Kona Honu

Kona, Hawaii

I'm going to start you right off with this recipe so that you can run and make a couple of these, then settle in to read this remarkable story. Seriously.

Mai Tais

2      ounces dark Bacardi rum
1/2  cup pineapple juice
1/2  cup orange juice
2      tablespoons lime juice
2      tablespoons Cointreau
2      ounces Meyer's rum

Combine first five ingredients. Pour into two large glasses over ice. Float one ounce of Meyer's rum on top. Do insert a pineapple spear into the glass, or better yet, a paper umbrella.


2 servings


Aloha! We are at the Kona Village Resort with Sandra and John. This is the twelfth year out of the last thirteen years that we have celebrated my birthday there with them. Remind me to write about the year that I decided I wanted to go to Santa Fe instead. Good food. Freezing cold. But I digress.


I think that Sandra and John are the most beloved, or maybe just infamous, of returnees to the Village. They have vacationed there over fifty times (and yes, I got that statistic right). Their first visit was back in the early years just before 1970, when you could only gain access to the Village by small plane, as the road was not yet cut through. S & J are infinitely generous, loads of fun, and game for just about anything. We used to call them our “same time, next year” friends, because we never saw them between trips to KVR. The beauty in this was that we always picked up with an easy familiarity when we met again each year. But we can no longer call them that, because we have gone on to spend time with them in Tahiti, Panama, Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, and, of course, Carmel and Lake Tahoe.

This year, we left LA during baseball playoff season once again, and with the Giants being contenders, I am reminded of the World Series of 2002, when we watched the last game of the series at the Village. Billy and I had arrived on the day that the final Angels/Giants match was being played. As we checked in, the game had just begun. Tad, one of the two bellmen, drove us in the resort cart to our hale (see below), where we dropped off our luggage, and quickly changed clothes.

“Dude!” Tad had said to Billy. “Put some shorts on!”

Then, he drove us to the nether regions of the resort, where we had been told that a TV had been set up. This was a bit surprising, since the Village’s hales have no TVs (radios, telephones, etc.). We had considered going AWOL to The Four Seasons next door, where we were sure to find all kinds of technological advances, including televised baseball. But, no need.

Tad dropped us off at Hale Ho'okipa, a large partially covered area on one end of the lagoon, which is used for luaus. It is the largest structure on the Village premises, as the luau is a weekly event that is open to people not staying at the resort. A great place for an extremely large celebration, I thought, as we hurried inside. I expected to see a large group of fans, sitting before a wide screen television, drinks in hand provided by the bar located there. To my surprise, as we rounded the corner and into Hale Ho'okipa, we were met by the scene of two middle-aged men, both in baseball caps, sitting on polyvinyl picnic chairs, in front of a TV that looked to have about a 20” screen. It was balanced on a metal stand which looked like it came from the audio-visual department of my junior high school. Where was everyone?

One of the men, who turned out to be Barry, the dentist, looked up as we approached,

“Who are you guys for?”

I responded, borrowing Sandra’s line referring to their having gone to rival colleges (Stanford and Cal), “We’re a mixed marriage.”

“Yeah?” Barry said. “Well then, one of you is three-to-one.” That would be Billy, the alien Angels fan.

We introduced ourselves, then settled down into the white plastic chairs that looked like they came from the outdoor department at Target (ok, one last, nit-picking point about the ambiance). Shortly after we settled in, the other Giants booster, John, told us that that he was a little concerned about getting back to his hale. While on the road to Hale Ho'okipa, using the quickest trail alongside the lagoon, he had been set upon by the black swans who had nipped at his ankles. These swans, now deported from the Village, were notoriously mean-spirited, and were possibly Angels' fans.

After reassuring John that we would all protect him from the swans, we continued to watch the game with Barry and John. Barry thoughtfully made a beer run to the Shipwreck Bar, convincing whoever was bartending to charge a full six-pack of Kona Longboard Lager to his account. Over beer and baseball, we learned that John had attended Stanford (like Sandra), and Barry, like Sandra's John, had gone to Cal. I told them that they should meet John and Sandra -- especially after learning that Baseball John (this is getting confusing, isn't it?) and his wife were returning to KVR after a long absence. But they, too, were longtime returnees.

And, they did meet John and Sandra. Within a few days we were a loosely-knit group, coming together in various combinations at meals and, natch, in the Bora Bora Bar. It was like camp, all over again, except with martinis. All this fun and frivolity culminated on at midnight on Halloween when we all drank champagne on the beach, then reclined on the sand, watching a meteor shower in the brilliant Hawaiian night sky. But, I'm getting ahead of my story.

We spend our days at the Village under a four-poled palapa-roofed beach structure. It houses two lounge chairs -- and that’s all. These few structures dot the beach, and are spaced far apart -- far enough, I’ve often said facetiously, to have an argument or sex in relative privacy. The privacy on this trip was increased by the reduced guest population at the resort. When we arrived, the total guest count out of a possible 300, was around sixty. We lunatics were truly running the asylum.

During our week together at the Village, Baseball John and his wife, Sue, who hadn’t been at the KVR in recent years, were amazed by the sight of the large sea turtles on the beach. These honu (see below) make their way, moving laboriously and resting frequently, up out of the water to take long naps in the afternoon sun-warmed sand. The trail behind them is marked by a pattern made by their flippers, which they use to slowly propel themselves forward. It looks almost like an imprint left by tire tread. We had first seen this some years back, but it had never occurred on our early trips. We had taken tons of pictures of these turtles on previous trips. But, for the past few years, we had become accustomed to the sight of the many turtles we had seen slumbering on the sand. Business as usual.

On Halloween, Billy and I were alternately reading and napping the afternoon away on our lounge chairs. There had been an event the night before which had opened the Village up to the public -- a rare thing at our quiet Village except on Luau Fridays. And this event had opened up the bar for free drinks. So, we had celebrated, staying up late, and then celebrating some more.

Also, on that previous day, a hurricane in the Pacific had caused high waves, which had washed up all around us on our lounges. So, on this next day as we napped, the sand around our lounges was still wet from the prior day’s high waves and tides. Something we had never experienced in all of our past stays.

At first, when I was awakened by an unsettling shift of the ground under my lounge chair, I thought I had been dreaming. I fell back asleep. The next few thumps that woke me felt like small earth tremors. And as these convinced me that what I was feeling was no post-party hallucination, I decided to lift the towel that was draped over my lounge, and peek underneath. All I saw was an immensity of reptilian flesh. Dropping the towel, I jumped to the very top of my lounge, sitting on my haunches, hanging ten on the lounge rail.

“Billy! Billy!!” I shook his arm, waking him. “What’s under my lounge?”

Billy sleepily lifted the towel on his side of my lounge, then slowly lowered it again.

“Mr. Turtle,” he said, languidly.

Indeed. One of the large sea turtles had worked its way up the beach and right between the runners of my lounge. From there, while I was sleeping, he had proceeded under my lounge until he hit the crossbar which supported the adjustable part of the lounge. Every so often he attempted to advance further, creating the small tremors and thumps that had awakened me. But alas, he was stuck. In between tries, he evidently napped along with us. The three of us had become a unique Village ohana (see below).

My trepidation at having a honu, which was about the size of a large dinner platter, subletting in the basement of my lounge did subside. We were in Kona. Live and let live (the mai tais support this philosophy). So, we all settled back to our naps.

Before we left the beach, we lifted the lounge to allow the honu to turn around (they don’t do reverse well). Then, we left our new friend who now had a roof over his shell.

Initially I don't think people believed this story. But at the Bora Bora Bar that night, guests who had walked up the beach in the late afternoon told us that they had seen the chevron-shaped tracks leading right out of the water and under the lounge -- my lounge for the week that I am there. And they also saw the subsequent tracks back to the sea.

That palapa-roofed structure became my happy place. Whenever I have tried meditation or just to muster up a calming visualization, I put myself back there feeling the breeze on my skin, smelling the sweet Kona ocean air while relaxing on my lounge. And, without fail, I always remember to put a turtle underneath it all. Mahalo for reading my blog.

hale: house (in this case, guest cottage)
honu: sea turtle
ohana: family
mahalo: gracias