How I Spent My Summer Vacation: A Twisted Travelogue

By Dick McCullough

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Kaua'i, Hawai'i. The lushly emerald isle. Birthplace of both the Hawaiian Islands and the Hawaiian people. The only island never conquered by the great King Kamehameha. Strong mana permeates the land and its history.

Yeah, right.

Our flight from San Francisco to Lihue, Kaua'i, Hawai'i sucked big time, thanks to the friendly skies of United. We were so late getting off, we missed our connection in Honolulu. We had to fly stand-by because United didn't protect us on another flight. Thanks again, UA! Sure glad you owner-employees love your work (I wouldn't want to experience a flight you hated).

The flight over was really special. Crammed into coach seats like sardines, abused by middle-aged, militant kindergarten teachers posing as flight attendants who are apparently angry we are even on the plane. You wanted what? If those skies get any friendlier, I'm going to start wearing hockey gear when I travel. Whatever happened to good-looking, friendly stewardesses?

And thanks also go to Aloha Airlines. They taught us the price of a hang-loose culture: utter chaos. A stand-by list didn't exist. Everyone wanting to go stand-by (and there were a lot of us) just crowded around the guy letting people on the plane and he said yea or nay.Felt like I was trying to get into Studio 54 dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit.

So we finally get to our rented condo, the Lae Nani. Very nice set up, reasonable rates, great value. Near Kapa'a, which has the feel of a real town (a real small town), as opposed to anywhere on Maui anymore. Right on the beach, gorgeous ocean view, two bedrooms, two baths (there are four of us).

My wife, Barbara, hates it. Doesn't like the condo, doesn't like the kind of people that rent condos there, doesn't like the town the condo is near, doesn't like the food, doesn't like the…well, you get the picture. Sometimes I wish the Japanese would overrun the west coast and throw all of us into a concentration camp. I'd like to see Barbara complain then.

Barbara, you see, wants luxury. Barbara wants to be pampered. So instead of jumping in the ocean, I grab a phone book and start calling around. I know the odds aren't too good of finding something last minute, but it's worth a shot. Anything to shut her up for a moment or two (nothing is permanent, especially my peace of mind).

After a not insignificant amount of time and effort, I find a gorgeous hotel, the Hanalei Bay Resorts, that has rooms available. We need two, they have two. We can even afford them. I share this great news with the queen. She decides to stay put. She just wanted to know that I was willing to move. I consider drowning her and making it look like an accident. But I decide against it because I hate to do laundry.

We took a helicopter tour of the island with Ohana Helicopters. Great fun. Two thumbs up. Ohana means family. They advertised as a Hawaiian owned tour company, the only one to give you the insights that only locals have about the culture, the land, etc. Our pilot was named Bryant and he looked like he just stepped out of a Navy Seals recruitment ad. So much for the cultural experience.

But, on the plus side, the girl at the check-in counter was really cute. Very local looking: dark, exotic beauty with the relaxed friendliness of many Hawaiians. So, naturally, I started fantasizing about her as I'm filling out the paper work. By the time my fantasy is working up full steam, she walks away from the counter to get some more forms for me to fill out. She's six months pregnant! My wife glances at me, wondering why I look like I've just swallowed a green pineapple…whole.

Most mornings I get up early, before anyone else does. So I jump in the car and run downtown (I use the term so loosely it may fall on the floor) Kapa'a for a latte. I'm hanging out in a very cool espresso bar, Island Java, writing a pornographic short story, feeling like Jack London or Ernest Hemmingway. It was a chick parade. Didn't write a word, but I did strain a muscle in my neck.

One cutie had that boyish look that I find so attractive it makes me worry.

Another one strutted in wearing skintight brown slacks and a white top that must have been made from shrink-to-fit cellophane. Nobody complained (I was the only one there and I was applauding). And everybody, that is, everybody female, is wearing shorts or skirts or slacks that hang really low on their hips, just above their bums. Their shirts, of course, don't reach the bottom of their rib cages anymore (I'm so old, I remember when women's clothes actually covered the woman wearing them). So there's this wide swatch of flesh that's always exposed. Bellies, lower backs (always tattooed), hips. It's driving me crazy.

I'm going to get a latte there every morning until we leave. And then I'll cry all the way home. By the way, their lattes are awful.

Did the Olympic café in Kapa'a a couple times. Fairly new restaurant with a decent menu. I predict it will be wildly successful for years to come. Why? They only hire babes. All the girls wear low cut, tight tops and nobody has tan lines anywhere. I love that place. Highly recommended. And I believe they serve food, although I don't have any idea what it might taste like. After all, I only ate there twice.

Bubba's has the best burgers in Kauai. Locations in both Kapa'a and Hanalei. But they hire guys so I don't suggest you bother visiting.

The best day of our trip turned out to be the last. We booked a tour of the Na Pali coast on Captain Andy's Hula Kai, a 65 foot motored catamaran. The Na Pali coast is a series of sheer volcanic cliffs that rise straight out of the ocean. 2,500 foot waterfalls. Spectacular. And the crew, Nick, Josh, Joey and Cal were the friendliest, nicest guys I've ever met. But that wasn't the good part.

There were three young babes of supermodel quality with an older guy on the boat with us. He looked pretty fit, dressed young, acted hip. I figured here's a fabulously rich guy with three gorgeous women to light up his nights (and my days). So I drool over the girls from a safe distance for most of the boat ride, imagining me with a billion dollars, them and a bottle of Wesson oil. On the ride back, we're sailing against the swells. My daughter and I go out to the bow for a ride far superior to any roller coaster. The bow rises on the swell and comes crashing down, amid squeals and laughter from all of us up front (the seasick ones with towels over their heads at the stern weren't quite as enthusiastic). One of the tantalizing trio is parked right next to me on the bow. She has that elegant, snow queen look. Smiles but never laughs. Real Grace Kelly. She starts bumping my arm. Our fingers touch and release. I'm thinking she's interested. Probably wants something a little different after 3 months of Daddy Warbucks. As I ponder how I'm going to ditch my wife and kids, she turns to me, flashes some teen-age confirming braces and says, "Would you mind moving over, sir? My sister wants to squeeze in." At that point my repressed memory reminds me that, in addition to Daddy Warbucks, there are also two motherly types and a very definite grandmother in her party.

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