Landing in Kona

I've been writing blog posts I never bothered to post for years. Now that I'm trying to clean out my computer (it actually notified me that I was out of space, if you can believe that!), some of them will find their way here. I wrote this one on November 10, 2008. If you're planning a trip to the "dry side" of the Big Island, it might be helpful.

There are a lot of obvious signs that you have arrived in Hawaii. Seeing the peak of Mauna Kea or the green slopes of the Kohala Range are the first. As the plane descends and you look down on endless miles of dark, foreboding lava, lined here and there by deserted beaches, a thin line of palm tress, and the brilliant Pacific Ocean, the contrast is so striking that no one would be surprised if you asked, is this really Hawaii?

The Kailua-Kona airport at Keahole is also a contrast with the expected. Like something out of an old, black and white movie from the 40s, They roll steps up to the plane, you step out into the bright sun, then look up to behold the mammoth volcano known as Mauna Loa. It is immediately clear why they call this the Big Island.

For me, the real confirmation that I have returned to Hawaii follows less than a minute and twenty yards later. The distinctive and soothing sound of Hawaiian doves greet me as I enter the open air terminal. Aloha. Everything that might concern me back home seems less significant. It is nearly impossible to begin thinking that I might like to live  here.

This being our eighth visit, we know the routing well. Our bags will take some time to reach the crowded little baggage claim area, also an open air facility, so Elena stays behind to collect the bags and I run ahead to rent a car. Rates here are moderate, but the taxes and concession fees outrageous. This is the year I commit to rent from a local agency in town. As this will be our longest stay yet, over three weeks, we’ll have the time to try things differently.

Being this close to Kailua-Kona, known locally as just “Kona,” we head south first to see the town and retrace the steps from our first trip twelve years ago. We arrived at night in 1996, so we missed the newcomers’ initiation of driving miles through ominous fields of  lava, but could not escape the test of the Hawaiian language. Most people are familiar with simple, four-letter names like Kona, Hilo, and Maui, and they have probably mastered Honolulu. After that, they are oblivious to the tongue-twisting challenge of how Hawaiians combine the 13 letters in their alphabet to create a unique language that still lives in the islands.

While nothing remains the same, more seems the same here than has changed since we last visited in 2006. Two obvious changes are the new and wider roads in Kona, together with a new shopping center just north of town. Less obvious, at first, but then alarming, are the many restaurants and stores that have closed. The weakening economy has hit tourism hard here. Even the Chart House and Hard Rock are gone. And if they’re serving breakfast at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, you know times are tough (actually, I’m glad they are. This used to be the Jolly Roger, and there was no more beautiful view in Kona to enjoy your breakfast by).

We drive along the nine-mile stretch of Alii Drive and pass Kona By The Sea, the first condo we ever rented. We still hold pleasant memories of the place. The two public beach parks, nick named Magic Sands and Turtle Beach, are not nearly as crowded, but still clearly popular.

Creatures of habit that we are, we are drawn south through the small Hawaiian towns of Kainallu, Kealakekua and Captain Cook (OK, there’s one of the few easy ones to say), on our way to one of our favorite “cheap thrills” on the island, the Mac Nut Factory. We learned of this place back in 1996 from one of locals that was hawking timeshare sales, and have never failed to return. The trick, we learned, was to buy their “over-roasted” macadamia nuts for half the price. Over the years, we actually grew to prefer them that way (and could never complain about the price). The secret, though, is to arrive on Tuesday. Alas, we arrived a day early and left empty-handed, except for a bag of chocolate-covered mac nuts. Ono! That’s what they say here when it’s a good thing.

Groceries and Dining on the Big Island

Our first, real work here was to “stock up” for our 25-day stay. Food is a little different here, even at the Safeway in Kona, which is a national chain. The two local grocery stores are KTA and Foodland. They’re in Kona, Hilo and Waimea. Just blocks from our condo there’s the Waikoloa Village Market. Because it captures so much of the tastes of Hawaii, this is really one of my favorite grocery stores anywhere. It’s not the cheapest, by any means, and sticker shock is something to prepare yourself for when you arrive, but we can walk there, still watch for bargains, and always find fresh, locally-caught fish.

The new trend in groceries on the island are at the big, Kohala coast resorts. With so many new vacation homes and condos, as well as vacation ownership resorts (a.k.a. timeshares), the 6-mile, or more, drive up to our village just wouldn’t do any longer. KTA and ABC Stores, the local chain of souvenir shops, both owned by the same three brothers, opened Island Gourmet in the new Queen’s Shops, a fancy shopping center just across the street from the long-established King’s Shops. Further down the road, Foodland opened The Farms at a similar shopping center built near the Mauna Lani and Fairmont Orchid. Both are impressive little operations, stocked with an eye for international tastes, but the Island Gourmet is architecturally stunning.

As you would imagine, these shopping centers are filled with the island’s high-end stores and restaurants, giving guests the impression that they aren’t trapped in their very high-end resorts. With all their amenities, it would be easy to imagine that many guests would feel little reason to wander far from their rooms (that, of course, would be tragic). Tommy Bahama and Ruth’s Chris have restaurants at the Mauna Lani Resorts. Roy’s and Merriman’s are at the King’s Shops (in fairness, these are truly the best “local restaurants,” even though Outback introduced Roy’s to the mainland). 

The big news is the new sushi and seafood restaurant at the Queen’s Shops called Sansei. It’s getting rave reviews and I’m thinking it might become one of my new favorites. The really big news is that they’re opening a Romano’s Macaroni Grill at Queen’s. Yes, you heard correctly, mediocrity is arriving soon. Still, I kind of like the place and plan to be present for their grand opening on Monday.

It’s clear that the big names are struggling in the faltering economy too. While entrée prices start in the high $30 range, each of these big-ticket restaurants are advertising prix-fix or sunset (a.k.a. Early Bird) specials to entice patrons. They’re also offering discounts to the locals a couple of nights a week. I’m hard-pressed not to consider these opportunities for a big night out. I’m thinking I’d like to try that Tommy Bahama’s restaurant.

Thankfully, there are other, cheaper ways to grocery shop or eat. The farmers’ markets here are legendary, and there are plenty of colorful, local joints that offer plenty of filling food at reasonable prices. The big markets are on Wednesday and Saturday mornings in Kona and Hilo, though there are smaller markets throughout the island and on different days. I think the most famous market is in Hilo. It certainly attracts the largest number of vendors, locals and visitors and is legitimately a tourist attraction. To be sure, it is something of a third-world experience. English is definitely a second language among most of the vendors, but they have mastered calling out, “one dollar!” Here you will find both familiar fruits and vegetables, as well as alien-looking species at prices too cheap not to go ahead and give them a try. The rambatan is a fruit of science fiction, red  and hairy on the outside, squishy opaque white on the inside. It tastes fine, but the whole experience is a little unsettling. I still don’t see what the locals see in the wing beans though. Bottom line is that for about $10, you can fill a large shopping bag with enough fresh fruit and vegetable to last a week

A Eulogy For My Friend, Bill Sharpe

Bill Sharpe was my friend. That doesn’t distinguish me from any of you here today. We share this loss together. There are no words that can be spoken in a few minutes to do justice to Bill’s memory. I’m here today to tell you about the Bill Sharpe I knew...about thirty years ago. That’s how long I’ve called Bill one of my closest friends.

From the time I first met Bill, it was clear he was driven by the desire to make a bigger difference in life. You would always sense his presence in the room, even in 1978. If there was an opportunity for him to lead, rather than follow, he would seize it. His confidence hurtled him through life like a rocket without a rudder. He was always climbing, or trying to. And he always believed he was right...even when he wasn’t.

I was very fond of hearing him laugh “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.” That was the best you were going to get when you disputed his “rightness,” but he still wanted to give you credit.

For me, Bill was more than a friend, he was a tremendous influence.

I credit Bill with nudging me into politics, putting the first canoe paddle in my hand, for making foreign travel seem easy, for introducing me to pickled okra, for illustrating the infinite value of a friend’s loyalty, and most of all, for showing me what it means to never give up, no matter how many times you fail.

And that, my friends, is what makes Bill’s death so difficult to fathom. While his successes were many, so were his losses. He was no saint. He made mistakes. He would never discuss them. He would just carry on. I’ve never believed him to be someone who would willingly hurt anyone. Quite the contrary, Bill was usually the first to lend a helping hand to anyone in need.

Political figures, as you might imagine, are always in need. Whether they were from Pinellas County, or just passing through, there was a good chance that Bill would be there to meet them, to counsel them, or to support them. Oh, and that little nudge I mentioned earlier? I was mighty impressed when Bill personally introduced me to John Glenn, somehow prompting him to say that I should get involved with politics full time.

Then there was the night Bill showed up at my door with a six pack and said, let’s go for a ride, I need to talk with you. It was weeks before my first marriage. At the end of a dark road, Bill put our friendship on the line and tried to convince me not to do it. Somehow he knew I was making a mistake. Damned if he wasn’t right. But our friendship grew even stronger.

Of the thousands of memories I have of Bill, my favorites are sure to be found somewhere among the hundreds of miles of canoe trips we took together. Our first trip was the Alafia River in the spring of 1981. There were just three of us, a bit crowded for a single canoe, and though we were in our late 20s, we acted like young school boys, tipping the canoe and splashing each other. It opened a door to years of adventures that included climbing a pyramid in Mexico and hiking the Inca Trail in Peru.

Our canoe group grew to more than two dozen, traveling all over Florida to paddle for days on a long river. Bill was always our leader. For those unfamiliar with the challenges of canoeing for several days, finding an overnight camp site is the hardest thing to do.

In charge, and true to form, Bill always thought he was right. “It’s just around the next bend in the river,” he would declare. “That’s what you said about ten bends ago, Bill,” I would point out.

He’d just laugh. “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.”

Our group took one last canoe trip, notably and intentionally without Bill. I don’t quite remember the reason, but we were mighty proud of ourselves doing without “always right” Bill. The thing about it? While the trip went  flawlessly, it just wasn’t the same without him. The group never paddled together again.

Bill held a number of interesting jobs in his life that always  demanded self confidence. Always putting his name and his reputation on the line. He was selling condos on the beach when I first met him. He moved on to selling stocks and bonds. Then, in a wholly unexpected twist, Bill turned in his suits and ties for jeans and t-shirts to sell chicken wings and beer, and build something of a legendary blues venue in a setting I’ll generously call rustic. Bill transformed a tiny bar in the country called Mr. Pub into a sizable establishment with an acre of land out back where he promoted concerts that would attract hundreds of people. The locals came to love him, dubbing him Mr. Bill. The name stuck. His success did not.

I recall eleven places that Bill called home. One wasn’t really a home. And it isn’t the most recent one you may be  thinking of.

Bill had suffered another one of his failures. He was living in a pop-up camper in an RV park just outside of Tampa. He was about as close to homeless as any of us would imagine. Years later, when he founded the Tampa Epoch, many charged Bill with being an opportunist seizing on a loophole. Looking back, and knowing what I know, I think that experience was what really drove him. He often said of the homeless, this could be any one of us. The truth is that he knew that better than most.

Bill got the hand he needed to move into an apartment. He adopted Charlie the cat that same week. While holding on to a job selling RVs, he got back on his feet and began his online marketing company, determined as ever. Most of you know the rest of the story as well or better than I do. It was another couple of chapters in Bill’s life that read much like he had always lived it: Trying always to do good, have a good time, and always be right.

I don’t have the credentials to help you deal with the terrible sorrow Bill’s death represents. And while we were still close these past ten years, others certainly grew closer to him. Knowing him for as long as I have, I cannot account for what he determined was so wrong that it came to this. He was no stranger to failure or loss, and there is not one of us here who would not have extended our hand to help him, just as he would have come running if any one of us had called him.

What I have to ask is what do we take away from this experience? It has to be something more lasting than to console each other and celebrate our good fortune for calling Bill our friend.

What comes to my mind is what would Bill have us believe? What would he want us to know. How would he want us to live on without him? I can’t know for sure, but if he came to my door with a six pack in his hand and said, let’s go for a ride, here’s what I think he would tell me:

Always believe in the goodness of others, and do what you can to help them, however you can.

Always believe in yourself, no matter how many times you fail. You can always start over again.

But Bill wouldn’t stop there. He would go out on a limb and risk our friendship to say: Don’t assume you know someone as well as you think you do. You can never really know another person’s pain. You have to listen carefully. You have to ask. You really have to care.

Because, if you do, you won’t let this happen to someone else you love like we all loved Bill.

Well, Bill, there’s truth to what you’re saying.