Under Angels' Wings: Hawaii
Kauai—The “Garden Island”—a true Pacific gem, from its sculpted mountain ridges, lush rainforests, and spectacular beaches to the natural grandeur of Waimea Canyon and the awe-inspiring Nā Pali Coast. We bid you e komo mai—welcome!—to this very special island of Hawai’i.
Source: Hawaiian Airlines brochure and map
Source: Hawaiian Airlines brochure and map
Arrival—Lihu'e International Airport, Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Sunday, July 17, 2011, 5:00 pm
Hawaii’s openness greets and embraces with vast arms—immediately, right at the airport. Walking out of the gate, the terminal concourse is windowless, open to pleasant temperatures, moderate humidity, tropical breezes, and ocean views. The baggage claim is also unenclosed. The curbside and passenger pick-up area is close at hand. Welcome to paradise.
Island immersion—Lihue, Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Sunday, July 17, 2011, nighttime (and next 12 days)
"I'm going to have a little party at the house tonight. If you need to go to bed early, that's fine. We won’t play too loud." This is Toby Christensen's message as we speed away from Lihue International in a 2000 Miata convertible.
"I'll see," I reply, still feeling quite awake even though I left Washington, D.C., 15 hours earlier. After all, I'm in Hawaii. The sun is still shining brightly at 5:00 pm local time. The ocean is at hand. And island life is beckoning.
Toby's party turns out to be a music jam. His friends Terry from the U.S. mainland and Francesco from Kauai are there, both on guitar. Naoka, undoubtedly photogenic, provides percussion with shakers and sometimes the djembe. This great open-ended African drum is Toby's instrument of choice both for entertainment and holistic purposes.
Professionally, he's known as the Healing Drummer, a distinction earned by studying the traditions of the Dagara tribe of Burkina Faso, West Africa, and through teaching healing drumming workshops and providing private sound healing sessions. Tonight, he favors the guitar with occasional stints on the ukulele and djembe.
The music ranges from hula-inducing Hawaiian to Kansas City blues with a touch of Nashville country, depending on who's leading the piece. The talent is obvious. The sound is rich and full. The beat is often compelling. Diane wants to dance. So does Sherie and Gary. And me, too—when I'm not capturing the moment in photos.
So, what time is it by the time the party has been going for an hour or two? Depends on one's time zone. In D.C., it would be past midnight, but my body clock has reset itself well, telling me that, on the island, it's still early.
The musicians say it's fun to see us dance, but when Sherie and I ask for a waltz, no one knows one. No problem. Toby and Terry improvise, strumming blues chords to the beat of one, two, three ... one, two, three. The floor is small—we're in a living room, after all—so when I lead Sherie into some progressive waltz moves, the kind normally done in a ballroom, our steps are decidedly short and our turnarounds are quick.
But on the island, it doesn't matter. That's the nature of life here, as I will learn in my island immersion over the next few days. Anything major becomes minor—and we're not talking about musical keys—and anything minor becomes insignificant. Simply enjoy is the theme.
We will. Toby and I have a writing project to complete: preparation of a proposal for a book manuscript that he wants to write and for which a major publishing company has expressed an interest. So we've pledged to work hard and play hard.
Although not necessarily in that order. Tonight, it's party and play ... for tomorrow we work.
Toby and I will also discover that there really isn't any difference between work and play—at least not on Kauai. Frequently during the week, he'll stop drafting sample chapters, pick up the uke or guitar and pluck a few bars while I'm sitting at the kitchen counter tapping out characters on my computer keyboard.
After a bit, I'll send the current proposal draft to him via email. He'll look it over. We'll resolve questions, figure out a better way to turn a phrase.
When not actually working, per se, we talk about his drumming, his seminars to teach others to drum, his healing sessions, his own healing that came fortuitously through a particular Dagara tribal elder, Malidoma Somé.
Toby has promised a cowrie shell divination, according to the Dagara tradition. When he does it a few days later, the shells, minerals, coins, snake bones, and other objects speak truths about my current path. I also learn about Toby and what he does to be a serving presence in the world.
We work well together in this paradisiacal locale. Toby is, of course, the author. It's his story, his book, his next claim to fame. I'm the editor, the wordsmith. He calls me "Doctor Bob." Yet, he's the one with the cure.
And this night, Toby and his friends have the cure for jetlag. I go to bed at half past midnight local time. That's 6:30 a.m. back in D.C. on the far eastern end of this United States nation where I awoke more than 24 hours earlier and where Sol is making its morning appearance.
The other end of the nation! My gosh, that's a long way away ... in time, in distance, in culture.
The Dao of cacao—Lihu'e, Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Wednesday, July 20, 2011, afternoon
"You can buy papaya or mango or whatever you want at the farmers' market, then put it in," says Danny Hashimoto, as we drive to a county park where fruit and flower growers come to sell their blessings. "We have seven or eight different farmers' markets in different places ... one every day of the week."
Danny is a tradition at this particular market. Countless people greet him with smiles, hugs, and kisses. "This is the 'ohana, my family or extended family, the community," he adds to explain the Hawaiian word.
We roam and stop at the stands of several vendors. In spirit and form, it's like many farmers' markets with lettuce, cucumber, kale, beets, and flowers. But this is the island, so there are also tropical flowers, exotic fruits such as mangostein, and coconuts served with a straw for sipping the milk or slashed open by vendors who wield a machete with expertise.
Danny's contribution to this community event is fruit ambrosia, which he conjure on a picnic table under an open pavilion not far from where uniformed teens are playing a community softball game.
Adam is there waiting for us. We move the table a few inches to suit Danny's liking. He dresses the table with a potted orchid. Then he pulls out a cutting board, a pair of knives, and a bowl. With Adam sitting on one side of the table and I on the other, Danny shows us how to peel and cut the fruit. Bit by bit, we add it to the bowl, our fingers getting moister and stickier with each delicacy that we carve.
Soon others come along. They bring bananas, apples, pineapples, blueberries, avocado, more mango and papaya. Each person takes their turn at the cutting board. It all gets diced into bite-size pieces and put into the bowl.
Each arrival begins a new round of hugs. The ages range from young teen to my age, probably the oldest there. Danny's in his 50s. Adam, Rose, and Fairy Rose are in their early 20s, if that. Darinka, an artist, might be in her 40s. It's hard to tell. Everyone looks young.
Danny has set a large frozen bag of coconut milk in the sun to thaw. With the bowl nearly full of fruit, he cuts open the bag and slowly pours the sweet milk on top. Still slightly congealed, it runs slowly, like a glacier capping a colorful mountain. "The coconut cream makes it," he says then offers advice about where to buy the best coconut cream at the best price and in what quantity.
He dresses the ambrosia with a variety of orchid blossoms and pieces of fern. The result is a chef's delight, a tribute to the maxim: presentation, presentation, presentation. "Ambrosia means nectar of the gods," Danny says.
We're all ready to dig in. But there's more ... Danny's signature cacao mousse, made with cacao powder, raw vanilla, raw honey, macadamia nuts, and maca. "The best ingredients possible."
Danny takes time to explain that he likes sweets, but several years ago he took a course on how to make healthy raw foods. "I was given a simple recipe, and I liked it so much that I elaborated. It could also be harder, a fudge. I probably make 50 ounces of mousse a week ... more if there are parties or events."
With our appetites decidedly whetted and people expressing their desire to dig in, Danny sets ten wooden bowls around the large bowl of ambrosia. He passes out spoons. Now, for sure, we are set to ladle and taste.
But first Danny has to take pictures … of us, of the ambrosia, of the bowls circling the ambrosia, of us gathered around the ambrosia. Someone says, "Let's eat.
Then the ambrosia is served. It's delicious. "It's different every time," Danny says. "It depends on what's ripe, what people bring." He's clearly in his element. "This is one way I help build community," he says.
Photos by Danny Hashimoto
Hawaiian sovereignty—Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Thursday, July 21, 2011, evening
The Hawaiian state motto is Ua Mau Ke Ea O Ka Aina I Ka Pono. It means: The Life of the Land Is Perpetuated in Righteousness.
Henry Noa says, “The Principle of Perfect Right is this: every sovereign nation does not have to ask other sovereign nations what it can and cannot do.”
Henry Noa is the Prime Minister of Lawful Hawaiian Government of the Kingdom of Hawai’i. About 60 people are gathered for a rally and potluck dinner at a public park to hear him speak about Hawaiian independence. They want to separate from the United States of America, which Noa refers to as “the occupying government” that “illegally confiscated” the Hawaiian Government and Crown lands on January 17, 1893.
Interestingly, the Hawaiian state motto, which was adopted as such when Hawaii gained statehood in 1959, is grounded in history that supports Noa’s claim. The statement “is generally attributed to King Kamehameha III who presided over the Kingdom of Hawaii from 1825 until his death in 1854,” says a web site on state mottos.
The motto first appeared in a political context on the coat of arms of the Kingdom of Hawaii (1810–1894) that was adopted in May, 1845. It was included on the Hawaiian Territorial Seal when Hawaii was annexed as a U.S. Territory in 1900, and it is included in the Constitution of the State of Hawaii, the web site continues.
Noa and his supporters, including Danny, see the use of this motto today as a symbol—not of statehood—but of sovereign Hawaiian independence.
Referring to a paper he prepared for this meeting, Noa reviews that the Kanaka Maoli (Hawaiian) people successfully reinstated their former offices of lawful government on March 13, 1999.
In the 11 years since, they have taken numerous legal steps, including ratification of a constitution, national elections, and establishment of diplomatic relations with many countries, “to acquire proper claimant status and to reclaim the inherent sovereign right of absolute political authority and jurisdiction in Hawaii.”
“We have done an excellent job of positioning the process to reclaim what is ours,” he says.
He goes on to explain that there are three ways for a people to reclaim their rightful sovereign territory. “Reconquer; no way. The conqueror can give it back, which means we can wait. Or we can unite, and this is our strategy.”
To affirm his point, Noa comments that, in the 20th century, 90 countries reinstated their sovereign governments as a statement of opposition toward occupying nations. He notes that, while the U.S. supported those independent actions, “They aren’t going to give Hawaii back to us.”
This sovereignty group will hold their fourth national election in November 2011. They’re hoping that an adequate number of ballots in favor of full sovereignty—cast by both native Kanaka Maoli and later-coming Hawaiian citizens—will bring more attention to their cause.
They are also taking steps to “properly identify Hawaiian Government and Crown lands” by building stone altars, called ahus, which are ancient landmarks used to identify ownership. They intend for these short structures, only two or three feet in height but visible from roadways, to bring popular support.
After the meeting and over a delicious potluck meal, Henry Noa and Danny Hashimoto, Kauai’s community builder, grasp each other on the shoulders and lightly, but firmly, bump foreheads as they exhale sharply and make the sound “Ha,” an exchange of life energy among brothers.
Henry Noa, Prime Minister of Lawful Hawaiian Government of the Kingdom of Hawai'i, holds a sign promoting the government's fourth election to achieve recognized sovereignty.
Photo by Danny Hashimoto
Frolicking with dolphins—Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Friday, July 22, 2011, 11:00 am to 2:00 pm
"It's pretty rough out there," says Captain Don, his voice matter-of-fact as he gazes across Hanalei Bay to the Pacific Ocean. "It'll be a wild ride."
"How strong are the winds?" asks Danny Hashimoto who has arranged for this sailing charter.
"Twenty to twenty-five knots," the captain replies.
"That sounds okay to me," I interject. "I've been in rough weather with winds that strong offshore on the Great Lakes."
Don gives me a patient, skeptical look—the kind of look that says, "You don't know." It's clearly evident that he’s weighing very carefully the decision to go out beyond the rock formations that form the bay’s protection.
Through further conversation, he reveals that he’s an accomplished sailor and racer, having weathered weather rougher than this to win major sailing competitions along this coast. No, his concern is more about Danny and me.
"What boat is yours?" I finally ask. In search of an answer on my own, I recall Danny’s statement that Captain Don’s boat will hold six or eight people, so look at the ample size cruising sailboats on moorings a hundred yards from shore. I’m thinking the vessel must be about a 35-foot monohull.
"That one," Captain Don says, pointing to the third boat up the beach where a string of sport catamarans are beached.
"Oh," I say. Now that's a different story. A 19-foot Prindle wet boat is not a sturdy monohull. "Well, I'm not so sure I want to go out beyond the breakers now either."
"We could sail in the bay," Danny observes, and I confirm that that sounds good to me, wondering if maybe we can find Puff.
Yes, this is the Hanalei Bay, inspiration for the song "Puff, the Magic Dragon" in the Land of Hanalei. And it's quite large.
"Let's start in the bay," I suggest. "If Danny and I think we can handle rougher seas, we can try it later."
This is agreeable to all so we rig the sails and don lightweight jackets. "It'll be cooler out on the water," Captain Don says as we begin to sweat inside our garb ashore.
At the water's edge, we rotate the Prindle on the sand. Don tells us to push from the windward side and be ready to jump on. The offshore wind catches the mainsail, and the cat practically scoots out of our grip. In simultaneous leaps, the three of us are aboard and instantly accelerating smoothly to ten knots.
At the tiller, the skipper tells us to hike out. Having practiced on the sand, Danny and I sit fore to aft of each other on the edge of the starboard hull. We hook our harnesses to clips on the shrouds and begin to scoot backward until our butts are hanging inches over the water, then we slide back a bit more, bend our knees, and plant the soles of our bare feet on rubber pads affixed to the top, outer edge of the hull. In unison, we stand and Captain Don turns the boat more into the wind.
Now close-hauled, the vessel shoots forward, thrusting the windward hull skyward in spite of the fact that Danny's and my full weight is totally outboard. Standing on the side of the boat, we're nearly upright as the leeward hull dips into the waves.
"It's photo time," Danny shouts. Not with his professional Nikon but with Captain Don's waterproof digital.
We race about the bay, snapping photos. Reaching the end of a run, Don tells us to come back inboard and get to the other side. We inch in, unhook, and roll under the boom as Don brings the craft about. It slows little through this maneuver, so Danny and I are quick to clip in and hike out, now on the port side. And with just a nuance of direction change at the tiller, the skipper has us flying high above the water again.
We see sea turtles: a family of four, we presume. Two are large—maybe two-and-a-half feet across—and two are about half that size. They are directly under the boat, inches below the surface, as we speed over them.
On the east end of the bay, about two dozen surfers are riding curling waves. Captain Don expresses a desire for more thrill, so we head out toward open water—but not beyond the bay. Rather, near the break line, he turns abruptly and we surf back in, staying barely out of the way of the athletes riding the same waves on their boards.
Then we see the dolphins. Three pods. Maybe 30 to 50 in each pod. Puff has sent his emissaries.
We steer toward a pod and soon are above them—literally. Danny and I are over the water. Dolphins race below us. They frolic to starboard, to port, under the boat, and between the hulls. They're as fast as we are. Then, they're gone. Did we outrun them? No. They dove or veered.
In the distance, one leaps. "A spinner," Danny shouts, describing the type of dolphin that spins several times around the axis of its body, completely out of the water, its tail several inches above the surface. "And another."
I want to get in the water, so Captain Don steers into the wind and brings the boat to a stop at a place where the dolphins are swimming toward. I position my goggles and slide into the water. The dolphins go elsewhere. The sailboat drifts away, and I float, hoping, wanting, willing the dolphins to come closer.
What does it mean to swim with dolphins, anyway? In my ideal imagination, the dolphins will come close enough for me to touch as though I were a trainer in an aquarium. But they don't.
Don expertly brings the boat back, and, with his hand hoisting my back side, I clamber aboard. We sail more, seeing the dolphins in the distance, racing toward them, playing with them again. What a sight to see a pair, inches below the surface, effortlessly swimming in the space between our two forward hulls. What beautiful creatures, their light brown bodies glistening in clear, blue water.
Twice more, I jump overboard in an attempt to be closer to them. The second time, we are moving at four or five knots. "They can sense when you enter the water and swim away," Don says. "You better jump now," I do, in spite of our moderate speed.
One dolphin is nearby, maybe 20 feet away. I dip my head under water and watch her for most of a full breath. She is alongside for awhile. Then she dives, swimming directly underneath. At a depth I guess to be about 30 feet, she rolls over, exposing her lighter underside. Then she is gone.
Danny says rarely does someone get within five or ten feet of a dolphin. My experience qualifies as having swum with a dolphin.
Music for Love—Church of the Pacific, Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Friday, July 22, 2011, evening
That night, Toby has a gig with four young woo-woo singers: two women who create amazing tremolo with their voices, a man who plays a terrific didgeridoo and recorders, and another man with an amazing range and the ability to create syncopated sound with his voice. Toby is the bass man on his djembe.
The first number is audience participation to engage the chakras. This is followed by a meditation in which the didj guy, Toby with his drum, the singers with shakers, and other sound healers move about the room, standing over the rest of us lying supine on the floor.
Twice the didj comes close. The sound end is over my stomach, my chest. The vibes are strong. I can feel my abs and ribs resonate.
Toby straddles my body with his feet at my hips. He faces my feet. The djembe is pointed at my chest. The vibes are strong. Again, my abs and ribs resonate.
The two with shakers move from head to foot and foot to head, circling my body with subtler vibes.
For the rest of the night, the audience is out of their seats, dancing—not in ballroom or couples fashion but swaying with the energy of angelic sounds and harmonies of music for love. Love for each other. Love for all. Love for the planet.
Danny is there. Capturing images with his Nikon. He's brought cacao mousse, set on a table just outside the church doors.
People roam in and out. Swaying inside. Talking softly outside. By the end of the night, bodies are sweaty, the music for love wanes, Danny's mousse has been consumed. Smiles and soft sensations are everywhere. On the island of Kauai, it’s the music for love.
Photos by Danny Hashimoto, pictured above on left
Hiking Honopu Ridge—Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Sunday, July 25, 2011, all day
We are an international microcosm on an eight-hour venture into the heights and depths of Hawaiian splendor.
Danny Hashimoto is our guide. A native of Kauai, he’s also lived in Colorado and loves to snow ski. His specialty is physical outdoor activities: rugged hikes, snorkeling, swimming with dolphins. "Others do that, too," he says, "but I'm the only guy who makes healthy chocolate treats, and I take photos. It's a nice value package."
Today's hike is a freebie. "Once or twice a month, I take island people on hikes without charge because that's part of my community building."
The hikers are islanders—except for me—with an international flavor.
Mark and Kim came to Kauai from Colorado seven years prior. She's a cranial sacral practitioner, specializing in holistic treatment of babies and children. Through Internet and Skype, she works with families in many countries. Mark's an artist in acrylics, gouache, and landscape. He also repairs porcelain art pieces for international clients.
Gianluca is from Italy and Carmen from San Francisco. They came to this island paradise after more than a decade in Italy. His business of cleaning vacation homes is local while hers is medical translation with clients around the world.
Christine has been here just shy of one year. She arrived from California with enough money to live for one month and not enough to book fare off the island. With determination to stay, she found work as a cook in an island bistro.
Adam arrived a month ago from Vancouver after having been a frequent visitor for many years. He’s looking for work in education.
The trip begins with our rendezvous on Kauai's east side. Our destination is the west side by way of Highway 50 to Waimea Bay. Then we head up Waimea Canyon Drive, past and stopping to admire the majestic 3,000-foot deep gorge renowned as the Grand Canyon of the Pacific.
At the trailhead, we pose for a group photo. Then Danny has us take hands in a circle. "I like to begin the hike with a pule, a prayer," he says. "Mahalo Ke Akua. Thank you, Divine Light, for revealing the magic and the mystery of the land."
Along the way, he relates facts about the flora and fauna of this verdant place.
The trail is rugged, often through brush that rubs shoulders and ears on both sides of the body simultaneously. At one spot, Danny suggests that we might want to sit down to descend a steep incline.
The trail is also aromatic, filled with sweet gardenias, yellow ginger, kahili ginger, and mokihana.
Danny stops at a place where the aroma is particularly sweet. He picks a pale green berry. "This is mokihana," he says, handing it off so we can pass it around. "Don't allow it to sit on the surface of your skin and mingle with perspiration," he advises. "It could create a chemical reaction to scar the skin." Yet, he adds, this berry is often mixed with the fragrant leaves of the maile to create the most highly prized leis. "A trace of the fragrance will last up to six months," he says.
Having emerged from heavy vegetation, we eat "Sunday brunch at the top of the world" on the narrow ridge. The ground slopes and falls away a few feet from our feet, but we can only accept Danny's word that a beautiful valley is also out there—under a dense layer of clouds as a gentle rain lightly washes our spirits.
We share scrumptious food then look up to see that Danny was right. The clouds in the valley have cleared and the valley extends more than a thousand feet deep before us. Photo time. And not a moment too soon. Within a minute or two, we stand in amazement as damp grey/white rises as though from a giant steam kettle at the base of the valley. Up the white plumes roll, shrouding trees and blanketing our view. Our moment for vista gazing came, and we seized it. Then it's gone, and we walk on.
Fortunately, the clouds are not present as we get closer to the spectacular shoreline of the famous Nā Pali Coast where tremendous drop off more than a thousand feet to the sea. Here, feral goats and pigs overpopulate the mountainous crags. Helicopters fly tourists in for an aerial glimpse and luxury catamarans provide the offshore vista. "The famous Honopu Arch is down there," Danny says as we crane our necks to discern what he sees. "You can walk through it, and a good helicopter pilot can fly through it."
At our lunch spot, we see a series of high ridges and intermediary valleys that drop to the coastline. A few spots of sandy beach accent an otherwise lengthy stretch of rock. All are capped with on-again, off-again white foam as waves surge in and out from the vast Pacific, which, at this moment, is living up to its name.
Here is the epitome of nature in my book: mountains, with apexes and acmes, and water, the great equalizer.
Kim, Carmen, Gianluca, Christine, and I nap after lunch while Danny, Adam, and Mark carefully walk a few hundred yards farther on the ever-narrowing ridge until it comes to a point where they look directly down the precipice into the surf.
When they return, Danny, once again, serves his delicious treat of cacao mousse, which he has prepared and carried in seven small plastic cups. Clearly the master of gourmet hiking, he presents the delicacy on a pair of ti leaves and tops them with a variety of orchid blossoms.
Then we begin our hike out, leaving the late afternoon sun to our backs. Danny says the distance is only about two miles to the cars. Maybe ... as the crow flies. But with twists and turns and meanders and steep hills, the walk takes us three hours. Our rest breaks are to catch our breath at the top of—or part way up—ascents.
For the last 20 or 30 minutes, we are blessed with a pleasant, light rain that cools our sweat-drenched bodies. Danny hopes we might see Brocken spectres, enormous individual shadows with a rainbow halo, that he and other hikers have seen here. “Each person will have their own,” he says excitedly of the phenomenon that occurs when the sun shines from behind a person when looking down from a ridge into mist or fog.
On this day, a full and glorious rainbow will have to do... and do very well, thank you. In an opportune spot, Danny wades waist-deep into rain-covered ferns to capture a magical photo of Mark, Gianluca, Kim, and myself under its colorful arch.
All but one of following photos by Danny Hashimoto
Danny in Blue Hawaii—Kaua'i, Hawai'i; 1960
"The Coco Palms is where I used to hang out as a boy," Danny says of a major hotel resort on Kauai’s east shore that was destroyed by a hurricane in 1992. "Blue Hawaii was filmed there. I'm in it."
"That was our playground. My friend Moki and me. It was a beautiful place, a nice lagoon with lots of fish. There were canoes we could ride. We heard about Elvis being there, and Moki and I decided to be in the movie. We rode our bikes home, got into nice clothes, and pedaled back to the hotel. They were shooting the wedding scene, and we walked onto the set. You can see us in the movie plain as day."
"How would I find you? Where are you in the scene?"
"As soon as you see Elvis walk up on a bridge over a stream and reach out his hand to his bride—that's Maile Duvall, she was played by Joan Blackman—look to the left. You'll see a fair-skin boy with a blue aloha shirt—that's me—and the dark-complected boy in a red aloha shirt is Moki. It was nice to be close to the King. He cut quite a figure back then."
Postscript: The wedding scene is as Danny describes it. Find it at one hour, thirty-eight minutes into the movie.
Our work is finished—Kaua'i, Hawai'i; Thursday, June 28, 2011
Toby and I wrap up crafting his proposal late in the afternoon, and we're feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. We enjoy a great meal on the verandah of a bayside resort restaurant. Then we come back to his place and complete the last must-do item on our list—an interview.
The interview is for his web site. He poses the questions, and I'm on the lens side of his i-phone. We talk about writing and editing and publishing. He directs his questions to benefit others who may be contemplating writing a book. The interview will appear on Toby's web site later this fall (2011).
The conversation is good, with lots of praise for each other. It's been that kind of week—work hard, play hard, create mutual benefit, strive to get Toby's book published and put him in front of more and larger audiences.
In addition, we had a healing drumming session and two cowrie shell divinations. We went snorkeling at Kaoupea Beach (also known as Secret Beach), visited Francesco and Naoka's mountain paradise home, enjoyed a sunset from a cliff-side resort overlooking Hanalei Bay, and dined and hung out with his delightful, fun-loving neighbors, Nick and Diane.
We didn't make it to the Hindu temple that’s being artistically and arduously by hand or experience watsu, a form of body massage while lying in warm water, with Francesca, a Qigong master. That's okay. Every performer knows to leave the audience wanting more. Leave something for the next time. The “Garden Island” Pacific gem is no different. She and I will share “a next time” ... in February, on my way back toward the mainland.