this space and to keep the paddlers safe- I look around, curious to document the reactions of some of these tough guys I've seen letting their adrenaline get the best of them or the kids that were squealing with excitement not 2 minutes ago, but everyone's heads are bowed in silence; an unspoken moment of respect for this gathering; a shared sense of understanding; a haunting stillness turning this experience for me into something so much bigger than a day with the boys' paddling buddies. It was pretty damn cool. The races come and go, the competitors soak in the ocean for a long time afterward in silence then gather on the beach talking shop, giddily and in great detail- for hours- reliving their experiences moment to moment and calling up the races of Christmas past to compare and contrast. They're simply hooked, and it's impossible not to feel the effect of this euphoric energy. Our group is amongst those last at the bay as the sun grows dimmer; dozens of new faces gravitating to our circle of chairs remarking "this looks like trouble!" and joining in for a pint or 2 before going off to their respective campsites. Eventually we take off to our own, pitching tents, hanging lanterns, firing up the grill, and diving into the ridiculous beauty of Hamoa Bay. One of the boys pops out of the water with a squiggly little octopus, immediately throwing it into the wok and 10 minutes later its in my belly. The saki appears, not unrelated to the disappearance of my sobriety, and the night ends in visions of karate chops and belligerent bocce- an awesome first impression for me to lay on M's new friends. What are you gona do. I wake just before sunrise and float to the ocean, where a few familiar faces are already bobbing about, I watch for a long time calculating the best point of entry before slipping in and peering around underwater. What I thought to be a cluster of coral & rock turn out to be little tumbleweeds of sand rolling in perfect formation around seashells, packs of bubbles and foam, schools of fish, and sun-rays  refracting through the current. The water is so clean it erases any sense of fear I would normally tag onto a lone swim at sunrise. I duck under each warm wave hoping to wash away the impending hangover which will eventually overcome my entire day. The early risers are arriving on the beach in groups, faces I can't untangle without my glasses, fellow saki-hit zombies needing a swim even worse than a pot of hot coffee and an Advil. And then it's time to go, back through the winding hangover hell that is the road back home, the one we've taken so many times before but this time with a camp full of familiar faces at our back and thousands of little details that will keep us chuckling all day. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.