We’re now over 200 nautical miles from Kauai and officially in international waters, but wanted to go back in time to record a little bit about our stay in Hawaii before we get too far north and completely forget what it felt like to be warm.
After a couple of months in relatively remote anchorages and then 17 days alone on the boat, arriving in the big city of Honolulu was overwhelming. It was such a relief to get off the boat and stretch our legs, to sleep through the night on a mostly-level bed, to speak English, and take long, indoor showers. What pleasure to eat whatever our hearts desired! How exciting to rent a car and drive again! And then, immediately, how annoying to be stuck at a ridiculously long red light. It was surprising to see so many people at the beach and a shock to realize how long it had been since we’d seen anyone who appeared homeless. The high rises! The highways! The Amazon lockers! The lush mountains of Oahu are pure Polynesia, but there was no question that we were back in the US of A.
Despite a long list of boat projects, we fit in some classic tourism on Oahu. We visited Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona Memorial, a beautiful pavilion on a platform above the sunken ship. We walked up to the top of Diamond Head for an amazing view of the south shore where crowds of surfers were enjoying a rare, early-summer big swell. We snorkeled at Hanauma Bay, where daily visits are limited to 1,400 people — 1,396 more than we’re used to these days. We visited the Bishop Museum, which has the world’s largest collection of Polynesian cultural artifacts. Paul had a surf lesson at Publics in Waikiki with a super enthusiastic teenager who competes on his high school surf team. Despite driving through Waikiki daily, we never did stop at Chanel or Hermès, but we did hit the Ala Moana mall to replace Paul’s completely delaminated flip flops.
We ate poke and shave ice, incredible pho at A Pig and a Lady and a giant platter of sushi at Mitch’s. We sat next to the “presidential table” at the back corner of the patio at Buzz’s Steak House in Kailua, where the Clinton and Obama families have dined. Almost every restaurant on the island seems to have a photo of the Obamas, and I was reminded of visiting my sister at college in Williamsburg, VA in the 80s when every Greek-owned Pancake House had a photo of Michael Dukakais.
Driving around the island listening to the Project Hail Mary audiobook, we discovered that Paul knows the name of every beach on Oahu thanks to his deep study of surfing videos on YouTube. He told us where to pull over, so he and James could play in big waves. They got rolled around in the smaller summer waves at Pipeline and completely pummeled by the shore break at Sandy Beach.
Some of our least glamorous/most useful stops were at King Laundromat, Hawaii Nut and Bolt, and Wailua Fresh Egg Farm, where you can get a flat of 30 eggs for $7. Steve spent days and days working on the watermaker, rerigging our reefing lines, swapping the jib sheet and preventer lines, etc, etc, etc.
As always, what really made our time in Hawaii special was the warmth of the reception. Even before we were securely tied to the dock at the Hawaii Yacht Club, people stopped by to ask about the boat and our travels, offer help, and recommend future anchorages. Our friend, Liz, texted to say that her brother was in Honolulu for work and, within hours, we were having a beer with him on Flyer, catching up and getting an expert surf report.
A couple of days after we arrived, we reconnected with the French-American crew of Zorba, who left Rangiroa a day before us and were in touch along the way, including when they lost their steering in the middle of the ocean. They tied up to Flyer and had to walk across our bow to get to the dock, but also invited us to climb up to their vast catamaran deck for several meals and long conversations that had us dreaming about skiing in the Alps.
Dean, a professor of ours from architecture school, had been in touch along the way, working his connections to help us find dock space in Honolulu. He hosted us for lunch at the Waikiki Yacht Club and again for Friday happy hour at his office in the former Liberty Bank building in Chinatown, an awesome space designed by Vladimir Ossipoff in 1952. Afterwards, the kids teased us for sounding like architecture nerds, but continued to mention how nice Dean was every time we passed the yacht club or his office. (This definitely gave them the wrong idea about what architecture school was really like.)
It was hard to leave the dock in Oahu — because of the beaches, restaurants, stores, and people, but also because of all the double parked boats. After a complicated maneuver involving five boats and resembling a game of Tetris, we headed towards quieter Kauai.
The 120nm sail from Oahu to Hanalei Bay was relatively straightforward and, thankfully, not as rough and windy as our prior approaches in the Hawaiian Islands. But still somehow the shortest legs can be the most exhausting. After departing Ala Wai harbor at 11am and making a brief stop for fuel, we dropped anchor at 8am the next morning, exhausted. We barely noticed the mountains, waterfalls, flowers, or general overwhelming beauty before falling into a long nap.
If we’ve learned anything in the past 10 months, it’s that arriving somewhere on an aluminum sailboat tends to spark peoples’ interest and expose their generosity. Before we even made it to shore, we met Brenda, who came by in her dinghy to ask about our boat. Within minutes, she had shared her phone number, offered to drive us to the grocery store, and invited Paul to surf with her and her husband, Craig, in the morning.
We quickly developed a routine. Each morning, Paul and Steve joined a group of retirees who surf the reef break below the big hotel. Afterwards, we’d dinghy into the beach, drop off our trash, eat lunch somewhere in town, and spend some time at the beach swimming, reading, and watching the Hanalei Canoe Club outrigger races before returning to the boat for dinner, sunset, and The Office.
The day before we left, we took the dinghy up the the river to Brenda and Craig’s house where they gave us a jar of honey from their own hive and lent us their truck so we could stock up on fresh foods and diesel in Princeville and Kilauea. In return, we left them Paul’s outgrown Crocs and the used foam surfboard we bought in Santa Barbara. Maybe their grandchildren will be able to use them — and maybe we’ll be lucky enough to see them again one of these days.
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