For me, its balmy airs are always blowing,
its summer seas flashing in the sun.
The pulsing of its surf is in my ear.
I can see its garlanded crags,
its leaping cascades,
its plumy palms drowsing by the shore,
its remote summits floating like islands above the cloud-rack.
I can feel the spirit of its woody solitudes.
I hear the splashing of the brooks.
In my nostrils still lives the breath of flowers that perished twenty years ago.
I share an obsession with the famous American author that penned these words. They come from a book written in 1912 by Albert Bigelow Paine entitled "Mark Twain: A Biography," and describe our shared passion for the Sandwich Islands, perhaps better known as the Kingdom of Hawai'i.
No matter what is going on in my life, Hawai'i is always there, calling to me, pleading with me to come home again.
Yes, I said, "home." From the minute I stepped off the plane in the Fall of 1989, I knew this would someday be my home. Each of my 10 visits to the Islands has reinforced that belief.
Mark Twain set out by boat for the Islands in March of 1866, and spent many months soaking up the local color and putting up with the local insects. Unlike me, he also did a bit of work during his extended stay. And he did so, at times, under considerable duress.
Returning to Honolulu near the end of June from a tour of all the islands, he retired to bed in order to recover from an aggravated case of saddle boils. You see, the horse was the touring vehicle of choice in those days, and he was not what one would call an accomplished rider.
Just as he was settling in, word came that a shipwrecked crew had just been brought in to Honolulu. In spite of his precarious physical condition, he agreed to be transported to the hospital on a cot and there took notes from all the survivors. He then stayed up all night writing the harrowing account, and the completed manuscript just made it on the next morning's sailing ship. As a result, on July 19th, the Sacramento Union gave the world its first glimpse into the terrible Hornet disaster.
My work while in the Islands has consisted of shopping for friends, reviewing local restaurants for a travel guidebook, and working on the helper crew for the Iron Man Triathlon. Not quite in the same league with Mr. Twain, I'm sure you'd agree. But then, I go to Hawai'i to get away from work and rejuvenate my spirit.
Once in a while I find it difficult to communicate my passion for all that is Hawai'i. Unfortunately, some folks just don't get it. I can only smile, shake my head in disbelief, and hear the words of Mark Twain recorded by Walter Francis Frear in his book "Mark Twain in Hawai'i":
This is the most magnificent, balmy atmosphere in the world — ought to take dead men out of the grave.
I suppose that for these more stubborn folk, the only foolproof method of making them feel what I feel would be to kidnap them, bring them to the islands, and let them see it all first-hand.
Part of the allure of the Islands, both for me and for Mr. Twain, is the great pageantry with which the people live their lives. It has been a joy for me to experience the spirit of the Aloha Festivals, which are carried on for several weeks in September and October of each year. The local food is highlighted at these events, but more grand are the costumes and music that fill the senses with wonder and excitement.
In his book "Roughing It," Mr. Twain recalls, in his unique style, the wonderful festiveness of the Saturday afternoon marketplace a hundred thirty five years ago:
The girls put on all the finery they can on Saturday afternoon: fine black silk robes; flowing red ones that nearly put your eyes out; others as white as snow; still others that discount the rainbow; and they wear their hair in nets, and trim their jaunty hats with fresh flowers, and encircle their dusky throats with homemade necklaces of the brilliant vermilion-tinted blossom of the ohia; and they fill the markets and the adjacent streets with their bright presences, and smell like a rag factory on fire with their offensive coconut oil.
At the end of the day, this obsession I share with Mr. Twain has affected me in the same way as it did him. I'll let him explain it to you. In a letter to W. D. Howells on October 26, 1881, Twain wrote:
Charles Warren Stoddard has gone to the Sandwich Islands permanently. Lucky devil. It is the only supremely delightful place on earth. It does seem that the more advantages a body doesn't earn here, the more of them God throws at his head. This fellow's postal card has set the vision of those gracious islands before my mind again, with not a leaf withered, nor a rainbow vanished, nor a sun-flash missing from the waves, and now it will be months, I reckon, before I can drive it away again. It is beautiful company, but it makes one restless and dissatisfied.
As they say, misery loves company. I invite you to experience Hawai'i as have both I and Mr. Twain, and then to join us in this magnificent obsession.
