Kaua'i Me A River Part 3

"Hey, Keoni, can I ask one more thing?" said Hatch. "What's with the chickens everywhere?"

"Those chickens?" Keoni pointed to a couple of hens and a brightly-colored rooster pecking in the weeds.

"Yeah," said Hatch. "Everywhere we go on this island we see wild chickens."

"Kaua'i is known for the moa, man. They come from fighting stock. When Hurricane Iniki ripped the island apart in 1992, everything got leveled. Lots of guys who raised fighting c.o.c.ks had their cages blown away and the birds got loose. But those birds are tough; they survived. Now we got moa everywhere."

"But they're chickens," Hatch said. "Why didn't they end up on somebody's hibachi?"

"Oh, some people tried. No good. Like I say, man, those chickens are tough. And they got worms and stuff. n.o.body around here eats those buggahs."

Hatch pulled a few dollar bills from his wallet but Keoni waved it off. "My pleasure, bro. Bes' thing you can do for me is give a good tip to those kids working down at the shave ice."

We thanked him and drove down to Toto's Anuenue. Sure enough, there were two high-school age girls working at the shop. One was at the counter and the other was operating the ice machine.

"Aloha," said the counter girl as we pulled the door closed behind us. "Welcome to Toto's. What can I get for you today?"

I looked at the menu board. The gas station guy was right. Auntie Toto had every possible flavor of shave ice. Some were stand-bys, like papaya, blue raspberry and cherry. But some were pretty off-the-wall, like cotton candy and b.u.t.terscotch.

"How many flavors have you got?" said Hatch.

"About fifty. But most people get *rainbow'," said the girl. "I can make a shave ice rainbow with any flavors you want. Go ahead and pick. But first, do you want ice cream or azuki bean at the bottom?"

The shave ice machine was whirring away in the background.

"Azuki bean," I said. "I haven't had that in years."

Hatch ordered two rainbows, one with beans and one with macadamia nut ice cream. We took our treats outside and sat on a narrow wooden bench in front. Waimea bustled around us. We watched people going to the bank, trucks delivering boxes to the liquor store next door, and mothers pushing strollers in the park across the street. And chickens. At least a dozen chickens pecked in the shade of the towering trees in the park.

"You know," I said. "We're eating dessert and we haven't even had lunch yet," I said.

"I thought this was lunch," said Hatch shoveling shave ice into his mouth with a red-striped plastic straw-spoon. "Back in LA we had snow cones at the beach but these are better."

"That's because Hawaii shave ice is different. The ice is shaved rather than just crushed. The syrup sticks to it better. You know, Hawaiian shave ice actually originated in j.a.pan a thousand years ago," I said. "The j.a.panese cane workers brought the idea of shave ice to the islands back in the late 1800's."

"Where'd they get the ice?" said Hatch. "It's not like they had freezers."

"They carried large blocks of ice in the holds of sailing ships. According to j.a.panese legend, they shaved the ice with ceremonial swords."

We finished up and got back on the road. We were headed up to Waimea Canyon-the Grand Canyon of the Pacific-and we still had to make it up the twisty two-lane road that goes to the top.

When we got to the canyon, the obligatory tour busses had taken up most of the parking lot. The overlooks were jammed with j.a.panese tourists. It seemed everyone was either taking a photo or posing for a photo. Tour guides chattered and gestured to the crowds like auctioneers.

After a few minutes the busses honked their horns and the tourists hustled back to the parking lot. With a belch of exhaust the caravan of busses roared away leaving us alone. The wind whistled eerily through the canyon and tossed Hatch's hair across his forehead.

I pulled out my phone to take his picture. "Say *azuki bean'," I said and snapped the photo.

At four o'clock we finally pulled into the resort Hatch had booked for our two-night stay. I looked over and shot him an *are you serious?' grin. The place was way more la-di-dah than I was expecting.

The open-air lobby had thirty-foot ceilings and marble floors. Across from the entrance were four immense pillars. Beyond the pillars was a spectacular view of sweeping lawns, golden sand, and waves crashing on the nearby sh.o.r.eline. On the right side of the lobby a sumptuous bar, complete with koi pond, potted palms and dark rattan furniture beckoned with promises of umbrella drinks in hollowed-out pineapples. A poster showed a smiley local guy posing with his ukulele, announcing live music every night after six p.m.

Our room was equally posh. It was a two-bedroom, two-bath suite with living room, dining room and full kitchen. The master bedroom had a four-poster king bed draped in yards of dramatic mosquito netting, and the second bedroom had a queen bed with a mattress so far off the ground it had a matching step-stool alongside.

"Are you expecting guests?" I said.

Hatch smiled. "No, but this was the last ocean view room available. And what the heck, we might want to try out all the beds. You know, like Little Red Riding Hood and the Three Bears."

"I think it was Goldilocks who went from bed to bed," I said.

"Hmm, sounds about right. Blonds are known for being bed-hoppers."

I'm a few shades down from blond but on behalf of blonds everywhere I shot him some stink eye.

"Now don't get all worked up over this place having a kitchen," Hatch said. "I'm not expecting you to cook."

"Well, I wouldn't mind making breakfast," I said. "Look at that view."

The s.p.a.cious balcony lanai overlooked a wide vista of sapphire ocean blending into an expanse of blinding cobalt sky. The patio furniture included a small teak table with two heavy teak armchairs. There was also a matching lounge with comfy four-inch-thick cushion.

"I sometimes forget how calming the ocean can be," I said. Back home I live in upcountry Maui, far from the beach. The upside of upcountry is it has few tourists, little traffic, and lower housing prices. The downside is there's no ocean sound, no turtles bobbing their heads up for a peek and no briny smell of fresh air that's been scrubbed clean after crossing thousands of miles of water.

In the living room the suite had been done up with the expected resort decor: sepia-toned etchings of hula dancers, a floor lamp that looked like a miniature palm tree, and thick blond bamboo furniture with Hawaiian print cushions. If Hatch wanted to play tourist for a couple of days he'd certainly picked the right place to do it. And I was happily tagging along. After all, even though I'd been born in Kaua'i, it was no longer home. I was a visitor. And I was going to take advantage of all the perks that visitors take for granted. For the next couple of days I was going to eat whatever I wanted, drink more adult beverages than I should, and lie around until my body begged to be vertical.

"The website said this place has a two million-dollar workout facility," Hatch said. "Want to go check it out?"

"Not hardly."

While Hatch went to do his body good, I plopped down on the lanai to catch a few rays. I had two more days to relax before the lawyer meeting in Ha.n.a.lei. For all I knew, this might be my last few days of idyllic ignorance. On Wednesday I'd be forced to abandon my gauzy made-up family history and embrace the p.r.i.c.kly truth about who I was. Worse, I'd have to face the ugly truth about why my mother just had up and died at the tender age of twenty-five.

CHAPTER 5.

When I awoke Tuesday morning, Hatch was already in the kitchen. I tip-toed toward the bathroom to make myself presentable, but he stepped in front of me before I got there.

"Two sugars, extra creamer," he said handing me a cup of coffee.

"Mahalo," I said. I could only imagine what I looked like after the three mai tais I'd sucked down at dinner the night before, but Hatch seemed to take my disheveled appearance in stride.

We sat on the sofa and sipped our coffee. The coffee table was littered with stacks of tourist information Hatch had picked up from a display in the lobby. He picked up a handful of brochures and fanned them out in front of me.

"How about a helicopter ride?" he said. "You ever been up in a chopper?"

I didn't want to let on I'd gone on my first helicopter ride six months earlier with Ono Kingston, a friend of mine who'd made it clear he'd like to take our relationship to the next level.

"I bet this island's gorgeous from the air," I said, avoiding the question.

"Yeah. This is the perfect place for helicopters," Hatch said. "Lots of inaccessible cliffs and tons of great waterfalls. You don't think you'll get airsick or anything, right?"

I screwed up my face. "Airsick? Are you serious?" Hatch knew I'd worked as a federal air marshal after college. In air marshal training they'd thrown everything they had at us to make us get sick, disoriented or scared. I pa.s.sed without a whimper. No way I'd give them the satisfaction. I still say they pushed the female recruits twice as hard as the guys.

"Great," he said. "Which company do you want to go with?" He plucked out three brochures.

I put down my coffee mug. "Let's take this one, Safari Helicopters," I said. "They say they have the smoothest ride. I'll be fine, but I don't want you tossing your plate lunch if we hit a downdraft."

An hour later we pulled up at the helicopter tour office. The tour began with an entertaining FAA briefing about wearing the life preserver, how to enter and exit the aircraft and what to expect on the ride. I think *entertaining' was the operative word, since it seemed they'd learned if you want people to pay attention to the safety information you need to present it in an amusing way.

"Okay guys and gals," said the briefing guy. "The ride you're about to go on is all about color. We got green in the valleys and our beautiful blue sky and ocean. We even got pink, red and brown up in Waimea Canyon. But in the unlikely event of a water landing, do you know what your favorite color will be?" He reached down and picked up a bright yellow pouch the size of a hardback book. "That's right, people-sunshine yellow!" He demonstrated how to don the vest over your head and clip on the waist belt. "Now for those who are worried about packing on a few inches on vacation, take heart. You'll be wearing this baby around your waist for the entire flight today. When the ride's over and you take it off you're gonna feel so skinny you'll feel like ordering both the mac salad and rice with your lunch."

The briefing went on like that for about ten minutes. Then we trooped out to the van and the guy drove us to a helipad at the edge of the Lihue airport tarmac. I looked up and hoped the helicopter pilot was as mindful of the planes swooping by overhead as I was.

The briefing guy gave us each a number so we could be seated according to weight. Back at the tour office a potential female pa.s.senger who my Auntie Mana would've described as an *ali'i-sized girl' had expressed dismay at being asked to step on a scale.

"No worries," said the equally ali'i-sized gal working behind the desk. "See? There's no numbers on the scale."

She was right. The read-out was discretely positioned so only the gal behind the desk could see how much each person weighed. She'd a.s.signed the seats accordingly and now we were taking our positions alongside the helicopter.

I got number five and Hatch was six. I figured that meant we'd be in the back since the helicopter only held six pa.s.sengers. But as they loaded everyone in, it soon became clear we'd be sitting in front. I was positioned next to the pilot. The large bubble window gave me a perfect one-eighty view.

"Welcome aboard," the pilot said as we got in and put on our headsets. I slipped into my shoulder harness and clipped on my seat belt.

"Hey," I said. "Good to be here." But then I realized no one could hear me. Only the pilot had a mic on his headset. The pa.s.senger voices were lost in the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the slowly turning rotors.

When the bird lifted off, I remembered how effortless flying in a helicopter felt. The pilot said it would feel like riding a magic carpet. I thought that sounded a little too cute, but kept it to myself. He said if we had questions to use the handheld mics in front of us. There was one in the front and one in the back. We flew up and over the resorts of Poipu. The pilot asked each couple where they were staying and he pointed out each resort from the air.

We flew into brilliant green canyons cut deep with sheer cliffs on all sides. As we shot up the cliff sides to get into the next canyon I found myself lifting my toes to help the helicopter clear the treetops.

Waterfalls and rainbows popped into view as we glided in and out of the canyons. Even though I'd scoffed at the pilot's *magic carpet' remark, I was starting to agree.

We approached the North Sh.o.r.e and I peered down at the beach bordered by deep green jungle and tried to find a recognizable landmark. I picked up the handheld mic and pushed the *talk' b.u.t.ton.

"Have you ever heard of Taylor Camp?" I said.

"Sure," said the pilot. "It's pretty much gone now, but back in the seventies a bunch of hippies lived up there. They built amazing tree houses. The guy who owned the land, Howard Taylor, was the brother of actress Elizabeth Taylor."

"Isn't it around here somewhere?" I said into the mic.

"Yep, hold on."

He pulled the joystick back and left and the helicopter wheeled into a tight turn. Even with my headset on and the rotors roaring I could hear the people in the back go, "Whoa" as my stomach lurched with the turn.

"It's right down there. Do you see that stretch of sand? That's Ke'e Beach Park. Taylor's Camp was around there somewhere. I think if you want to see it, the trail's still visible. But I'm not sure. I've never been up there."

We swooped over a cl.u.s.ter of buildings and homes set along a wide bay. "That's the little town of Ha.n.a.lei down there," said the pilot. "Anybody know what Ha.n.a.lei's known for?"

I let someone else get credit for knowing about "Puff the Magic Dragon."

The pilot nodded. "Yeah, that's from the old days. How about more recently? Did anyone see the movie, *The Descendants'? Ha.n.a.lei is where George Clooney tracked down the guy who was having an affair with his wife."

The large-size woman in the back picked up the mic. When she got it to work she said, "That woman should get her eyes checked. You'd have to be blind to cheat on George Clooney."

We flew straight toward a thin ribbon of waterfall streaming down thousands of feet from a dark green cleft in the side of Mount Wai'ale'ale. As we headed deeper and deeper into the canyon the pilot said, "Mount Wai'ale'ale is one of the wettest spots on earth. Its reported rainfall is over four hundred inches a year." At the last possible moment he nimbly turned the chopper around and headed back out and I allowed myself to exhale.

We left the mountains and skimmed over flat green fields on our way back to the airport. The pilot said, "Anyone want to guess how fast we're going?"

I looked at the gauges and saw one labeled "KIAS." In airspeed the value is measured in knots per hour, not miles per hour. In air marshal training we'd been given a rudimentary flying lesson. They'd told us they never expected us to fly a jumbo jet or anything, but they wanted us to at least be able to communicate with air traffic control. I took the lesson seriously. It wasn't that hard for me to imagine I might be asked to land a plane someday.

"Eighty miles an hour?" said a guy in the back.

"Nope," said the pilot. He looked over at me. "How about you? Care to take a guess?"

I flicked on the mic and checked the speedometer again. "Well, it reads one-hundred thirty knots indicated airspeed. So, that would be about a hundred and fifty miles per hour."

"You're pretty good," he said giving me a big smile. "Are you a pilot?"

Hatch tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to hand him the mic. "No," he said. "She's not a pilot; she's a wedding planner. She's used to answering dumb-a.s.s questions."

The pilot shot a look at Hatch. Then he squinted in concentration and dropped the bird dead-center on the landing pad.

"Whew. That was great," I said after Hatch and I had gotten far enough away from the rotor wash that we could hear each other.

"Glad you liked it. Now let's see how much of this island we can cover from ground level."

We stopped in a few of the funkier shops in Kapa'a and then drove up to Kilauea. At the lighthouse overlook we peered through the binoculars and saw albatrosses and red-footed b.o.o.bies on the ma.s.sive rock cliffs. On our way back to the highway, we turned in at the historic Kong Lung shopping center and Hatch bought me a gorgeous silk-screened kimono with flamingo-pink lotus flowers.

"I think we should drive up to Ha.n.a.lei so you can check out where you'll be going tomorrow morning," said Hatch.

I agreed, but as we descended into the Ha.n.a.lei Valley from cliffs of Princeville I felt my heart rate increase and my fingers turn to ice. At the one-lane bridge on the outskirts of Ha.n.a.lei we had to stop for road construction.

"You okay?" said Hatch, reaching over to take my hand. "You've been awful quiet. You know I'm willing to come with you tomorrow if you want. I can poke around town while you're at the lawyer's."

"Mahalo, but I'll be fine."

We crossed the bridge and made our way into town. By the time we found the address of the attorney's office, my stomach was roiling.

"You want to stop and check it out?" Hatch said as we slowly drove past the brown two-story building.

"No, thanks. But I sure wish that lawyer would've told me what this was about. Being back here brings up a lot of stuff I'd rather not think about. I remember thinking if I could hold my breath long enough, I could die and go be with my mother. A suicidal five-year-old. How sick is that?"

"It's not sick," said Hatch. "You were a little kid. Little kids need their moms."