Island Bounty

December 25, 2016, WAIKALOA, HAWAI'I—If you are a coffee lover, the Big Island of Hawai'i is a great place. Just a few miles down the coast from where we are staying, there are terrific coffee farms that grow 100 percent Kona coffee. When we picked up our rental car, Jeffrey the agent told us to buy local as much as possible to support the local economy.

We eat an enormous amount of food, said one person.

"Oh, and don't go to Starbucks," he said as we exited the building. "There's so much good local coffee that there's no need to go to Starbucks."

Nevertheless, yesterday, as I went to the market to get some local eggs for breakfast, the Starbucks was jam packed with people eating muffins and drinking huge silos of coffee or people gripping Venti Frappacinos. The price of two of those drinks would have bought nearly a half a pound of fine Kona coffee at the market that was just a stone's throw away.

"Drink local coffee," I said to a quartet of handsome dudes dressed in mainland fashions that they had obviously painstakingly selected for their honeymoons on the island.

"How rude!" one of the Style Boys retorted.

And perhaps it was, so I went home and pondered the matter over another cup of delicious Kona coffee as we prepared eggs and island potatoes. 

The locals sniffed out Captain Cook, decided he was

not a God, so they bludgeoned him to death near

here. This is the true price of fear.

For the gaggle of gay men, the coffee advice dispensed to them by an aging fat man with a sunburn who was wearing an ensemble from Kohl's probably made about as much sense to them as the story of Kamehameha I's rise to power that was written in the Hawaiian language on a plaque at the nearby Pu’ukohala Heiau National Historic Park did to me. Although there are only 13 letters in the Hawaiian language, they are all still very confusing—at least to English speakers.

What was not confusing is how, no matter where you go, mankind seems to build political and social structures that end up with the ordinary doing all the work and paying all the taxes so that the rich and privileged can continue to maintain the lifestyles to which they are accustomed without lifting a finger. Thirteen letters or not, that was the bottom line of the Kamehameha story. It's no wonder the term "Big Kahuna" remains in the English and Hawaiian lexicons nearly 300 years after the Beefy King's rise to power. Kamehameha was named king after he hefted a giant stone, fulfilling a prophesy that bamboozled the superstitious commoners into accepting "unification" that eventually turned them into slaves for the wealthy and powerful. We've seen the same thing today with the appointment of Donald J. Trump as our new leader. He pulled off a miracle, and now the ordinary rabble will march through fire against their own better judgment, working against their own best interests, for at least the next four years.

Big-Island breakfast

As we drove down the coast, I wondered whether President Obama, ensconced for Christmas with his family on a nearby island, was having a similar revelation.

The sight of a whale spout in the brilliant blue waters just off the coast shook me from my stuporous thoughts, so we pulled over and prepared to hike down to the shore—which was about a mile away downhill over unsteady lava-strewn terrain. Just as we departed, a vehicle full of young Hawaiian hooligans—all drinking Carling Black Label at 11 a.m.—made me reconsider our idea. 

"You've got quite a journey ahead of you, Brah," the driver said.

I walked up to the passenger side window. The young woman's eyes were nearly closed, the side effect of morning beers and an intense seaside Wake-'n-bake session, most likely. The couple in the back of the 4x4 vehicle giggled at me. How rude, I thought to myself. The occupants eyed our rental car as I looked on the ground at the patches of broken window glass from previously parked vehicles.

"Yeah, I've never seen whales before," I said. "About how far is it to the shoreline?"

"About half an hour, Brah."

"Good to know. Mele Kalikimaka!"

The sushi rocks at Sushi Rock!

They watched us walk toward the beach in their rear-view mirror. After they got on the road, we turned around and went back to our car.

"They'll be back just after we're out of sight and our car will be ruined," I said to Caroline, motioning to the shattered and pillaged vehicle that had been abandoned at the edge of the road below us. Broken glass, tires, and various remnants of fabric and plastic lay haphazardly next to the useless hulk. We made the decision to find a better spot for whale watching. 

Sure enough, about five minutes down the road, we saw the gray SUV and its occupants heading back down main highway toward where we had been.

We were hungry and anxious to celebrate Caroline's birthday, so we stopped in Hawi for some sushi and a cool drink. The Sushi Rock restaurant was fantastic in every way, and one of the waitresses wore a Santa hat with a faux leopard-skin fringe. Mele Kalikimaka, indeed! We ate a chef's choice sushi special, which meant they shoveled a mystery array of delicious rolls our way—44 pieces in all. It was the perfect choice for Caroline's special day.

We made our way north toward the end of the road. After visiting Pololu beach—a big hike that attracts many to the parking lot high above the valley, but not nearly as many to the stony black beach below—we headed back south for dinner. We had stocked up on tons of local comestibles at the farmer's market in Kona a day earlier, so each of our meals have been fresh feasts. A papaya, passion fruit and local lime makes for a lovely breakfast, and stir-fry is easy and plentiful here. In between we snack on nuts, local breads, and island-distilled spirits. Not only is this place a paradise for the eyes, but for the stomach as well.

The black beach at Pololu, near the northern tip
of the Big Island

Some while back when we first visited the Big Island, a friend of ours remarked that we "eat an enormous amount of food." It's a true statement. We always have, and even though I'm a big person, I will never match Kamehameha's stature, but I'll never turn into a sumo wrestler type, like the 12-year-old kid we saw sucking on a popsicle by the Kawaihae Harbor, where we watched the setting sun and the last spouting whale of the day. 

With so much great local fish and fruit on this island, it's hard to imagine how a place like the Macaroni Grill and other chain restaurants survive here. But then I think back to the encounter at Starbucks, the history of Kamehameha I, and our recent election of Donald Trump. People throughout the ages hate chaos. They like a sure bet. Why gamble on a home-made cup of coffee or one prepared at a local coffee shack when you can be sure that a cup of Starbucks will taste the same no matter where you are on the planet? Why gamble on continuing socio-economic uncertainty when a larger-than-life demigod can assign you a known place in society, even if that place is endlessly toiling in service of the Elites and the powerful?

Fear is a huge motivator, and it stops us in our tracks. It's better to erase the unknowns from life than it is to find out firsthand whether the guy in the gray SUV was coming back to smash your windows and steal your beach towels or whether, fueled by a little early Christmas Spirit and the goodwill buzz of some kind Kona gold bud, he was checking to make sure that no other hooligans were disrupting the vacation of a couple of tourists from the mainland, isn't it?

Merry Christmas, and we'll see you on down the road!

A panorama of Pololu beach near low tide.

The Chemo Chronicles, Part III: Getting in Hot Water and Pulling the Pinkie

Los Alamos, N.M.—We celebrated the completion of round four of Henry's five-round, 20-week chemotherapy regimen by partying on a weeknight at San Antonio Hot Springs, a wonderful oasis of geothermal activity located right in our back yard in the Jemez Mountains.

A dog wary of the hot springs

We got the idea while driving back from Henry's chemo appointment a few days earlier. The fourth round of Henry's CHOP protocol—in which one of four extremely nasty drugs that destroy cellular DNA and suppress cell division are administered each week as a way to poison Henry's cancer into submission—is extremely difficult on Henry. The inter-venous toxin can destroy normal tissue or destroy the heart muscle if administered incorrectly, so you can imagine that if it's drubbing the shit out of cancer cells within the poor dog's body, what it must be doing to his normal cells at the same time.

Nevertheless, every time Henry gets out of the car at the VCA Hospital in Albuquerque, he gets a chemo-woody. As we sat in the waiting room before his therapy, a same-sex couple fussing over a Bichon Frise with some type of oozing-eye ailment suddenly went deathly quiet. They were staring, mouths agape, at Henry, who was reclining casually with his hind legs splayed out and his fully erect pink stick poking proudly out of its fur covered scabbard. I looked at the couple and shrugged; there's a reason someone coined the expression "behaving like dogs."

The vet assistant didn't miss a beat as she came into the waiting room and efficiently took the leash from my hand and led an eager Henry off toward the therapy room.

"Looks like someone's excited for his treatment," she chirped!

Detour

Excited dogs get to ride in the cab of the
truck instead of the way back!

A few hours later, Henry came back out into the waiting room, full of poison, bonerless, and a lot more lethargic than he had been just a few hours earlier. He was weak and thirsty, and the Duke City was hotter than a dancer at TD's Show Club on a Friday night after Pay Day. We decided that a drive through the Jemez and into the cooler shadows of the pines might perk the poor boy up a little. The afternoon rains had started in earnest, and a large anvil-shaped cloud was brewing above the mountains. After detouring toward Fenton Lake—only to find the area extremely crowded and trashed out by throngs of filthy city dwellers—we took a dirt road east. After a short rest in the cool green grass of a pine meadow, we all felt better. Instead of heading straight home, however, we thought a drive down toward San Antonio Hot Springs might be in order.

A few minutes down the road, we heard a strange whoosh, as if I had gone through a shallow puddle. But the road was dry. I stopped the car and we walked back up the road to see what we might have run over. We found a few odd-looking squares of a glassy material that looked like obsidian, a black volcanic glass that can be found easily in the Jemez if you know where to look. But there was no other obsidian on the road or nearby.

The scene of the crime.

"That's odd," I muttered to myself.

Suddenly, I was struck with a realization, and a terrifying one at that. I jogged over toward the camper shell and noticed that the rear window had shattered. All of the glass, except for the few morsels we found on the road, had landed in a pile inside the camper shell. Right next to the dogs.

We panicked.

After clearing them out and checking them over for damage, we realized how lucky we had gotten. They were fine. But there sure was a lot of sharp fine glass to pick up. We did our best, but there were enough shards left over that we didn't want to put the dogs back in. We moved our gear to the back of the truck and let the dogs hang out in the access cab. It was an exciting prospect for Henry's little friend, Doodles, who excitedly looked out the window as we drove. Henry settled in for a nap. A little ways down the road, we met a gate. The driving part of our journey was over. We walked a ways down the road past the gate and toward the hot springs, but we realized that the springs were still a ways away. It was late in the day, so we turned around, loaded up and made our way home.

Partying on a school night

You should play with a big, pink rubber
bone every chance you get.

But the thought of soaking in the warm waters of San Antonio hot springs beckoned us for the next few days, haunting our sleep and our daily conversation. I hadn't taken a dip in the those magical waters since my college days. We decided to head up after work mid-week. A steady drizzle and an American culture conditioned not to pursue leisure activities (other than drinking in bars or pubs, which is totally culturally accepted) after work ensured that we'd have the place to ourselves.

Sure enough, we were right. We doffed our clothes, giggled and jumped in the nice hot pool just as the sun disappeared over the ridge. The dogs were intrigued by the spectacle. Henry put his paws in the warm water and quickly retreated. He took a short taste. Disgusted and confused, the dogs stayed at bay while we soaked under the relentless rain.

As we drove home, the excitement in the vehicle was palpable. It had been another big adventure for a dog whose days are numbered. The nearly full moon was waxing into Super Moon status, so the woods were bright enough to navigate without headlights. 

When it's all said and done, a dog can
never get too much love—even if that dog
happens to be a hamburger thief.

 Spoiling the dog

Henry's lymphoma has gone into complete remission, and we've been trying to spoil him in a good way by taking him on adventures, giving him lots of pets and conversation, and surprising him with unexpected culinary delights.

He seems to have gotten used to the latter, because a few days after returning from our hot springs soak and in the company of dinner guests, Henry decided to help himself to an extra homemade cheeseburger that was up on the counter waiting to be claimed. Our dinner party guests spoke too late for a second burger, because before we knew it, Henry had put his paws on the counter—a stunt he's never pulled before—and gobbled down the cheeseburger before we could holler, "No!" (Early on, the vet had warned us that prednisone can give a dog an insatiable appetite that can inspire bad behavior, but Henry has always been a compliant little fellow, so we had been unconcerned about such things during the first 16 weeks of treatment.)

As we looked at him sternly, we could see a little smile creep across his face. He must have thought, "you won't do anything to me because I have cancer." He is a smart dog.

Shortly after the hamburglary, we were out playing tug of war with a ridiculous pink bone. Life is good for Henry right now and I suddenly understand why going to the vet gives him a boner. I guess I'd have one, too, if I felt as good after being on Death's doorstep.

See you on down the road!