Where the Red State Grows

CARLSBAD, NM, Nov. 12, 2016—Yesterday we stopped in at the Walmart in Roswell to pick up some flowers to put on Dad's grave. For a town with a military school and the former home of an Air Force base, the lack of flowers at the local Superstore on Veteran's Day was astounding. The best we could come up with was an autumnal-colored arrangement, which, as it turned out, ended up being the perfect complement to my father's headstone.

"Oh, those are pretty!" the cashier exclaimed.

"Thanks. I'm putting them on my father's grave."

The cashier winced and completed the transaction in silence; nothing puts a damper on a conversation like death, which I always find somewhat curious. Despite the numerous proclamations that America is a "Christian Nation"—and believers love to announce that Jesus suffered and died for our sins so we won't have to—the idea of dying, and then waking up and walking hand in hand with your departed loved ones along the golden streets that crisscross the Kingdom of Heaven, bathed in the pure light of unconditional love, without pain, suffering, or sorrow, is somehow terrifying to the vast majority of Americans. I don't get it. But I digress.

A Land of Secrets

A new idiom: As incongruous as Roswell Thai food.

The customer ahead of us had been a large-bellied man from Texas who filled out his dungarees and plus-sized, button-down, casual-Friday work shirt with style and perfection. His belly extended beyond the brim of his well-worn 10-gallon hat, and was stuffed with that marvelous kind of hard fat that doesn't sag or bulge unevenly. His midriff was a taut waxing gibbous moon of Lone-Star-State masculinity, and his demeanor was as sharp as the impeccably pressed creases on his Wranglers. He was purchasing a 12 pack of some type of cheap light beer packaged in a pale-blue pyramid that matched his shirt.

Once the cashier announced the total, the man peeled 10 crisp 100-dollar bills out of his fancy billfold and told the woman behind the register to place the remainder of the balance on a Walmart gift card. The man slipped the card into his breast pocket and scooped up the 12 pack. As he sauntered toward the exit, he puffed out his ruddy cheeks and softly whistled a strange, baleful melody that somehow mysteriously drowned out the Country Hip Hop that had been playing over the store's PA system. The haunting melody continued to drift through my skull even as the man crossed the parking lot and climbed up into the cab of a monstrous white pickup truck.

Later, in our own truck, Caroline and I wondered who the gift card was intended for? The man's wife? A mistress? A son or daughter at the Military Institute? The landscape down here in Southeastern New Mexico is wide open, but people do seem to have their share of secrets.

One of the nice ones we discovered was a nondescript little restaurant called Taste of Thai, located off the main drag. The walls were adorned with images of the Buddha and Congressman Steve Pearce, the irony of which made me laugh out loud. But the serious hostess wasn't laughing when she seated us, nor did she laugh when I exclaimed that my pineapple curry entree ranked up as among the best Thai food I had ever eaten. She didn't even crack a smile at the extra-generous tip we gave her. The seriousness of Roswell's service sector was alarming, which is perhaps why John Denver and his family fled the community a long time ago. Nevertheless, the community continues to thrive, thanks in part to a rumored crash of a flying saucer 69 years ago. We didn't stop at the UFO Museum on Main Street in our haste to reach my father's grave before sunset, but we did mark it on our To-Do list for another time.

Feeding the Beast

Americans work round the clock to feed The Beast

After placing the flowers on my father's grave, we steered our truck due west, out through the endless scrub toward the deepening orange glow on the horizon. We anticipated a good showing of stars and a pitch-black night sky out here in the middle of nowhere, but as the horizon dimmed we realized we were horribly mistaken. A thousand points of bright unnatural light sprung up in all directions across the desert—the telltale signs of industrial operations designed to squeeze every mole of petrochemical from New Mexico's Oil Patch.

The roads were pitted and wavy from the pressure of hundreds of thousands of heavy trucks. As we made our way into Carlsbad, a continuing promenade of tankers made their way toward locations to deposit their loads or headed back out into the oilfields to collect new ones. Along certain stretches of road, the air was saturated with so much methane that our eyes burned. It was here we realized that America has built an economy with an appetite for energy so voracious that we literally work 'round the clock in unsustainable futility to feed the beast. Shaken by what we were seeing, we muttered empty promises to ride the bus or our bikes more often once we got back home.

A plate of Mi Casita.

When we finally arrived at our hotel, Jonathan the night clerk recommended a locally owned restaurant a short drive away. Here in meat country, we figured a Mexican restaurant would be about the only place where we could find a vegetarian meal, and Mi Casita did not disappoint. Even though we showed up 15 minutes before closing, the waitress told us we were welcome to stay. The delicious red chile was worth writing about, while the "green" sauce was more of a yellowish gravy reminiscent of college-cafeteria days, though tasty nonetheless. Our amiable waitress's forearms were covered with tattoos, so I figured the large tip we gave her would help fund another one. In fact, we enjoyed our meal and hospitality so much that we tipped the entire kitchen staff as well—which will probably be a boon to Carlsbad's local tattoo artist.

Diamonds are a girl's best friend?

After a good night's sleep back at the hotel, we hoped to linger a little over a cup of coffee before heading out, but the dying cockroach on the floor of our hotel room spooked Caroline to the point that we packed up and left. As we checked out, I couldn't help but notice the matching constellations of five purple-brown dots on each of the hotel clerk's arms—inglorious fingerprints from a severe manhandling. She noticed me eyeing the marks and dismissed me without making further eye contact. Later, on our way to breakfast we saw a banner outside of a jewelry store that had been running a special: Buy a diamond for her and get a hunting rifle for yourself. Bling-bling! Bang-bang! I reckoned that down in these parts, nothing soothes a black eye or a split lip faster than a half-carat apology, and nothing stokes the need for a new hunting rifle more than a disobedient wife. But again, I digress.

People in southeastern New Mexico didn't seem to be mourning the election of Donald Trump like many of my friends were up north. Part of the reason we had fled our home during this weekend was to escape the hysteria and mourning that was manifesting itself in the wake of the Trump victory. Later in the day, outside of Loving, we saw a sign proclaiming that "Hillary will Never Be Our President!" These people made good on their word by voting two-to-one or more in favor of her opponent.

If the Democrats are looking for case studies describing who those mysterious rural Americans were who came out in favor of of Donald Trump, they need only visit the folks in Chaves, Eddy, or Lea county. If they want to understand why these people voted as they did, they need only talk to the plain-clothed Oil Baron who invests in WalMart gift cards to ensure his own domestic tranquility, or the tattooed waitress who benefits from the Trickle-Down economies of the oil-and-gas-, potash-mining-, and defense (Waste Isolation Pilot Plant) industries. Despite the cockroaches that occasionally upend themselves on the hotel carpet, most of the folks down here are proud, honest, hardworking people—not the "Basket of Deplorables" characterized by the HRC campaign—who are clinging to an idea that America can be great once again. And given the choice between whistling that haunting old melody or walking those golden boulevards alongside The Son of Man, can anyone really blame them?

See you on down the road.

A nod to the Greatest Generation

LOS ALAMOS, NM, Nov. 11, 2016—Three days after America made the fateful decision to elect "billionaire" celebrity Donald Trump as its 45th President, we hit the road in an attempt to locate something honest in the midst of the farce that had swept over our nation. Just eight short years after President Barrack Obama had promised "Hope" and "Change," which he then duly delivered in the form of a vast transfer of federal wealth to billionaires and bankers at the expense of working-class Americans, Donald Trump pursed his lips and squinted his beady eyes into the Television cameras and promised to make America great once again. The people bought it hook, line, and sinker, even as the Clinton crowd insisted that the abhorrent yellow-haired Reality-TV star stood no real chance of being elected.

Now, in the aftermath, watery eyed Clinton supporters staggered despondently to and fro—shell-shocked, blind, and numb from the crushing concussion of unexpected defeat—as Trump allies gloated with smug satisfaction over the Electorate's unambiguous confirmation that America as we know it had not changed and offered no hope to the majority of its citizens. Abject despair juxtaposed against a chorus of demonic glee had transformed social media, the airwaves, and the streets of some of our nation's largest cities into a disorienting noisy Hell of sensory overload. It was definitely time to unplug and escape, and the crumbling back roads of Southern New Mexico seemed an appropriate place of refuge. The buzz of our tires on long straight stretches of asphalt was enough to temporarily drown out the irreconcilable din of the raging Right and Left, and within hours of our departure we felt ourselves shaking off some of the horror of the 2016 Election.

In the Good Old Days before Cell Phones

Thank you for being part of The Greatest Generation, Dad.

In an era of endless instantaneous complaining, we sometimes forget that not long ago Americans made great sacrifices on behalf of their nation. This generation of people, dubbed by one prominent former Newsman and historian as "The Greatest Generation," looked outside of themselves toward the possibility of a Greater Good. These people built modern infrastructure, and made discoveries that would lead to the Space Age, plastics, high-speed computers, modern warfare, and the cell phone. Some became rich in the process. Others helped defend America and the rest of the world from tyranny and fascism on the battlefields of Europe, Africa, and Asia.

My father was one of the latter. He marched through Europe, killing Nazis and liberating Jews from the death camps that had been erected by their captors. He told me once that he had slowly slid a bayonet into the eye of an arrogant Nazi SS officer who would not provide answers to questions after being captured. He told me other stories about combat that made that episode seem tame by comparison. Clearly his experiences in World War II had left deep scars upon his psyche, but he didn't wear those scars on his sleeve and he preferred not to talk about the war. I was able to coax stories out of him only once. He told me his tales on two conditions: That I sit and listen to them until he was finished telling them; and that I never again ask him about the war afterward. A long, difficult day ensued, but in the end I felt I had a much greater understanding of my father, and certainly I had a lot more respect for him. 

Upon his return to the United States after the war, he took up a fight against ignorance, serving as a science teacher for junior high school students. He never asked for credit for serving his nation, and none was ever given to him. He died poor but happy just four days after his 79th birthday. His largely anonymous passing occurred in a nondescript rural community that had been carved into the unforgiving hardscrabble landscape of southeastern New Mexico. Few were present for his burial; no one referred to him as a hero. Though my father was not a gentle or necessarily refined person, he deplored racism and injustice. The war had shown him the price of those things firsthand. He revered self-reliance, ingenuity, and ethics. The war had shown him—more than any scripture or sermon—that Evil did exist; the fair-haired, well-heeled SS officers he encountered confirmed that the Devil is not always ugly. He hated bullies and he loved the truth, even if the unvarnished recitation of it caused discomfort to those who would try to twist it to their own advantage.

Inconvenient Truth

I had not visited my father's grave since he was buried 13 years ago. As I knelt before his headstone on this Veteran's Day, I realized that I had never thanked him for his national service and for the role he had played in helping me become an honorable, successful member of American society. I was surprised by the flood of tears that these thoughts unleashed in me, and I was slightly embarrassed to find myself as a grown man weeping before my father's ghost in a deserted cemetery in Lovington, NM. For here I was, standing in front of a legend who spent the tail end of his teenage years and the beginning of his adulthood slogging through blood and guts among strangers in a foreign land. Unlike members of today's generation, my father had been awarded no "Safe Space" to spare him from the daily "Trigger Events" he witnessed on the battlefield; he voiced no disappointment or resentment that his rations did not include a gluten-free option; he harbored no grudge that the vast majority of his dead comrades did not receive a "participation medal" for their sacrifice; and the gender or sexual preferences of his Brothers-in-Arms were much less a topic of conversation than the trueness of their aim or their ability to field strip and clean a malfunctioning rifle while being fired upon by the enemy.

Unlike my father, I am fat and soft and have had the luxury of living a life in which I've never had to go off to battle to fight for our current Way of Life. My father had wanted it that way. He told me during that very long day of unpleasant storytelling that he had fought with the hope that I or my own children would never have to do what he did. The idea of a nation being led by a Trump or a Clinton is far less important than the idea of having a nation worth fighting for in the first place. While many rage on Social Media or in the streets between mealtimes protesting that their particular brand did or did not win the popular vote on November 8, 2016, corporate fascists continue to invade every corner of our Democracy, ensuring that the wishes of the tiniest minority of the Wealthiest Americans trumps the Will of the People. As my father taught me long ago, Evil really does exist, and I guess if he were still alive today, he'd be telling me that the guy with the yellow hair or the woman with the pantsuit are not the ones we should be fighting against.

Thank you for your service, Dad.

Andre the Giant has a Posse

LOS ALAMOS, N.M., Nov. 29, 2015—A week ago we left the tropical paradise of Kauai, Hawaii, a mostly unspoiled refuge for wildlife and people. After giving thanks during this year's holiday at home for all of the marvelous accouterments with which we have been bestowed throughout this strange and wonderful journey that we call "Life," I have returned to this blog to wrap up a few loose ends before I return to the daily activities that comprise my normal existence. In case you weren't certain, that's all just a fancy way for me to say I had a few leftover photographs and memories that needed to be burned here. So let's begin, shall we?

We have your back, Andre—all of us.

Some of you may be wondering, "why the title?" It's a good question. Why indeed? To explain, I need to digress for a moment.

For those of you unfamiliar with a visit to the Hawaiian islands, there's a peculiar phenomenon associated with a traveler's arrival and departure to America's island paradise. It's a long flight each way. The flight to the islands is usually filled with giddy excitement, so it's not that big of a deal, except that you usually get in late in the afternoon or early in the evening, so you essentially lose a day. The return flight generally leaves late in the evening—usually around 10 p.m. Hawaii time or so. It's understood that most people will simply sleep during the bulk of the flight and awake uncomfortably at sunrise just in time for a dairy-rich breakfast and a landing at an airport on the mainland somewhere in the Western United States. As the seasoned lesbians on Cap'n Andy's boat so astutely stated, "if you go to Hawaii for a week, you essentially lose two days."

Wailua Falls is more beautiful than this photo would indicate.

For some people, departure day becomes an unsettling experience. Since check-out times at most hotels and condominiums are 12 hours before airplane departure times, the last day on the island can be a limbo. Travelers are forced to stuff their belongings into the rental car and wander for the day. Last time we were in Hawaii, we enjoyed a day at the beach and a cold shower at beach side before dressing for the flight. This time around, we were fortunate to have gotten agreement from our condominium owner to use the apartment all day until we left to the airport.

This meant we gained an entire day back. Because the heavy rains a couple of days earlier had driven us away from the island waterfalls, we decided to visit them on this sunny day. Our morning started with a visit to the falls. Taxi cabs loaded with excited travelers lined the roads. Their passengers paraded to the edge of the lookout for the compulsory waterfall photo. A man on a motorcycle with no front teeth rode to the lookout. A dirty dog peered out of the man's jacket. As the motorcycle man set up an offering of woven bowls on the wall of the overlook, the dog wandered through the parking lot scratching himself manically. We captured our Kodak Moment in front of Wailua Falls and began exiting the parking lot. We kept a sharp eye out for the wandering dog, who roamed behind vehicles while his owner showed no concern for the canine's well being whatsoever.

The Russian Fort is a pile of rubble, its history is summed
up in a few fading panels nearby.

We returned home for a quick bite to eat. The coral cut on my foot had healed somewhat, but not enough to allow for a carefree dip in the ocean for a final day of snorkeling. We opted to drive to Waimea Canyon, also known as "Hawaii's Grand Canyon." Our travels took us to the west side of the island. There were fewer resorts there and a lot of locals. It was a refreshing change. Things here seemed genuine.

On our way to Waimea, we stopped at the old Russian Fort that survived for a short period of time on Kauai before the Russians were kicked out by the natives. The star-shaped fort was mostly just a shapeless pile of rubble. The interpretive posters were sparse on information. They didn't answer the obvious question: What did the Russians do that pissed of the islanders so much that the Cossacks were banished and their fort destroyed? We never found the answer.

A sculpture at Koloa illustrates the cultures that led to the
success of the Sugar Cane Industry on Kauai.

We passed the island's last sugar cane plantation—an expansive stretch of privately owned land that was off limits. Sugar built the islands, but it also did a fair amount of lasting damage to them. What was great about our trip was seeing that the Hawaiians have taken great pride in their culture and have done much to preserve it. The sticky sweet call of inculturation coming from the Sugar Plantations was largely ignored by a key group of islanders, and these folks have remained steadfast in preserving the old ways. Hawaiian greetings, tikis, and hospitality are more than just good tourism—they are authentic, and something I appreciate every visit.

The clouds began rolling in as we began our dizzying ascent toward the Waimea Canyon overlook. In just two short miles we were already 2,000 feet above the beaches. We captured a quick glimpse of the edge of the canyon. Someone had pasted an homage to Andre the Giant on a guardrail post where we stopped. Hopefully the Hawaiian Culture has a posse as active as Andre the Giant's, and the culture will be remembered long after the islands have been successfully pillaged for economic gains by the Corporate P.T. Barnums of Modern Day. Larry Ellison has purchased an entire island off of Maui that he plans to develop into a luxury playground for the Super Rich, according to one of the island locals we met. Ground-floor rooms without a beach view are rumored to start at $1,000 a night—an order of magnitude higher in price than the current beach-view rooms at the resorts on Kauai.

The Waimea Canyon area from a lookout well below the
canyon lookout.

What this means for the future, I can't say, though the concept of purchasing an island and giving its inhabitants the choice to leave or become "employees" of the plantation master seems repulsive in this day and age. I guess it depends on your perspective. But apparently, Ellison and others out there are longing to leave their modern stamps on the world, like the figures pecked into the lava rock by ancient Polynesians.

Waimea Canyon was socked in by dense fog. We didn't get to see its full splendor, but the miasma gives us an excuse to return some day. Back at the condominium, we enjoyed a cool shower, and we polished off the last of the rum in some fine home-made guava coladas. We ate beans and rice as our final meal on the island, despite knowing that the meal's after effects would be unpleasant to us and others trapped in the confined quarters of an airplane.

Like a good traveler, I slept most of the way back. Caroline was not so fortunate; she enjoyed only a few minutes of distracted sleep. The heavy breakfast of milk and milk products was disagreeable, but we ate it anyway. In Phoenix, the flight crew was distracted. Our landing in Albuquerque was smooth. The icy air on our skin was a shocking but welcome contrast to the warm days we had experienced on the island. 

Our view from the lanai at sunset during our
last day on Kauai.

In Albuquerque we picked up our convalescing dog. Had I been able to speak to her, I would have explained that her life is much better than the life of the dog we saw at the waterfall, even though our dog was wearing the Cone of Shame and walking with a limp. Those who know nothing other than their own immediate circumstances lack the value of perspective. Andre the Giant probably didn't know he had fans spread out across the globe, the itchy dog on Kauai probably didn't know that there are other dogs out there who get regular meals and mange treatment, and Larry Ellison probably has no idea that the concept of buying an entire island—just because you can—is patently offensive to the ancestors of those who settled the island in the first place.

Our vacation this year gave us a valuable perspective and and appreciation for all facets of our lives. And in that sense, it was the best vacation we've ever had.

See you on down the road.

Unfinished business

The Menehune Fishpond is an ancient mystery.
Caroline is a beautiful addition to the landscape.

Poipu, Kauai, Hawai'i, Nov. 20, 2015—There are old stories here in Hawai'i about a race of industrious little people who live in the jungles far out of sight of modern civilization. These Menehune, as they are known, are credited with accomplishing remarkable feats during the course of a single night. What they could not complete while the rest of the world was sleeping remained unfinished and abandoned, according to the mythology. These pint-size Polynesians are thought to be descendants of the original inhabitants of the lost continent of Mu. In addition to their remarkable strength and abilities as craftsmen and artisans, they are rumored to possess supernatural powers. At one point, piggy-bank statues of these strong, unibrowed dwarves—who dined on bananas and fish—were handed out to children as a promotion for a local bank. Nowadays, the Menehune are discussed mostly in the context of the 'Alekoko Fishpond, which supposedly was constructed by this lost race of Hawaiian gnomes.

Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge

The celebrated Kauai rains visited us with a vengeance just after I had proclaimed in my last post that we hadn't seen a drop of moisture since our arrival. In some ways the rains were a blessing, because I had received a deep cut from the razor sharp coral on one of my feet the day before. After reading about the potentially serious consequences of a reef cut, we took no shortcuts in attending to the wound. Peroxide, colloidal silver, and some savage bandages, coupled with a strict protocol of keeping the wound dry and protected, have facilitated satisfactory healing so far. Waking up to a downpour, and with the doppler radar showing giant blobs of green over the entire island, a day of sightseeing seemed in order. We decided to head all the way up to the North Shore, though we would come to regret this decision later on.

The hillside is covered with boobies! (All the white specks)

While the Menehune Fishpond was mostly unremarkable in its jungle setting, other visitors were quick to point out that the bluff just beyond it was where George Clooney looked over the island landscape during a pivotal scene in The Descendants. Some say if you look closely during that scene, you can see several Menehune peeking out from the jungle flora. For us, the little people remained as well hidden as the legion of wild pigs that is rumored to cover the island.

Pig meat is a big thing here, but no one really says where it comes from. During our drive past the northern most point on the Hawaiian island chain toward the Na'Pali coast to the west, we passed a house in the Hanalei colony that was decorated with the jawbone of many swine.  Apparently many of the locals hunt the wild pigs for sport or as a source of food, and many of the local restaurants serve pig meat as a barbecue item. Caroline enjoyed a rasher of tasty barbecue swine on her eggs Benedict at the Kountry Kitchen at Kapaa. The restaurant is renowned for its meat items. Given my recent choice to eliminate most meat from my diet, I settled for an omelet. 

This point designates the northern-most
point in the Hawaii archipelago. Moku'ae'ae
Island, uninhabited except for birds, is visible
at the top of the photo.

Several miles up the road we made it to Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge. A defunct lighthouse exists at the bird sanctuary, which is dotted with boobies, Nēnē, Frigate Birds, and Albatross—also known as Gooney Birds due to their ungraceful behavior while landing. The entire point stank of bird droppings, but it was great to see that the Hawaiians were preserving their flora and fauna. Earlier in the week, just before I was laid open by the coral, we came across an endangered Monk Seal on the beach. These animals were nearly hunted to extinction, and now an army of volunteers works diligently to ensure that the animals are unmolested. The Monk Seal had been cordoned off by one of the volunteers on Poipu Beach. Apparently people mistake their lethargy for illness. I guess an encounter with an angry Monk Seal is nothing to see up close, despite their friendly dog-like countenances. 

Earlier in the week we had come across other instances of the Hawaiians working to preserve their culture and their traditions. Just across the street from where we are staying, the Hawaiians have preserved ancient walls of lava as a tribute to Jonah Kuhio Kalanianaole, also known as "Prince Kuhio." The prince was raised in the nearby community of Koloa, and the park paying tribute to his character honors his work in preserving the heritage and strength of the people of Hawai'i. He was elected as Hawaii's first Congressional delegate and served 10 consecutive terms. While in Congress, Prince Kuhio initiated the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act, which provided locations for native Hawaiians to homestead. He served from 1903 until his death in 1922.

A monument to Prince Kuhio, Hawaii's first Congressional
delegate bears testament to the Prince's good works in
a small park near his home community of Koloa.

The road to Ke'e Beach on the Na'Pali coast is narrow and treacherous. The pounding rain didn't help things. We had pondered going to the extremely snooty St. Regis resort on Princeville for an afternoon cocktail and tapas, but the filthy vibe of the filthy rich drove us away. It was a good thing, too. The rains would soon come with a vengeance. On our way back, a pair of traffic accidents literally stopped traffic along the entire northern coast for three hours. We enjoyed local radio, which helped drown out the pounding of the rain and the curses of the motorists who were stopped dead on the only major road connecting the entire northern coastline. As the landscape around us began filling with water, I began to worry about the ability of our compact vehicle to make it through the lower regions of the island if they became flooded. 

A Monk Seal enjoys Poipu Beach along with
the hundreds of tourists sunning themselves.

My paranoia was on track. Kauai is home to Mt. Waialeale, the wettest spot on Earth, which averages 460 inches of rain each year. The mountain was off to our right, and rivers of rainwater were being disgorged from the jungles and into the sea all around us. The pounding rain was relentless and the rental car's windshield wipers did precious little to keep up with the deluge. Being from the desert, the idea of a "dangerous rain" seemed ludicrous, but here we were, right in the middle of one. It was easy to see why cars were crashing into one another and the frustration level of motorists was at its peak.

We inched along a few feet at a time before coming to a halt over and over again for the better part of two hours. During that time we covered about four miles. Both of us needed to pee, so we made a quick decision to detour out of our traffic predicament to find a bathroom. We got back on the highway just a few cars behind where we had started.

A few hours later, in complete darkness and under a driving rain so intense that it was nearly impossible to see, I crept back toward our condominium, staying close to the center of the road, which remained barely above water. Suddenly I understood why so many locals drive huge four-wheel drive vehicles with several inches of lift. 

Despite injury and rain, a good time was had
by all.

Just before our safe return, we passed a local crematory, which was hosting a funeral. The activities had begun earlier in the day while we were leaving. The ceremonies were continuing hours later after sunset. It's hard to imagine that death on such a small, close-knit island is taken for granted, and in some ways the traditions remind us of Native American practices back home. Death touches an entire community—rain or shine.

Strangely enough, while wading through this surreal day, I managed to keep my injured foot dry. Apparently the Menehune had constructed a tiny wall of lava rock around it that repelled the advancing waters.

See you on down the road.