That Aussie Dream Job Is Mine, All Mine!

You know you're a perfect candidate for a job when not two, but five people send you a link to it within 24 hours. That's what happened this week when several of my friends forwarded me a link to the Best Job in the World, Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef.

I've had an infatuation with Australia since I did a report on the country Down Under in sixth grade. During junior high, I had the Australian flag hanging in my locker and a map of the country on my bedroom wall, which I studied on a regular basis, memorizing the capitals, states and territories as if I would be quizzed.

Somehow, I've made it to every other inhabited continent on the planet but not Australia. This is a situation that needs to be rectified ASAP -- and this gig would be the perfect way to do it. Who else is better qualified to test dive gear, monitor aquatic life, blog about the reef's goings-on, and answer questions to incoming tourists?

I'm sending in my application this month. If anyone knows someone on the selection committee that I can bribe, please let me know.

New Hope: Been There, Done That

I've been hearing about the quaint little burg of New Hope for years, but something has always seemed to get in the way of my visiting. Not so this time. With no boss bellowing for me to return to a prison-like cube and five months to spend on the East Coast, I finally got to visit one of the cities that Forbes Traveler recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns.

With niblings in tow, I packed up Eartha Kitt and set my GPS for New Hope, population 2,252 (per the 2000 census). We planned to spend the day strolling charming boutique-lined streets, taking in the autumn foliage, and then heading to Shady Brook Farms for some pumpkin and apple pickin'.

I'd expected New Hope to be charming, but I didn't quite anticipate its unique hybrid of historic cuteness and hip anti-conformism. The first indication that we wouldn't be greeted by minutemen and Betsy Ross wannabes came in the form of a surreal statue, which the niblings and I deemed a cat on acid. It has ears like a cat and a rather cat-like posture, if said cat were having its ass scratched, so high was its overly elongated tail in the air, but there was also something inherently un-catlike about it, something less whimsical Seuss and more opium-smoking Poe. (If anyone has any idea what this animal is actually supposed to be, please tell me. We're dying to know.) After taking a few pictures with the un-cat and the un-cat's bunghole, we moved on down the street to the canal museum, unmanned and amusingly tiny. We took a gander at the mule-less canal, now choked with duckweed and cat tails as it undergoes renovation. Quentin, remembering what he'd learned about canals from our Toronto trip, impressed me by pointing out the locks. (I have to remember to show him this site tomorrow.)

The first few shops we encountered were closer to the New Hope of my mind, including a year-round Christmas store and a handmade purse boutique, complete with punny name (The Bag Lady). We perused a bit but soon grew bored with a holiday too far off to provide any instant gratification. As we ambled lazily down the sidewalk, we had a bit of a shock when a woman, her hand covered in her own blood, streaked past us, her eyes glazed with fear. I spun some story to ease the kids' own fright, then kept walking, only to run into the same woman emerging from a restaurant moments later, her hand still dripping scarlet. This time, I decided to be more of a role model and told her to take a deep breath before asking if she needed me to call 911 and reminding her to apply pressure. But apparently my heroism was a little late, because a moment later the restaurant manager came out with cloths for her to press against her wound.

I hurried the kids along, trying to divert their minds from the pre-Halloween gore by pointing out the lush foliage, distinctive architecture, and the Mansion Inn (after my trip to Newport and, most notably, Belcourt Castle, "mansion" seemed a misnomer for this comparatively teensy dwelling). We finally found a worthy distraction in a medieval-themed store brimming with suits of armor, metal brassieres, and swords taller than my nephew. Although the prices were more than reasonable (a hand-crafted knife for $20!), I decided against buying weapons for children and instead took them to gaze at the horrific display of Chucky-inspired gore in the window of an adults-only store. Much more appropriate.

That's what shocked me most about New Hope. Although it's steeped in history and the arts -- every other shop at the far end of Main Street was an overpriced gallery -- New Hope definitely has a kinky, non-comformist side. Now that I've seen it myself, I realize that's probably what my friends were trying to convey when they gawked about my never having visited, especially since the town seemed "made for me" and "right up my alley." There were at least three stores that the niblings wouldn't be able to enter for at least another eight years, and several more that probably should have had similar warnings.

Luckily, their favorite stop turned out to be Farley's Bookshop, an independent seller with the requisite creaky floors and even a feline mascot but, sadly, no musty old books for me to pine over. After buying reading material for the kids (Fablehaven for Carly, another edition of Captain Underpants for Quentin) and skipping rocks on the banks of the Delaware in the shadow of passing paddleboats, we decided to ditch our historic train ride so we could spend the maximum amount of time on the farm, whose website promised all sorts of autumnal fun.

We should have done the train ride. Shady Brook Farms was, let's just say, a tad disappointing. If the admission fee had been more than $10, I probably would have asked for--no, demanded--my money back. The haunted house was little more than a gross-out fest, far less frightening than it was nauseating (thanks in part to a toilet full of poo in the blood-splattered bathroom). Only two of the big-kid carts on the SPF 500 Racetrack worked, and with no one to monitor the gaggle of children, I practically had to yank off two cart-bogarting kids so my dear, sweet, patient niblings could have a turn. The corn maze had terribly marked "clues" planted about, and because it too was unmonitored, we could easily still be in there if I hadn't cheated our way out, since no one saw us enter and the sunlight was rapidly fading. Even the hayride... wasn't. There wasn't a straw of hay to be found on the tractor ride to the pumpkin patch. The upside is we did leave with decent pumpkins, and the pig and dachshund races were delightful, if only because Carly got chosen to wave the checkered flag and act like a starting bell at the beginning of each race.

The kicker came when we went to go apple picking, which Quentin had been waiting for all day. It took nearly half an hour to find the unmarked orchards, even though they were only a quarter mile and two turns away. For those looking, it's a right at the mailboxes (not the stoplight), through the drive between the two white buildings, down the dirt road to the left, and conveniently located next to an apiary. Yes, a whole swarm of beehives. Very convenient for pollinating apples, but not very convenient for picking them. As seemed to be the theme of the day, the orchard too was unmonitored, so we had no one to ask what we could pick or where we would pay. So we simply left, leaving Quentin feeling unfulfilled. Damn you, Shady Brook Farms!

I bet if you ask the kids a year from now what they remember most about the trip, they'll say the bloody-armed woman, the toilet of horrors, and the pig races. Such is the mind of a child. At least, that's what stands out to me.

Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees (Montreal, Day 4)

Home again. Well, home for the twins, anyway. I'm currently in my sister's basement recovering from the nine-hour (including the hour wait in customs) ride back from Montreal, my neck still in a crick from my trapeze pratfall. I'm looking forward to some shut eye before diving into the pile of work awaiting me.

We left Montreal at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn, considering how late we've been sleeping in, and completed the one-hour drive west to Rigaud with time to spare. Despite the nap in the car, the twins, I knew, were ecstatic to finally be going on the zip-line, which they'd been looking forward to ever since I first made their itinerary months ago. Now, despite each one having been penalized nearly half an hour for some less-than-savory behavior, they would finally get the chance to see what all the fuss was about.

Compared to Arbraska's Barrie, Ontario, location, the Rigaud park is far larger and more diverse in its offerings. Had I been able to move my neck, I would have had a blast. Instead, I sat out and contented myself with getting embarrassing video footage for the montage for the twins' b'nai mitzvah next year.

After finishing the beginners' course, the kids moved onto L'Aigle, a course consisting purely of zip-lines, including a 750-footer and one that stretched over the golden fields of an open meadow, where groundhogs scurried for cover whenever a zip-liner screeched past overhead. Only a few reminders to keep their legs straight and to steer with their hands, and they were flying through the canopies like pros.

When their aunt-allotted time was almost up, we found the Tarzan Rope, a one-game course that consisted of hurling yourself off a platform into space, sailing across the void on the aforementioned rope, and grabbing the cargo net on the other side. After my trapeze experience, I doubt I would have been so brave as to voluntarily propel myself off a 25-foot platform face-first into a net. But they both did it, even if Micaela did flail about for a moment before finding foot purchase. (See snort-inducing video below.)

Before any of us realized it, we had to head home. Not only were we dreading the ride, but the twins were especially not looking forward to returning to school the following day. At the end of our trip, we were a little slaphappy, and while recapping some of the weekend's highlights over lunch, we were pleased to find the small cafe empty, as we couldn't help cackling hysterically over the horrible waitress from the day before. Just saying, "I'll give you a tip" caused the two to fall into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The line at the border was far longer than when we'd come through a few nights earlier (we were the only ones crossing at midnight), but the interrogation was far less harsh, and this time the kids were prepared for such questions as "How is this woman related to you?" and "What is your mother's last name?" (The latter threw Micaela off, since Ilene often still uses her maiden name.)

But we made it through, and I spent the rest of the ride telling stories about airhead students, redhead rivalries, and misadventures abroad. Before nodding off, the twins bounced around ideas as to where we should go on our next adventure, their heads dreaming up grandiose voyages on foreign continents. They balked at my idea of youth hostels, but train travel appealed to Carter. Micaela seemed to only be satisfied with staying in high-end hotels, no matter how much we extolled the virtues of a sleeping car on rails.

But that's all at least another year away. They're still digesting their memories of Montreal. And I've yet to recover from the trapeze -- or our Egg-spectation waitress.







Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

Return to Fire Island

Every once in a while, I have a wonderfully peaceful sleep in which I dream I'm strolling the wooded lanes of a tranquil island. There are no cars, only little red wagons and the occasional golf cart. Surf roars onto a beach as fine as white powder, and my feet look sugar-coated after only a short stroll, during which I'm greeted by deer who've all but lost their fear of humans. In the distance blinks a lighthouse.

During my years of living on the East Coast, I visited Fire Island roughly a dozen times, including a long weekend spent with a close friend in lieu of attending prom. On each of my visits, I usually managed to drag along at least one or two newbies, friends who had yet to experience the island's charm. On the return ferry ride after one such trip, my friend Zi turned to me, a contented smile on her face, and remarked, "How have I lived on Long Island all my life and never visited here?"

I've often wondered the same thing, but I've also been glad that Fire Island has remained somewhat unknown, somehow forgotten, and often avoided by the less open-minded due to its reputation as a haven for alternative lifestyles. These factors, plus the half-hour ferry ride that separates the island from the "mainland" of Long Island, have kept it less crowded than it might otherwise be. And after 10 years of being away from one of my favorite spots on the planet, I finally returned this weekend.


My friends had, for various reasons, flaked, but I decided to go anyway. I'd missed out on visiting the island too many times in the past, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity escape as well. After so many years, I not only remembered driving directions to the ferry, but I also recalled my frugal parking secrets (opt for the free lots on Gibson and share a $4 cab to the ferry, in lieu of the $14/day parking at the terminal). Once the ferry had docked and I'd set foot back in the main town of Ocean Beach, the layout of the terrain came back to me as well.

There was Rachel's Bakery, where I'd learned not to be afraid of vegetables in desserts via the utterly decadent carrot cake. Across the way was The Albatross, which used to serve comforting warm bread and a decadent garlic butter as a freebie appetizer, but has, according to another Fire Island friend/aficionado (who just shot a music video here), since stopped. The community house that doubles as the island's only movie theater announced screenings of WALL-E on hand-written posters, while some budding entrepreneurs begged passersby to buy their hand-painted shells and rocks.

Despite the hubbub of the arriving ferry crowd and a few off-leash children, the island was relatively silent on the bay side. After contenting myself that the old-school arcade was still there, I set my sights on the ocean side, roughly half a mile away. Strolling the island's many walkways has always been one of my favorite island pastimes, and I planned to spend a good portion of my day wandering the trails like an aimless deer (minus the pit stops to feast in unlocked trash cans). Hiking would commence, however, after I got in my beach time.

When I reached the surf, I watched as a gaggle of teenage lifeguards hauled ashore a girl who'd been caught in the riptides. Some people may not realize it, but there's nothing due south of Long Island until you reach the Caribbean. Sure, a trade current will most likely drift you ashore, but why leave your fate in the hands of the Oxy Squad? I've experienced Long Island riptides in the past -- one in Amagansett was what I consider my first brush with death -- so I wasn't about to chance it again. Thus was the reason I ditched my swimming plans in favor of flopping onto my borrowed Tweety Bird towel to read my National Geographic Adventure magazine. Oh, and the Arctic-like water also played a small role in my decision.

Before diving into my sand-dune-sized pile of reading material, I slathered myself with SPF 45. As many fond memories as I have of Fire Island, I also recall it as the site of My Worst Sunburn Ever, a burn so severe that the pressure of cold shower water on my skin caused me pain, so long-lasting that the burn lines were visible nearly six years later. So sunscreen I applied. And applied. And applied some more.

After flirting with skin cancer long enough, I set off for my stroll, heading down through the smaller town of Seaview and over as far as Ocean Bay Park, where Flynn's was a-jumping with Sunday-night reggae. I popped in for the half-price Corona special, then set back to Ocean Beach to see when the next ferry would be. I'd had my fill of house-gazing, for the time being, and I'd suddenly remembered one of the many attractions that I needed to visit before sunset.

The Fire Island Lighthouse is four miles from Ocean Beach, which was too far for me to hike before the light had gone. So back to Bay Shore I'd have to journey, where I'd pick up Eartha KITT in time to cross the many bridges of the Robert Moses Causeway to the lighthouse. I made it just in time to hike the extra mile or so from the parking lot, snapped my shots, and, reluctantly, left.

But I'll be back.

View more Fire Island photos.

Adventure Travel as Undergraduate Degree

Now, why the heck didn't they have this as a major when I went to school? Arizona's Prescott College is now offering an undergraduate degree in Adventure Education, a discipline that includes courses ranging from Aboriginal Living Skills to Environmental Perspectives and White Water Rafting. Seriously. I would have been much more likely to show up for my 8AM if it had involved kayaking a cool mountain stream rather than analyzing the text of depressed French existentialists. I wonder what the dorms are like -- homemade yurts? Lean-tos? Recycled cast-offs from the architecture school?

Arizona's climate and topography offer a killer location for a variety of adventure disciplines, albeit not my favorite: diving. For that you have to take one of the off-site, south-of-the-border classes that heads to the Gulf of Mexico.

Several other universities -- including Colorado's Fort Lewis College, Idaho State University, and the University of New Hampshire -- offer similar, competing disciplines. I'd consider returning to school if Hawaii would come up with a similar master's program. Hells yeah.

Photo Chosen for Schmap's California Guide

Someone at Schmap must love me. I'd never even heard of the site before they contacted me in March to tell me my photo of Kealakekua Bay had been short-listed for the Hawaii guide. (It eventually made it in.)

Now one of my photos for the Tallac Historic Site, located on South Lake Tahoe, has been chosen to be included in Schmap's California guide. You'll have to wait as the little widget below scrolls through the varied Golden State landmarks before you see my shot, but there's some pretty cool ones from other Flickr (which is where Schmap found my photos) users as well:



Chosen photo:

Pele Erupts With Fury

When I visited the Big Island back in November, one of my main to-do's was to see lava. Unfortunately, Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess, didn't have that in her plans, and the many helicopter and plane flights I'd booked were all canceled due to inclement weather. In the past, visitors had been able to view the lava flow from the ground, but during my visit, only aerial tours made the view accessible. And now Pele has changed plans.

The lava flow is once again visible to day-hikers.

"Visitors should know that if they follow precautions, come prepared, and listen to officials, the volcanic activity on Hawai'i Island is not only fascinating to witness, it's also safe," said George Applegate, Executive Director of the Big Island Visitors Bureau. "A contingent of scientists, local and federal officials are keeping close tabs on the situation, and keeping the public well informed," he said.

Ah, if only Pele had been so gracious during my visit. But that only gives me another reason to return to one of my favorite islands on the planet.

For visitors wishing to view the lava flow, click here for the latest updates.

To Fly or Not to Fly (Hawaii, Day 7)

I'm not a morning person. Anyone who even slightly knows me that I just don't function in the a.m. hours, no matter what the time zone. So for me to wake at 5:30 a.m. -- during my vacation, no less -- you know I meant business. And business on this, my last full day on the island, was to get on an aircraft and see some friggin' lava.

I drove the two-plus hours back to Hilo, through rain, wind, fog, and multiple inefficient traffic stops, to be at the airstrip by 9 a.m. After getting somewhat lost and being assured by the airline operator that the pilot would be waiting for me, I arrived 10 minutes early to find an empty airstrip. No one. Nada. Pas d'avion. After staying on the line with the operator a while longer, I was assured that my flight would not take off without me. A member of the grounds maintenance staff confirmed that my ride would be back shortly, from what I understood through the thick Hawaiian accent and noise of the airport. Shortly after the plane emerged in the low-ceilinged sky 15 minutes later, I learned that my flight was, again, canceled due to inclement weather. Dammit.

To kill the few hours before my horseback ride in the Waipi'o Valley shortly after noon, I stopped in at Ken's House of Pancakes in Hilo, a local joint with an enormous menu to rival even that of a New York diner. From there I headed straight to the Valley, driving through a town that looked like the Old West relocated to a tropical isle. Our main guide, Keone (who told us his name was Hawaiian for "John") liked to crack jokes and make us smell rancid fruit (in this case, the noni, which has a scent reminiscent of a monkey's butt crack and resembles a bloated wart), took us down the steep incline into the valley, picking up a wayward bodyboarder along the way. (How he hung onto the back of the bucking van I'll never know.) Less than an hour later, we were saddled up and cantering into a valley of waterfalls, hippies, and mist-covered taro fields.

My riding companions -- most much more skilled at horseback than I -- were a motley crew of tourists from throughout the continental U.S., the loudest of who insisted on leading the pack and hootin' and hollerin' about every aspect of her life so that she almost scared off one of the wild horses who roamed Waipi'o. The haze lifted so that we didn't need the rain gear we'd brought, and our band made its merry way past the leased homes and squatters (an "inordinate amount" of which are named Dave, per The Book and seconded by Keone). I snapped almost as many shots as I had at Pololu, but few were as spectacular, given the fickle lighting and constant movement of my ride. Although I didn't get to ride over a volcano, this excursion made up for the flight in terms of shear spectacle. The perfectly ripe avocados, hand picked as we trotted along, made for a delightfully delicious end of the day, for both me and my trusty steed.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Grounded in Hilo (Hawaii, Day 6)

I awoke with grand visions of lava-spewing vistas still dancing in my head. Today was the day I'd scheduled my biplane ride over volcanoes, a trip I'd planned toward the end of my vacation knowing that my diving would prohibit me from flying on certain days. The flight was one of the "must-do" activities I'd planned for my trip -- sister or no -- and I'd set aside a certain amount of vacation allowance for the event. I might not be able to light a stick on fire while walking on a lava flow -- as I'd seen on the Big Island's visitor channel -- but I could at least experience the volcanic wonders from the air. I hopped into my untrustworthy Sebring and headed for the far side of the Big Island.

Thus far, I'd seen only the "dry" side of the island -- from the brown stone fields of the Kohala coast to the cloud-obscured vistas just up the road from Kona. Rain had already canceled plans on one of my dry-side days, so I should have been prepared for massive amounts of precipitation in the rainiest city in the U.S. But that would mean I was being rational.

Living in LA for ten years has all but absolved me from having to know how to handle rain. I'm used to doubling my commute time at the mere whisper from a "weatherman" of approaching precipitation, but I've never lost my confidence in handling slick-surfaced pavement. My drive to Hilo almost made me feel like a native Angeleno. At one point, the rain pelted my windshield so hard that I was forced -- for the first time in my life -- to pull to the side of the road until I could see the road again. This from a driver who's bested the black ice of Michigan winters.

As I drove from one side of the island to the next, the landscape grew ever more lush, the green seeming to meld with the black pavement, which was interrupted more often than not by one-lane stop signals required by ongoing construction or road maintenance. To go the roughly 80 miles from my condo to Akaka Falls took almost as long as it would have in LA rush-hour traffic -- sans scenic overlooks. I could at least thank Lono that the view at Akaka was unobstructed by rain.


I killed the next few hours having sub-par pasta at Pescatore (seriously, how hard is it to make sauce for noodles, people?) and perusing the lackluster exhibits at the Pacific Tsunami Museum, where the docents were kind enough to let me recharge my camera batteries in anticipation of my afternoon volcano flight. When I learned my flight was canceled due to weather, I switched to Plan B, exploring the area's attractions, rain be damned. A cursory cruise around Banyan Drive and the Queen Liliuokalani Gardens made me wish for blue skies more worthy of photographing. Then north of Hilo I went, in search of the botanical gardens so many people had told me were worth the seemingly steep $15 admission.

I wasn't disappointed. The Hawaii Tropical Botanic Gardens merit the price, even in inclement weather. I took more photos here than I'd shot my entire vacation. I'm not usually a sucker for orchids, but I found myself in macro mode more often than not, so unusual were the blooms. Even though I spent less than two hours on the grounds -- in damp clothing, for the most part -- I found the gardens, and the scenic drive to get there, a high point of my trip. Rainbow Falls and the Boiling Pots, located just outside of Hilo, paled in comparison to the verdant dips and vales of the botanic paradise, as spotty as the signposts were.

When the day's rain finally let up on my return trip to Kona, I stopped in at Daniel Thiebaut, a posh eatery in Waimea, where I ensconced myself at the bar. (Note to local I met that night: My trip to Portland was cancelled, so I won't have any recommendations for your son. Sorry!) I then trudged back to Kona, intent on getting a good night's sleep for my return trip the next day. There'd be sun this time, right?

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Somewhere Over Pololu (Hawaii, Day 5)

It’s not often I get to dive. Yes, I live in SoCal, but the water there is downright frigid, so I haven’t been since my beginner certification many moons ago. My volcano flight wasn’t until the next late afternoon, so I booked myself on a morning dive with Kona Honu Divers once again. This time out, we hit Koloko Arches, which had wonderful arch and tunnel formations that made me wish I’d sprung for that underwater camera. We spotted a host of critters, including a crown of thorns starfish and several eels.

After my dive, I headed north up the Kohala coast in search of the Puako petroglyphs and ran into a band of scavenger hunters. I so badly wanted to crash their party and join in, especially when I learned it was part of an Internet conference, but I let the nerds be.

Next stop: Hapuna beach, the oft-named “finest beach in the country.” Yes, it was pretty and the sand was powder white, but beyond that, I didn’t get why it receives so many accolades. I found Oahu’s Kailua far more picturesque and inviting. To each his own.

Café Pesto turned out to be a bit of a letdown. For all the hype this Italian restaurant receives, it didn’t do much for me, and you can’t blame it on the vegetarianism since the waiter recommended my pizza before I’d explained my dietary restrictions. I think I might have been able to teach the chef a thing or two about Italian cuisine.

The highlight of the day came while driving the final stretch of route 270, through picturesque Hawi and its Old West storefronts. At the end of the road sits the Pololu Valley, a majestic swath of green that tumbles down to a black-sand beach rimmed by steep emerald cliffs. The view from the top was wonderful, but The Book declared the 20-minute trek to the bottom even more photogenic, so down I went, a fine mist acting as natural coolant. About halfway down I began to ponder the return trip upwards and so confirmed the validity of The Book’s decree via a passing Aussie before continuing the descent.

I wouldn’t say it’s that much prettier at the bottom, at least not when it’s misting/raining, but I am glad I spent extra time in the valley. The beach was the first I’d stood on that was an usual color, and I found it interesting that my camera had such a difficult time reconciling this contrast, especially when challenged with a composite of just my pasty white legs and black sand. I think that shot almost fried the processors. In spite of the superstition against taking lava rocks, I scooped a spoonful of sand for my grandmother, who for some reason has begun a collection of soil from around the world, then began the climb back up the six or so switchbacks.

It was at this point that I noticed the most vibrant rainbow I’d ever set eyes on, an unbroken, iridescent arc that spanned from the valley’s green cliffs clear across the water, as if hoping to reach the Maui shore. I must have taken 20 photos of the rainbow, which appeared to glow against the gray mist, like a piece of Oz breaking back into Kansas. Perhaps one day I’ll get around to threading all the shots together.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States (Hawaii, Day 4)

My elderly, Big Isle-loving neighbors had raved about Place of Refuge, and The Book lauded the adjacent Honaunau reef, so I made that my first stop the next day. The reef delivered as promised, with tons of fish and even a lollygagging sea turtle who saw fit to trail me within yards of the heiau on the opposite shore. Easy entry meant that even scuba divers converge on the place, where they take advantage of the "two step," a naturally formed stair of lava rock that allows you to slide right into the water without getting too cut up or bashed by waves.

After only 20 minutes or so of snorkeling, I realized, thanks to the slight sting of salt water, that I'd forgotten to lather my pasty back in sunscreen and that I'd be feeling repercussions the next day if I didn't two-step it back on land.

Several people had described Place of Refuge (Pu'uhonua o Honaunau) as tranquil, serene, and emiting a calming effect over the body. Yes, there's something rather peaceful about a turquoise lagoon fringed with waves crashing on lava rock while palm trees sway overhead. But ain't that most of Hawaii, brah? I strolled among the staged tikis and examples of heiaus and longboats, but lingered over the replica of a konane game, which looked strikingly similar to Chinese checkers, minus the star pattern. If the gift shop manager is listening, you should get this game in stock, ASAP. I was surprised not to find it among the other ubiquitous souvenirs.

From Honaunau, I headed south, by now used to the feel of dried salt on my skin for most of the day. My ultimate destination was Volcanoes National Park, but The Book declared South Point -- the true southernmost point in the United States, contrary to Key West's claim -- a "Not to Be Missed!" locale, so I took the 12-mile, crumbling-road detour past some cows and windmills to see what would be seen. I didn't have time to hike the additional two miles to the green sand beach, but I knew that would only be a waste of time for me, as I've learned I just don't have the slightest desire to sunbathe or sit still when I'm on vacation. There's just too much to be seen.

This is the first time the book or any of volume of its series has steered me wrong. There ain't nothing at South Point, and it was perhaps the most polluted beach I've seen in all the Hawaiian islands. After driving some 20 minutes out of my way -- and wasting valuable daylight to do so -- I didn't even get a damn plaque to commemorate the occasion of my presence. I hightailed it out of the there, not wanting to waste another precious second at such a pointless, unphotogenic spot. Stupid South Point.

I did, however, find it necessary to make a pit stop for lunch. After snorkeling, walking, and driving way the hell out of my way, I needed a little something in the belly to keep me going, but something fast so I could enjoy the volcanoes as much as I could. I’d already scheduled my plane flight for Thursday morning, since the actual lava flow was currently visible only by aerial tour, but I still wanted to get in some precious ground time and to see such sights as the acclaimed Thurston lava tube. But that would have to wait until I snacked.

The Book declared Desert Rose Café as “probably the best food in this part of the island,” which wasn’t saying much considering I spotted only one other eatery (mini-mart notwithstanding). I opted for a veggie burger with cream cheese and mango – I hadn’t found many other healthful choices – and scarfed it down. I have to say, the combo was quite interesting, and I’d try it again, only without so much dang cream cheese. After filling up my gas tank – and spending 20 minutes on hold to verify with Dollar that I didn’t have to use ethanol, as the label on my gas tank declared, and that the brake light that kept flashing intermittently was nothing to worry about – I was on my way. Again.

I arrived at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park a little before four o’clock, leaving me with just over two hours to drive Crater Rim . It was enough to do that and only that, although I would have preferred longer to explore the many trails in the more lush, rainforest portion of the park. My camera couldn’t capture the beauty and vastness of the craters, and on the computer screen, the steam vents seem like little more than the smoke of a latent campfire, but trust me, the park is well worth visiting, even when the lava flow isn’t visible by land. If nothing else, the Thurston lava tube and the surrounding flora are worth the visit. If my condo’s flashlight had been working, I would have explored the unadulterated portion of the tube, but I wasn’t about to venture in there in pitch blackness.

Now, scientists, listen up: One of you needs to create a device that captures smell. We have cameras and audio recording devices, but nothing quite captures the spirit of a place or triggers a memory like the sense of smell. I’ll never forget the sulfurous odor of the craters, that acrid, nose-tingly scent that doesn’t quite offend but isn’t something you wanted a candle scented after. I did, however, want to bottle the smell and take it home to supplement my slideshow so they could get an all-sensory feel of the place.

The sun set not long after I left the park’s gate, and by the time I hit the road back north, I was pretty tired. I had roughly 100 miles to go, on a road that disallowed a speed of more than 65 – both legally and practically – and all I wanted was to get back to my condo and sleep. I gave the bird to the South Point turnoff as I passed and whizzed northward. In the gloam, a sign blazed off to my left, one that I’d failed to notice on my daylight cruise southward. This time, I not only noticed but read the sign, and by the time it clicked, I’d already flown past. A quick U-ie fixed that, and moments later I was parked at the bar of Shaka, the southernmost bar in the United States. (Take that, lying Southernmost House Grand Hotel!)

As soon as bartender Cyboy (real name: he’d kill me if I told you) had poured me an ice-cold pint of red ale, I whipped out my cell to call my pal Marilyn and tell her of my achievement. Moments later, after writing a few postcards and talking to amiable son Bubba (real name: forgotten), I walked out to my car to take a shot of the exterior, now all aglow in the afterthought of sunset. My Sebring didn’t respond to the first dozen punches of the key fob, so I let myself into my car the old-fashioned way, with a key. I tossed the keys on the driver seat, grabbed my camera, shut the door, and posed my camera on the car roof so that I could get a crystal-clear shot. As I pushed the button, my possessed car honked and all I got was a fuzzy neon blur. The next one came out all nice like.

When I went to open my car, I found it locked. There on the seat sat my keys, glinting up at me in mockery. Apparently my key fob had a several-minute delay, and had locked me out of my rented vehicle. After telling Cyboy the story, I plopped myself down on my still-warm barstool and once again called Dollar. After several calls, I was told that I’d have to pay for the locksmith myself, as I’d declined roadside assistance (which I didn’t recall ever being offered to me), and that the cost would be around $35. No sweat. Plus $1.50 mileage. From Captain Cook. Both ways. That amounted to just over $200, and it would take the locksmith at least an hour to rescue me. As I argued with the Dollar representative on the phone, Cyboy came outside to tell me that his buddy up the hill was on his way and would be arriving in five minutes. I hung up on Dollar and awaited my knight in shining armor.

Or flannel PJs, I wasn’t being picky. Cyboy was in hysterics as he watched the pajama’d Sean at work, and moments later, I once again had my keys in hand. As Sean went to go back into his truck, his handle wouldn’t move. “I locked myself out.” I almost burst into hysterics before he let on that he was just joking. I have a feeling he loves pulling that over on customers.
I finished the free pint of beer that Cyboy had offered me for having survived the experience, then headed back up to Kona. I couldn’t even look the Sebring in the face. I always name my cars – even rentals – but this one didn’t deserve a name. All it deserved was a kick good night.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Paddling to My Death (Hawaii, Day 3)

Just because I'm traveling solo doesn't mean I'm going to slow down... much. Sure, I take my time getting ready in the morning, usually heading out the door an hour later than I'd intended. But it's a vacation, what do you want from me?

My trusty guide book informed me that the best way to visit the Captain Cook monument in Kealakekua Bay is by kayak, and a kayak being one of my preferred modes of transportation, I decided to heed The Book's advice, even though I'd be without a paddling partner. I rented my trusty craft from Adventures in Paradise, a home-based business that looked every bit the part. As I squinted to read the day's weather forecast posted on the wall of the tin-roofed patio, the proprietor stepped out to greet me, as did a red-speckled gecko even larger than the one who'd hitched a ride on my rearview mirror the day before. Sunny skies and warm waters told me it was okay to go ahead with my plan.

As Karin helped me load my sit-atop on the roof of my car, I wondered how in Pele’s name I’d be able to unload it myself. She informed me that the parking lot at the bay was full of able-bodied boys looking for a $5 tip in exchange for easing me of my burden. When I explained that I deal in virtual cash and thus had little more than a pocketful of coins and some lint, she told me not to worry.

She was right on all counts. Before I’d even opened the car door, a Bud-sipping young’un tapped on my windshield to ask if I needed help. When I explained my lack of hard currency, he shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” my knight explained, and began unloading my Sebring of its cargo. Moments later, I was packed into my kayak, Amancio waving to me with one hand and sipping another Bud with the other.

It’s only a half mile or so across the bay to the beach where Captain Cook was killed, but by kayak – solo – it seems much longer. I took my time, alternating between snapping shots with my camera (safely tucked into its housing) and sprinting to make up for how much the tide had shoved me since I’d last stopped. The tide seemed to be moving against me, which, I reasoned, was a good thing since it’d be working in my favor on the way back.

I paddled on at a leisurely pace, watching the green-furred cliff walls drift by and marveling at the blueness of the water. I didn’t recall the ocean being so stunningly cobalt in Oahu, and I remembered that this, the westerly side of the Big Island, was known for its clear waters due to the lack of runoff from rivers and the lava rock. As I mused about the little Hawaiian geology I know and tried to keep my kayak steady for another shot, I realized the sounds of breaking waves had grown louder. When I turned to see how close I was to shore, I realized I was about to be turned over by a large wave – and pushed headlong into a crag of unfriendly-looking lava rocks, which could stand the beating surf much better than I could. I paddled frantically, timing the boat so that I just barely managed to ride a wave in rather than being pummeled by it.

A second wave almost knocked me from my seat, and when I saw that I could stand, I jumped out and began leading my boat to shore. But I wasn’t out of danger yet. The waves still forced their way in, threatening to crush me between my kayak and the rocks, and several times I just managed to push the boat out of the way before it gave me a broken nose. Coughing and trying to remain nonchalant as I dragged ass ashore, I waved to the older couple who had watched me nearly drown, the husband half-amped as if he were about to save me, then realized, “Eh, I don’t know her.”

I allowed myself a few moments’ rest before strolling down the white sandy beach to explore, rust-colored mongooses darting out from underfoot. After seeing the white obelisk and snapping shots of the sea from land, I was ready for some snorkeling, which I’d heard was some of the best on the whole island.

It was like swimming in an aquarium. There were so many fish – yellow tangs, puffers, whitemouth eels, teardrop butterfly fish – that I could hardly keep track. I hung out and rode the surf with a school of yellow tangs that I had spotted from the shore, the surge pushing me in and out of their lemon bodies so often that they seemed to get used to me – at least, as long as I didn’t try to take a picture. (Perhaps tangs are Amish.)

When I’d had my fill, I paddled back, amazed to find that the tide was once again working against me, insisting that the nose of my boat face the completely opposite direction I wanted. By the time I reached the boat launch, I was exhausted, and terribly happy – and surprised – to see Amancio waiting for me some three hours later. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” he said as he reached down to help me out of the kayak. Moments later, the Sebring was all packed up to go, and Amancio was waving me off on my next adventure.

Whoever goes to Kealakekua Bay next, please tip him. Or at least bring him a few beers.

On my way back to return the kayak, I stopped at the Painted Church, which sits high up in the hills of Captain Cook. The church is small, but quite charming -- well worth the slightly out of the way drive. I could have gotten off some amazing shots had it not poured the whole time I was there. I can only imagine how land developers must envy the view that the dearly departed have but will never again enjoy.

I’d planned to head to Honaunau next, but the weather had other thoughts in mind, so I instead heading back north to Kailua Town, where I explored the Hulihe’e “palace” (a large home that supposedly once had grand furniture but was now under renovation) and the Kailua Pier, where several fishermen were hoisting in their final catches of the day. Honaunau and Place of Refuge would have to wait for the next day.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Manta Heaven (Hawaii, Day 2)

When I made my to-do list for my Big Isle trip, I had one item at the very tip-top of the list: dive with manta rays. I've read oodles about this dive, with may sources declaring it a dive of a lifetime, the pinnacle of underwater adventures, and other superlatives. After diving with great whites, I thought that swimming with plankton eaters would be rather anti-climatic. I was greatly mistaken.

We started our diving day at Garden Eel Cove, a sandy-bottomed locale with numerous pencil-thin eels who sway in the surge like sea grass. A coral reef flocked with critters surrounded the cove, which counted for less than a few minutes of the entire dive, and we spotted several other eel relatives in the craggy nooks that were only yards away from the man-made ring of stones that would act as the focus of the night dive ahead.

After downing some sandwiches (mine was a lemon grass tofu baguette from Ba-Le, of course), during which we watched the sun fade into the ocean, we prepared for the main event. A cluster of other water crafts had invaded our mooring site, and as we donned our gear, we spotted one of our visual prey gliding through the water just yards from the line shining beneath our boat. When the first two divers into the water shouted back that there was "a big 'un right below us!" I long-strided in and immediately sank my face downwards, my flashlight bobbing about for the 14-footer they'd spotted.

I didn't have to look far. Rising from the midnight blue depths -- headed straight towards me and the diver bobbing on my right -- came the manta, his eyes seemingly intent on looking me face on. When he as at my knees, he opened his maw so that my beacon shown straight into his ribbed cavern of a mouth, his wings still propelling him towards me as if he meant to suck me in like a Hoover. He stopped, hovering, just inches from my mask, taking in both my features and the multitude of plankton that had flocked to my flashlight's beam like microscopic moths. I managed to snap a few photos with my "can't go deeper than 10 feet" camera, but I only got off one shot where you can almost make out the manta shape.

As we flippered over to the designated manta meeting grounds, an unearthly blue glow loomed up ahead, causing images of James Cameron's aquatic aliens to float through my head. As we drew nearer, we realized we weren't the first arrivals at manta central: at least three other dive boats had claimed their places around the ring. Their flashlight beams formed pillars of light that appeared to hold up the water's surface, where snorkelers splashed about, gazing down upon the underwater Druid ceremony below them. At the center of the ring lay a large milk crate stuffed with high-powered beams that created a stationery Klieg light in which a school of plankton-hungry fish darted about. In the divers' beams, silvery bubbles rose to the surface. Ring within ring within ring we awaited the guests of honor.

And waited. And waited.

After about 10 minutes of shivering on the ocean floor, Bo switched to plan B, and we and the other diver reluctantly swam off. Just when we were almost out of sight of the blue glow, in swooped the enormo manta who'd tried to make out with me earlier, followed by another a foot or so smaller. They slid through the water over our heads, sometimes tapping us with their wings as they passed, their ever-searching mouths widened to take in as much miniscule matter as possible. One diver, who'd brought along a high-powered light for his cumbersome camera, attracted them most, so I quickly made my way to his side for a ringside view. The surge grew stronger, so I wrapped my legs around a large rock anchored to the sea bed and took in the mantas, who were know somersaulting before us to grab as much food as possible.

For the first few minutes back on the boat, few of us could speak, although our ear-to-ear grins spoke volumes. Then slowly the chatter started, and we returned to our chatty selves, several of the older female divers donning red glowsticks as earrings in celebration. What could possibly top an experience like that?

Second best experience of the day: Kona Brewing Company's strawberry and spinach salad. Ever since having it on Oahu last year, I've been craving its tangy sweetness. Washed down with their pale ale, it's second only to the manta experience. And a far second at that.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Escape From Cube Life (Hawaii, Day 1)

I know, I know -- I've been slacking about getting my Hawaii vacation up on site. I've actually been working on it on my Yahoo! Travel page, but I might as well serialize it here -- where most of you look -- as well. So now, without further delay, is the first day of my trip.

Yes, this first day doesn't sound as if it were worth the 2,000+-mile flight, but stick around. It gets better.

Most everyone who knows me knew how much I needed this trip. When my sister canceled on me, I searched frantically for a travel companion. Then, when three volunteers stepped forward just days before I left, I decided I wanted to go solo. I needed to go solo. After a long night mostly spent packing and making my home somewhat presentable to the most wonderful kitten-sitter ever, I was on my way, headed to the most remote islands on the planet for some much-needed R&R.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw out my plane window. The barren, lava-rock landscape was not what I'd had in mind when I'd pictured my tropical island getaway. "It looks like Mordor," the gay husband had told me, but I ignored him, knowing his penchant for exaggeration. He was right. (One of the few times I'll admit this.) But I also remembered that the Big Island is famous for its varied terrain and climatic (not climactic, as one guide book had led me to believe) zones, so I knew that lush landscapes still awaited.

After dealing with the interminable line at the rental car company (note to Dollar: Hire more staff, please), I hopped into my Sebring, cursing the lack of amenities I was used to in Eartha KITT, my beloved Prius, and tore off for my timeshare condo on Ali'i Drive. When I learned my room wouldn't be ready for another four hours, I peeled out again, heading south on Ali'i, the Big Island version of the guide books I'd come to trust on Oahu in hand.

I wasn't the only one to choose the Hawaii Revealed series as my guide book of choice. As I strolled past the parked cars lining Ali'i near Pahoehoe Beach Park, I saw numerous pairs of pedicured feet sticking out of windows, their owners reading the familiar light blue tomes describing all the insider knowledge they'd need for their trip to the largest of the Hawaiian islands. A quick dip in the surf and a visit to the adjacent Little Blue Church (formally known as St. Peter's and described by Hawaii Revealed as the most photographed church in the island chain) and I was on my way, this time to the terraced cliffs that contain the graves of numerous Hawaiians after an inter-island battle.

Before leaving LA, I'd researched some of the more popular restaurants of the island, and one in particular stuck out: Ba-Le, which several readers had described as having a wide array of vegetarian options. I happened upon it while looking for a local supermarket where I could stock up on provisions and soon found myself back in my timeshare eating an enormous amount of pho, the first vegetarian version of the popular Vietnamese soup I'd ever found. If you're in the islands, you must hunt down the nearest location. During my week in Hawaii, I ate there at least five times, including a well-planned pre-airport excursion for food to replace my in-flight meal.

Up route 180 I went, ascending to an elevation of 1000 feet as I explored the mountainside towns of Captain Cook, Holualoa, and several other burgs that blended together as I swerved and curved through rolling greenery, not far below the local cloud forest. Then back down to my temporary hale of Sea Village I went, exhausted already from my lack of rest, but intent on getting an early start on the next day. I hadn't yet ticked off many items on my to-do list, but the week was still young.

Also visited on Day 1:
Big Island Grill

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

More Kudos for "Great Whites of Isla Guadalupe"

Just got back from my trip to the Big Island (sans Big Sis -- photos and journal to come) to find a welcome surprise waiting in my mail box. Seems that my article on diving with great whites received an Honorable Mention for feature article in the 2007 Writer's Digest contest. Results haven't been posted online just yet, but I'm pretty sure they'll be available here when they are.

Considering how heartbroken I was to leave Hawaii behind, this news definitely made the transition back to everyday life much more bearable. Now, off to plan the next trip!

Note: "Great White of Guadalupe" was originally published on AOL Travel, but since AOL is inanely removing all of its content -- nice SEO move -- my article no longer lives there. Thus, I'm now pointing to TravelExplorations.com.

Big Island, Here I Come... Solo

So, my sister flaked on me for our trip this upcoming week, but I'm not about to let that get in the way of having a killer time on the Big Island. On the to-do list:

• Night dive with manta rays
  
• Helicopter ride over volcanoes
  
• Kayak sea caves (with, hopefully, no floaty dead things)
  
• Stroll a black-sand beach
  
• Stroll a green-sand beach
  
• Stroll a plaid-sand beach
  

I'm open to suggestions. Anyone know some stellar spots to recommend on the Big Island? Oh, and anyone (who's not lame) wanna come? You buy your flight and pay for incidentals, the hotel and car are for free!

Back From a BLIFF-ful Weekend

It's been years since I've been up to Big Bear, and I honestly hadn't given the place much thought recently until a friend of mine mentioned his film was in the Big Bear International Film Festival (the BLIFF of the post title). So up I trekked, taking the back road, CA-38, since the front was closed due to massive fires.

I pulled into the small mountain town less than half an hour before the screening to find the sky brimming with smoke, which seemed to grow closer by the second. Should we screen or should we evacuate? We chose to screen, and I'm glad we did. After a night of cheese-filled buffets and Oktoberfest chicken dances, I said goodbye to my friend and the actors from the film, who were on their way back to Temecula for yet another fest. I, however, was left to roam the hillsides of Big Bear in search of Swiss-inspired chalets, alpine slides, and abandoned animals.

After a decent sandwich at The Mandoline, a picturesque chalet-styled restaurant on the edge of Big Bear Village, I figured it was time to make good on my promise to myself to take on the alpine slide. As I rode the gondola up to the top, I watched other riders whizz down at varying speeds, some so fast I'm surprised they didn't leap off the track. (Note to self: Any ride that makes you sign a liability waiver without letting you read the contract might be iffy.) My ride was much tamer than the daredevil whose wheels curled just over the lip of the slide as I rode the gondola above him, and I probably should have given it another whirl after getting the hang of it the first time. But instead, I opted to try to squeeze in some more mountain fun before having to return to Metropolis.

With the fire raging on the north side of the lake, I had to ditch the idea of kayaking at the Discovery Center and so instead opted for a visit to Moonridge, the area zoo. Now, I'm not a huge fan of zoos, and especially not local zoos, since the animals' confines tend to be a great deal smaller than those at cash cows like the San Diego Zoo or The Bronx Zoo. So I was hesitant to give my money to an organization that profits off the misfortune of animals. I'm happy to be proven wrong.

Moonridge, unlike most zoos, doesn't buy the animals they exhibit. Instead, they take in animals who might otherwise have to be euthanized, for reasons ranging from being unreleasable due to injuries (many human-inflicted) to being too tame to be able to fend for themselves. One of Moonridge's bobcats was found declawed, apparently the result of some stupid human trying to keep an unpredictable wild cat as a pet. All of the bald eagles, save one who is blind, were shooting victims. And the zoo's family of three grizzlies were victims of Yellowstone's three-strike rule, having ventured one to many times into human domain. They'd been scheduled to be put down until Harley Davidson came to the rescue and forked up the dough for their enclosure at Moonridge, where they've lived ever since. Mama Bear was named Harley in honor of the Hog organization's kindness.

After Moonridge, I reluctantly headed back down the hill, through the winding passes of San Bernardino National Forest, where I stopped repeatedly to snap shots of the misty -- not smoky -- hills that folded over each other in fading succession. Unfortunately, Blogger is currently being a pain in my ass and not letting me upload any other photos, which bums me out since I had some good ones. Alas, they'll have to wait. You'll have to settle for my lame-ass alpine slide vid.

Ode to the Channel Islands

(With apologies to anyone with any literary sensibility.)

They were well underway
On a bright August day
With a bearing set for Santa Cruz.
Their craft was nigh full
From the mast to the hull
With provisions for two or three crews.

At the Sun Soleil's wheel,
On an uneven keel,
Stood their captain, of skill set unknown.
Quick to temper was he,
As they sailed the calm sea,
If they so much as cut off his drone.

But the insouciant crew --
Of each sex, there were two --
Would not let him rankle their mood.
After all, it was true:
What else could they do?
Piss him off and they'd surely be screwed.

So they hoisted the main
And cleared the head's drain
And prepped for the weekend ahead.
On their first trip ashore
"Holy shit!" they all swore
When they found a huge carcass quite dead.

After snaring a tooth
And playing the sleuth
They returned to the boat Sun Soleil.
What a tirade they got
From the doddy old sot:
"You left me alone here all day!"

"Grab the halyard, yank the sheet!
Tie the line to that cleat!"
Came the orders from morning to night.
Had they known had to sail
They'd all now be in jail
For lobbing the perv in the bight.

But their sails did not luff
For their nerves remained tough
When misfortune hit them full speed.
They bore flies by the reams,
An old skipper sans jeans,
And survived a sea lion stampede.

They had chocolate a plenty,
And bananas ten or twenty,
And they came to malign the poor fruit
For the hardships endured
Once they'd set foot aboard
The boat with a nasty old coot.

On the bow late at night
They observed quite a sight,
A gift from the heavens on high --
Quick flashes of light
Quite brilliant and bright
Like a vestige of Fourth of July.

"Anacapa, ahoy!"
Cried the four crew with joy,
As the lighthouse soon came into view.
They hopped into their dinghy --
A flimsy old thingy --
And skedaddled from old you-know-who.

But no shore trip for they,
Only "anchors aweigh!"
Due to Cap'n's pleas for more help.
For their trip was cut short --
They but made it to port --
By a harmless ol' bed of sea kelp.

Soon stolid park rangers
Became more than strangers
As they rolled back to the Sun Soleil.
Then for shore they set sail
With the wind at their tail
For the cap'n'd again had his say.

No more spinnakers for they,
As they cruised through the spray,
For a self-furling sail they had naught.
Wing and wing brought them forth
Amid salty air froth
As their dread soon begin to allay.

With the chocolate now gone,
Just how could they sail on?
But Oxnard soon loomed up ahead.
As they jumped on the pier
Disappeared all their fear
As they kissed the ground on which they tread.

They knew why they'd received
Such a little reprieve
And a trip of such great bargain rate.
Now once more ashore
They would say never more,
"This damn boat just will not macerate!"

(Full journal, with pics and video, here.)

Anacapa: Unbagged (Channel Islands, Day 3)

The few bananas still on board didn't faze us, although at least one person tried to attribute the shape and yellow color of the kayak to Chris' unusual incident. After breakfast, during which we fended off the swarm of flies that had come aboard some time during the night, we took turns paddling the sheltered coves of Little Scorpion, dipping into narrow crevices and enjoying the roller coaster-like effect of the tide in such a tight squeeze. We’d seen a few pelicans at other anchorages, but at Little Scorpion they teemed on any open face of rock, so that we began to wonder why our first day’s cove had been named for the brown seabird and not here. We also spotted a sleek, black, red-billed bird (which I’ve since discovered is a black oystercatcher), but I could never get my kayak close enough to allow for a good shot. Sea lions made frequent appearances, sometimes frolicking close enough to the kayak I could make out their bemused facial expressions.

Kayaking through caves was a bit anticlimactic after Painted Cave, but it was still quite a thrill to navigate through open-ended caverns and launch out through the other side. The water was clear enough to see twenty feet to the bottom, illuminating the purple sea urchins, multi-armed sunflower stars, ochre sea stars, and the occasional skittish Garibaldi.

After turning over the kayak to Sally, I somehow got suckered into going snorkeling. Now, normally I’d jump at the chance to flipper around and ogle sea creatures, but the decidedly frigid water temperature – just about 60 degrees – and my lack of an adequate wetsuit made me hesitate. But soon Chris had convinced me that I’d regret not going, and that even if the water was cold, I’d remember the sights more than the bone-numbing coldness, so I acquiesced. Gary chauffeured us over in the dinghy to the mouth of a small sea cave, where I overcame my trepidation to plunge into the water. When I emerged, it was to spout a mouthful of expletives as the cold shot through every limb like darts. But I was already submerged, so I followed Chris, my limbs hugging my body, into the cave.

Perhaps he hadn’t learned from yesterday’s encounter with the cascade of blubbery bodies, but Chris swam well ahead into the darkness, intent on hitting the end of the cave, sea lion stampede be damned. I hung back at a slightly less risky location, just within sight of sunlight but not close enough for it to aid me in viewing my surroundings. I clung to the barnacled cave wall as the tide swelled in and out, raising me upwards sometimes two or three feet, as I saw the dim beam of Chris’ flashlight poke about ahead. He’d found another beach and was fixed on flopping ashore, his flippers still on. I imagined various creatures trolling the floor below me, but clung fast, telling myself they’d eat him before me.

Finally he returned, and we swam around a rocky outcropping to the sea cave we individually kayaked through that morning. I spotted a spider crab dozing on the sea floor, then allowed the tide to push me forward into the cave, where the seabed rose to present a mesmerizing pattern of sand. The currents popped us out through the other end, and we explored the critters on the outside of the cave before hauling ourselves, me shivering, back into the dinghy for our return trip to the Sun Soleil.


Soon we had raised anchor and, now completely under sail power, we set our bearing for the lighthouse on Anacapa, which is actually comprised of three small islands which in total are still far smaller than Santa Cruz. Despite its size, Anacapa is a main stopping point for many visitors to the Channel Islands, due in part to the lighthouse and visitor’s center, as well as its system of moderate hiking trails. In rough waves, the four of us managed to get situated in the dinghy, while Gary navigated through the massive kelp beds just offshore. While the others took charge of bringing the dinghy on land, with the help of a pulley, I marched up the steps in search of a true flush toilet, pausing halfway up to admire the stark blue waters of the cove and the kelp pulsing in the surf.

None of us ever set foot on the true island though, because soon I was fetched to return to my friends, who had been sought out by park rangers. We soon learned that there was a problem back on the Sun Soleil and that we were to be shuttled back, now donning NPS life jackets. As a few island visitors – more than we’d seen in our previous two days – snapped shots of us refugees, we looked sadly back at Anacapa, unvisited its lighthouse, and unconquered sea arch, each vowing to return and bag the island. We received some solace in learning from the rangers exactly what it was that we'd discovered at Pelicans: a 26-foot basking shark.

Somehow, in the rough chop, we made it back aboard the Sun Soleil without getting squished between the NPS vessel. Gary told us of his engine problems, which he assumed may have been from cruising through a bed of gnarly kelp, and said our trip would have to be cut short. We reluctantly headed back towards the mainland, each taking turns at the helm. It wasn’t without irony that Sally pointed out that there were still a few bananas on board.




Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Stampede of the Sea Lions (Channel Islands, Day 2)

We slept well last night -- almost nine hours, in fact -- fatigued by our many encounters with rotting animals and the unending activity of hauling anchors, hoisting halyards, and searching for the perpetually elusive "bag of bags" in the chaos of the galley. After a breakfast of omelets, the Sun Soleil headed towards Painted Cave, which, depending on which source you read, is either the world's largest sea cave or one of the largest. Cap'n Gary sent us off in our vessels -- Chris in the inflatable kayak, Robert, Sally, and I in the dinghy -- and circled about in the cove awaiting our return.

As we paddled into the opening -- 160 feet tall, according to the National Park Service site -- we met up with a small flotilla of kayaks on their way out, having ventured only halfway into the quarter-mile long tunnel due to lack of sufficient lighting. When they saw our giant beacon, they followed us back inside, hoping to see more of the lichen- and algae-painted interior.

Just inside the entrance, on a ledge on the right wall of the cave, perched a few smaller sea lions, who slept on, seemingly oblivious to our presence. But as we ventured further inwards, their blubbery friends splashed down from rock outcroppings on either side as we passed their resting places, only to bob up as silhouettes now and again. The sound of the surging surf subsided the further we went back, until, after rounding a corner, it was a soft droning hum, accompanied by the soft dripping of water from the cave’s roof. We paddled as far towards the back as we could, now completely dependent on the uber-beacon’s light. Chris, in the faster and more agile craft, led the way, warning us of protruding rocks and steering us away from dead ends.

Finally, we reached the back wall of the cave, which ended in a rocky beach that sloped precipitously upwards. Intent on seeing the farthest reaches of the world’s largest sea cave, Chris positioned his kayak parallel to shore, ready to hop out and explore on foot. From the dinghy, roughly 15 yards behind him, I shone the spotlight for him to see, while Sally and Robert steered us. When the rocks suddenly began spilling into the water like a stone waterfall, I had visions of the whole cavern collapsing – something akin to the ending of The Goonies, only much, much darker. In the light of our beacon we watched as a stampede of sea lions poured down the slope, leaping over and under Chris and nearly swamping his inflatable kayak. Their eyes shone like laser pointers in the darkness, then disappeared as they flopped into the water, their dark shapes flying towards us and creating a small current of waves as they disappeared into the dark.

Once the chaos was over, we noticed that our tagalong friends had beat a swift retreat away from the marauding pinnipeds, and Chris related how the sea lions had been so close he could smell and feel them, that they had bumped him from beneath as they darted into the watery depths. Although we hadn’t spotted the cave’s resident elephant seal, we’d had quite an adventure to tell when we returned to the mainland. On our way out of the cave, we spotted another “floaty dead thing,” then ran into two members of the Synapse, who seemed tickled pink by our story of the sea lion stampede.

We returned to the Sun Soleil, which we now steered towards Little Scorpion, on the lee side of the east end of Santa Cruz. There, Gary told us, we’d have ample time for kayaking and snorkeling before our evening meal. But we first wanted to give our sea legs a little land time, so back in the dinghy we went, heading towards a small inlet that, we were told, would lead to some pleasant hiking trails. We strolled upwards for some time, but after seeing nothing of note except endless grassy hills, we rested a bit, enjoying the stability of solid ground beneath us.

After that night’s dinner of spaghetti, we once again headed topside for a reprise of the Perseids. Although the sky was even clearer than yesterday, we didn’t see as many fireworks, although the few we did see were quite spectacular, lasting for several seconds as they streaked across the sky. One final day, then it’s back to the mainland for good.






Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"? (Channel Islands, Day 1)

It seemed to bode well that we had quite the picture-perfect sailing day as our boat, Sun Soleil (repetitive, no?), motored through the marina at Channel Islands Harbor. The sun was high in the azure sky, a few billowy clouds floated about, a slight breeze carried us to the harbor inlet towards the open ocean. However, our first misfortune befell us before we'd even made it past the breakwater: Our craft's motor wouldn't start after we stopped for gas. Sally, whom Cap’n Gary had designated his first mate, theorized that our luck was due to the presence of bananas – a no-no at sea, she explained. An hour later and a visit from a Marina Sailing mechanic, we were finally on our way, crossing the slight chop under motor and sail to make up for the lost time.

We arrived at Pelican Bay around 6PM, where there were already a few other boats anchored. After ferrying our cap'n over to the Synapse, our sister boat, our crew of four dragged our dinghy ashore for a brief exploration. As we rowed to shore, we spotted a bleached white blob floating in the water and paddled near it until we realized it was a sea lion carcass, a foul-smelling one at that.

Once on shore, we found the small waterfall -- a trickle, really -- then headed in the opposite direction to Little Pelican, where we found a most unusual sight. Lying at the edge of the incoming tide was an enormous carcass -- shark or whale, we couldn't be sure. Chris, the resident expert on aquatic critters, having trained dolphins for several years, poked the enormous body with a stick trying to discern what the hell it could be. He estimated the body to be about 22 feet, but with most of the head already rotted and submerged under the beach's rocks, it was difficult to know how long it had been when it had been alive, let alone what it had been. We saw what we thought might be claspers, indicating shark, but we weren't aware of sharks in these waters that grew to such a length. Although great whites weren't uncommon, it didn't have the markings of the species, nor had either of us heard of one that big.

Despite our CSI attempts, we knew one thing for certain: The animal had died after being caught in a fishing net, the remains of which were still wrapped around its maggot-riddled body [video]. It had probably been dead for more than a few days, as evidenced by its distended belly, upon which sat a rock – either as a sign of respect from a previous passerby or at attempt to cause the carcass to explode, we weren’t sure. On the off chance that the corpse was that of the incredibly rare Megamouth shark, which I’d recently read had only been sighted or caught less than 50 times, Chris extracted some teeth from the corpse’s mouth. They were smaller than human teeth and pointed, not conical like that of a whale’s, so we kept them in the hopes we could ask an expert once we’d returned to the mainland.

We met up with the crew of the Synapse, showed them our odorous discovery, then hiked a nearby ridge for a view of the sunset before hiking back down the stairs of the erstwhile Pelican Bay hotel and paddling back to our vessel. After a dinner of mayonnaise-basted fish (I opted for a veggie burger), we headed topside for an unspoiled view of the Perseids, which delivered some jaw-dropping meteor-shower scenes.

Our first day in the "Galapagos of the Americas" and the only wildlife we’d spotted was of the dead, putrid-smelling variety.


Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Farewell, Friday Harbor (San Juan Islands, Day 3)

Sunday morning in Friday Harbor is about as laidback as any other day in the sleepy burg, with few of the shops shuttering for the day in the hopes that weekend tourists will bring along more business. Since checkout was 11AM, I dragged my new "no-weight" (yeah, right) suitcase down Spring Street then over to First, where I finally made it to the Whale Museum, which, unlike other museums with a form of "whale" in their name, actually promotes the conservation of the mammals, not the commercial whaling industry. The museum itself is small, befitting its island location, but is packed with lots of eco-friendly facts and specific information on the pods that roam the Salish Sea, which I learned to call this pocket of the Puget Sound.

I spent roughly an hour wandering the museum and taking in bits of info about individuals in the pods, then strolled over to Pelindaba Lavender, where I'd spent my first morning with Robin. With me I lugged my suitcase, which had weighed just over 20 pounds before I boarded the seaplane at Lake Union, but was now a tad heavier that I had an autographed copy of Patricia Schultz's best-selling and oft-copied 1,000 Places to See in the U.S.A. & Canada Before You Die, which Robin had gotten for me the night before when the author made an appearance at a Spring Street bookstore. The San Juans, of course, made it into Schultz's book, and the whole lot of her vetted places made for quite a heavy tome. I wondered if my suitcase would pass the test on the return flight.

At Pelindaba, I purchased some lavender pepper -- bringing the number of varieties of pepper in my kitchen up to seven (lemon, cayenne, white, black, red pepper flakes, chipotle, and my newbie) and ordered the same delicious flaky mushroom pie and ginger soda I'd enjoyed when I first landed. Then it was off to the docks to await my flight. I watched as a family who had chartered a plane to themselves tried to unload their gangly, lop-eared mutt onto to the dock, then waited another 45 minutes before my plane arrived. (I was still in denial that I could arrive just a quarter hour before I was to leave and had left plenty of buffer time, during which I caught up in my journal.)

All too soon I was back in the air, soaring over small islets and then landing next to the houseboats on Lake Union. When I landed, I realized I'd forgotten to heed the advice of the proprietor of the metaphysical shop where I'd purchased a replacement purse: "Take a rock with you when you leave. It'll call to you to return to the islands."I'd forgotten to pocket a rock, but as I scrolled through my camera at the photos I'd taken, I knew it wouldn't be necessary.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Water, Water Everywhere (San Juan Islands, Day 2)

After a rather restful sleep in my comfy bed at Elements Hotel & Spa, a few short blocks from downtown Friday Harbor, I boarded the 46-foot Western Prince in search of J- and K-Pods, who had eluded me the day before at Lime Kiln Point and had headed farther north than usual. Owner/captain Ivan told me how he'd come to own his business, after relocating from sunny San Diego to the rain shadow of the San Juans. (I also learned that the Weather Channel had recently visited to discuss this weather phenomenon with San Juan residents.) As we chatted on the bridge, Ivan took us past a small islet -- little more than a sandbar with a large piece of driftwood, really -- where a bald eagle perched majestically, as if posing for the tourists aboard, and a harbor seal bobbed in and out of the water in the foreground. Ivan displayed his facility for multi-tasking by manning both the radio and his cell phone in order to find the whereabouts of the pod, and moments later six-foot fins could be spotted in the distance.

Ruffles, the patriarch of J-Pod, led the way, along with Granny, believed to be either his mother or grandmother. We watched the pod make their way back toward San Juan Island, the bursts of their breathing still very audible even from the maritime-law-imposed distance of 100 yards (Ivan normally gave them berth of even more than that, just to be sure). My little point-and-shoot digital couldn't sufficiently capture their grace from that distance, but the memory remains.

Since I'd only had a scone before my three-hour tour, I trekked back into Friday Harbor with a grumbling belly and satisfied it at the Front Street Ale House, the local brewmaker conveniently located just strides from the dock. After downing a decent veggie burger and two well crafted pints, I headed back to my bed for a cat nap (I was still recovering from the 6-day visit with the niblings), then awoke in time to be chauffeured to the island's north shore by my gracious host Robin, from the visitors' bureau. We made a pitstop at Lakedale Resort, which was in the midst of prepping for a lakeside wedding that evening and so was decked out in rustic splendor.

After our drop-in, we headed up to Roche Harbor, a favorite vacation spot of both Teddy Roosevelt and John Wayne. Roche Harbor is less resort and more "community," as the property manager explained it, and I'd agree -- not only because of his convincing stories but because of the palpable aura that surrounds the many conjoined properties. Families roam the grounds -- sculpture garden, marina, artists' bazaar, mausoleum trail -- as if it were part of their own estates, and indeed some may think it is, since they've been returning to the same vacation spot for decades -- the same week and cabin each year, next to the same family who does likewise.

After getting an abbreviated tour and history lesson (Note: Is this really the only privately owned Catholic chapel in the country?), I hopped into a San Juan Safaris kayak for a sunset tour around the island. I was paired with a high school student who, from what I could gather, had never traveled far from his Ohio hometown, based on his frequent remarks ("This is the first time I've seen a real crab." "I've never kayaked before." "Are those mountains real?"). When our path put me downwind, I endured the spray from his paddles, but cringed whenever he spat chaw over the side. He was friendly enough though, and obliged by taking over all paddling duties whenever the urge to take a photo struck.

Although we didn't have the colorful sunset we'd hoped -- we were, in fact, drizzled on -- we were rewarded with several wildlife encounters, including a close encounter with a harbor seal and her pup that brought us within feet of both. We had stopped paddling as soon as we realized they were in our path, and with the current at our backs, we soon drifted so close that when Mom opened her eyes, she quickly shooed her charge underwater and both disappeared. Not long later, we spotted not one but two bald eagles communing in a tree, bringing my baldy tally to five thus far on the trip.

The San Juans being the laidback place they are, not an eyebrow raised when I strolled into the romantically lit dining room of McMillin's with the bottoms of my khakis drenched. Sam, Robin's step-son and long-time employee of the Roche Harbor properties, laid out the fixin's, including a deliciously bold, local red wine and a cheese plate that made me rethink my aversion to blue cheeses. Mushrooms, raspberry salad, and veggie-filled lasagna stretched my stomach to its limits -- and dessert was still to come. Since Robin and I had opted for creme brulee the night before, we went all out this time with chocolate decadence. As she drove me back to my hotel, I was already falling into a food coma. From the little I'd sampled of Seattle cuisine, I have to say the San Juans beat the Northwest's metropolis hands down.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Escape From "Civilization" (San Juan Islands, Day 1)

I needed this getaway. Hell, I needed any getaway, but I was overly fortunate that the San Juans fell nicely into my itinerary, due to a business trip in Seattle. I'd had the islands on my travel to-do list for four years, so I didn't even mind waking at the butt-crack of dawn to catch a seaplane (my first) to Friday Harbor.
I'd fantasized about what this island chain would be like, but I was way off. It wasn't the romantically gloomy, fog-enshrouded archipelago my imagination had cobbled up, but the remote world I discovered was just as refreshing, and in some ways even more singular. Where else can you find a community so safe that residents don't even own keys to their homes? What other destination boasts a national park whose sole purpose is whale watching? Such peculiarities seem downright normal the moment you set foot on any one of the isles.

My trip began with a moped rental from Susie's, which brought back memories of my dearly departed Kymco scooter (I'd curse the bastards who stole it, but that would be against the islands' nature) as I tooled around the inner portion of San Juan, the most populated of the islands and the only one with an incorporated village (Friday Harbor). The darkly wooded interior I'd imagined was soon replaced with golden rolling fields reminiscent of Northern Europe, complete with neatly rolled bales of hay wafting warm scents in the afternoon sun. At the start of my jaunt, I was joined by a dragonfly of iridescent blue, who criss-crossed my moped's path in a game of chicken, as if mocking my measly 50cc horsepower. Before the buzz of his wings had even been swallowed by the breeze, a bald eagle soared mere yards over my helmet, and I swear his golden eye was checking me out. Then, as if on cue, a small private aircraft swooped down to land on the airstrip of the farm I was passing.

Down to Cattle Point Lighthouse I puttered, snapping photos of hay rolls, quaint farm steads, and the overly fragrant False Bay, where the deep salt scent lured me though the flies seemed to flee in swarms. At the park's visitors' center, I did as Susie suggested and asked the ranger about the eaglet that had recently been spotted. Sure enough, in the branches outside the building was a nest, stocked with one brown-feathered baby whom the rangers, an elderly couple who delighted in sharing their information of the park, had named "Lucky." I shared their binoculars with the other visitors of the moment, all of us taking turns to watch Lucky hop about the branches outside her aerie.

After strolling the rocky shores of Fourth of July and South beaches, I returned to the road and headed inland for Pelindaba Lavender Farms, which I smelled before even spotting the undulating fields of purple. I would have visited longer, but I had to return my scooter to Susie by 6PM or it would turn into a pumpkin, and I had yet to hit the main attraction: Lime Kiln Park, the aforementioned orca-viewing grounds. Alas, no orcas that day, although the view of my second lighthouse in less than three hours and the sparkling Haro Strait were sights unto themselves. A glance at my cellphone told me that I had less than an hour to make it clear across the island and, knowing my vehicle's aversion to inclines steeper than an anthill and not knowing just how far "clear across the island" actually was, I hightailed it back down Bailer Hill Road, with far fewer photo pitstops than on the way out. When I returned my two-wheeled steed to Susie, she was surprised that I was so early, and when I glanced at my cellphone again, I saw that I was a full hour ahead. Ah, those tricky cell towers! My phone had been picking up Canadian service on the west side of the island, and Canucks don't observe daylight savings.

The cellular mishap was actually a blessing in disguise, because I now had time for a catnap before my dinner at Duck Soup Inn, whose locally grown produce made my meal a standout, especially after the overpriced, overhyped dinner I'd had in Seattle the night before. I would have asked chef/owner Gretchen for the recipe for her simple but elegantly presented twice-baked corn souffle, but I know I would only have mangled it, so it's for the best.

When I finally put my head to the pillow, I was as far away from my life in Los Angeles as I could have dreamed.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Islands in the Sun

I love islands. Perhaps it's because I grew up on one, Long Island, where I spent the first 18 years of my life never further than 20 miles from the beach. My favorite part of Long Island, ironically, is an island off the coast of itself, Fire Island, which is known to most, including Long Islanders, as a gay haven, but has so much more to offer than day-glo Speedos.

After LI, I moved to Manhattan, another island, and one that is also on many travelers' "best" lists. (One not-so-loved NY island is Staten Island, which most New Yorkers either don't realize is part of the Empire State, or they refuse to admit it is, preferring to credit it to New Jersey. In my nearly two decades living in NY, the only time I ever went to Staten Island -- besides driving through it to get elsewhere -- was for a softball game. I didn't even stick around for the free beer afterward. That should tell you something.)

Why my sudden island fever? Conde Nast Traveler recently posted its list of favorite islands, a globe-trotting array of tropical and verdant outposts that even some geography whizzes may not have heard of. Let's recap:

• Santorini, Greece
  
• Cocoa Island, Maldives
  
• Mount Desert, Maine
  
• Capri, Italy
  
• Kauai, Hawaii
  
• Vancouver Island, British Columbia
  
• Anguilla
  
• Bora Bora, French Polynesia
  
• Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands
  
• Florianópolis, Santa Catarina, Brazil

Now, I have to admit, as an island lover, I've been to my share of ocean keys, but of the above list, I've only been to Vancouver Island, the least tropical of them all. Which means I don't really have much expertise on the above, but I do have to say, I know of some damn good islands worthy of mentioning.

• Fire Island Little red wagons, gorgeous coastal architecture, some of the finest sand I've ever stuck my toes in -- what's not to love? The urge to visit once struck me so hard that I drove from Westchester County to Brooklyn, threw two friends into a car with me, and forced them to drive the additional hour to the ferry in Bay Shore, which added an additional 45 minutes to our trek. No sooner had we landed on the beach than the skies opened up and forced us to seek refuge in one of the open-air restaurants in the main town of Ocean Beach. But even that visit was worth the trouble. I fell in love with Fire Island so much that I skipped my prom and went for the weekend instead. I could write pages about the place, but there are other islands to discover. (Note to self: Plan trip back east and drag friends to Fire Island.)
  
  
• Morro de São Paulo, Bahia, Brazil Perhaps it's nostalgia that makes Morro shine in my memory: I celebrated my 21st birthday there, in various stages of consciousness. After a night of partying, I celebrated -- and almost terminated -- my time on the planet by jumping off a cliff, before realizing I'd now have to climb back up. (I believe I swam around and found a way on shore.) Like Fire Island, Morro had no cars, and the lifestyle was summed up by the most popular bar on the beach: the Bob Marley Bar.
  
  
• Catalina The SoCal island recently took a beating from some nasty fires, but the majority of Avalon escaped unscathed, thankfully. I've been told that the harbor and picturesque hillsides rival those of Capri, but I bet the Italian isle doesn't have buffalo roaming its beaches.
  
  
• Oahu I haven't yet visited any of the other former Sandwich Islands, but if Oahu is the "least attractive," as most people have told me, then the others must be paradise. Just because there's a city, people, doesn't mean it's ugly. And I'd trade a smooth commute on the 405 for bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Pali Highway any day if it means I can return to Manoa Falls, Kaneohe Bay, or Kailua.
  

Gadling also mentions a few of their own favorite islands. The San Juans and Channel Islands have been on my to-do list for some time now. Now, if only I could wrangle the vacation time to make island hopping a little more convenient.

Jenna 2, Colorado 1

About two years ago, I accepted a friend's offer to accompany him and his pals on a
kayaking trip on the Colorado River. Less than an hour into the trip, I'd fallen on a slippery rock and ended up with a hairline fracture in my arm that put me out of commission. I spent the rest of the weekend being chauffeured down the lazily meandering river in a two-man kayak, a beer trailing in the cool wake. Not a bad weekend, by any means, but I was determined to paddle that damn river myself.

And so, I returned. And this trip more than made up for the last, not because I didn't have fun the previous go-round, but because I earned it this time, dammit.

The first day started off pleasant enough. The river was as peaceful as I remembered, so peaceful, in fact, that I hardly had to paddle, but rather just steered my craft away from the occassional rock or towards a put-in where my camping companions had pointed out a hot spring. At Gold Strike Canyon, the scene of my injury from the previous trip, we gamboled in newly created thermal pools, snapped shots of Seussian flora spawning in the warm waters, and bathed in natural showers that cascaded off the rock walls.

On we floated. Cormorants skimmed the water yards from our craft, while swallows flitted in the crevices of the red rock walls that enclosed us on either side. Up above, the sky shone a bright blue, with the occassional cottony cloud lolling by. Two miles downriver, and just over four miles from our launch point at the base of the Hoover Dam, we came ashore at Arizona Hot Springs, where we luxuriated in a sandbagged bath with several other groups who had stopped for the night. The sun was high. The sky was clear. We couldn't have asked for a better weekend.

That is, until we awoke the next morning, our bodies and sleeping bags covered in a fine mist of grit from the winds that had picked up during the night while we were sleeping alfresco, without tents. When one of my companions spied the river, she wondered aloud why it was flowing in the other direction. The sight didn't bode well. To top it off, my camera had run out of batteries, which meant not only would I not be able to snap shots the rest of the river portion of the trip, but I'd also have to go camera-free during the second leg, when we stayed in the uber-picturesque Valley of Fire. I cursed myself for buying an extra memory card rather than a battery.

There was no option but to paddle downriver, despite the fact that the unrelenting gusts of wind made it seem as if we were paddling upriver. Seven miles ahead lay Willow Beach, where we were to meet our outfitters by mid-afternoon. Bundled from head to toe in rain garments, we trudged forward, occassionally looking for bighorn sheep. Floating with the current wasn't an option this time; if we broke stroke for even a moment, the wind and current would begin pushing us back almost immediately.

Several hours later, we spied Willow Beach up ahead. As soon as I saw our destination, my muscles decided to give in to fatigue. Although the stronger paddlers had offered to tow me at various points during the day, I was determined to forge ahead on my own steam. With no injury to hold me back, I didn't have an excuse for a kayak chauffeur, nor did I want one. The last 200 yards or so were the roughest of the journey, but somehow I made it ashore, my muscles quivering.

As our outfitters loaded our crafts onto the trailer, I overheard a guide from another group tell his clients that it had been the roughest day on the river he'd seen in a long time. Knowing that made it feel as if I'd finally conquered the Colorado, having paddled enough for both my trips combined. And, damn, it was worth it.

Only next time, I'll pack extra camera batteries.

You Say Topanga, I Say... Topanga, Too

When I tell my East Coast friends that I'm going hiking, I often hear silence on the other end of the phone -- and not because Cingular has dropped my call again. It's not simply because most of my Manhattanite comrades are more at home within canyons of steel and asphalt than those of rock and foliage. It's because most can't imagine that I'd have anywhere to hike within the LA city limits.

Sure, LA traffic can make a leisurely jaunt to the seemingly nearby smog-shrouded hills into an all-day affair, especially if you're traveling up PCH on a weekend, but for the most part, nature is never very far away, from most any point in the city. And for back-to-nature rusticity coupled with stereotyped LA looniness, nothing beats Topanga Canyon.

Fittingly enough, I'd just seen Colin Hay, himself a Topanga resident, play at Largo two nights earlier. His wife -- a cross between Elvira and Janeane Garofalo -- seemed Topanga born and bred, what with her swishy hand gestures and attempt at playing the "air flute" (much more entertaining than it sounds). Hay, whose set was split 50/50 between music and comedic banter, quipped, "I met a woman in Topanga the other day who claimed she wasn't psychic." After the chuckles had died down, he added, "Later she admitted she was a little." That's as apt a description as any I could come up with for this quirky LA outpost.

And that's where I went a-hiking with pal Eric last weekend, under perfectly azure skies. The California State Park website claims Topanga is "considered the world's largest wildland within the boundaries of a major city." Once you're inside the park, that boast is easy to believe, as there's little sign of city life in view, except for the occasional McEnclave on a distant hillside.

Eric suggested we take the Santa Ynez trail, which, he led me to believe, had an idyllic waterfall at its end. After only five minutes of tramping on cracked earth, I knew he'd said that just to get me to agree to his trail choice, since I'd already groaned for two days prior about not wanting any elevation gain. He admitted that, given the time of year, the only thing at the end of the trail was most likely a "waterfell," but we soldiered on anyway, enjoying the perfect spring weather and occasional lizard spotting. (If anyone can tell me what kind of lizard this is, I'd be much obliged.)

After our jaunt, which was just under four miles, we met up with Tabitha at Froggy's, an old-time Topanga watering hole that would fall under "cafeteria" in Zagat's were it not for the wonderously quaint structure (built in the 1920s), picturesque scenery, and friendly waitstaff (would-be actors these ain't). When I finally returned to my South Bay nabe just after sunset, I felt refreshed, as if I'd been out of the city limits for longer than just a half day. Try doing that in Central Park.

Green Flash Sighting -- At Long Last

When I first moved to SoCal, there were several myths I'd expected to implode -- once I'd lived here long enough. I've now been here just under a decade, and I've found that most of these fables are more truth than legend (awesome weather, Hollywood superficiality, excessive flakiness, etc.).

But the green flash, that most ephemeral of SoCal phenomena, has finally proven real. Today, while taking photos on Dockweiler Beach as the sun slipped below the sea line, I realized that conditions were perfect for viewing.

There are several scientific explanations for the Green Flash (a name that sounds quite like a comic book hero to me, an amalgam of the Green Lantern and The Flash, only I'm not sure what the Green Flash's singular super-power would be, other than lasting for a nanosecond).

After reading all the literature about the green flash, which I have looked for on many an occasion and have never seen until today, I can't say for sure that what I experienced was indeed a true green flash. In fact, even as I witnessed it with my own two eyes, I questioned it several times, especially when I blinked and it disappeared. I'd read that it was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it event, a fleeting special effect not even worthy of a credit in the smallest indie flick. So when it reappeared after several seconds of unblinking gaze, I was quite surprised, and much more inclined to corroborate its existence.

Today on Dockweiler, I swear I saw it. I blinked and it disappeared, only to have it re-emerge a second later for a few more moments of mortal fame. Another blink, and it again evaporated. I began to think the illusion had occurred only because I'd sought it out.

When I spotted the green for a third time (within a 10-second time frame), I wondered momentarily if I was seeing nothing more than a mirage. But then I realized that was what the phenomenon was, a transient spectacle meant for those who seek it. When I turned to hike back up the bluff to my car, I spied a line of spectators seeking the same visual marvel I'd just witnessed. "Did you see it?" "Was that it?" I heard them ask each other. Although they didn't hold hands and sing "Kum-Ba-Yah" as I passed, I realized that the miracle had worked its magic. And to be part of that, for only the blink of an eye, was proof enough of the phenomenon.

Getting Chummy (follow-up)

First thing I've learned: Keeping track of two blogs ain't fun. So I'm going to consolidate to just this one. I'll still update MySpace with a line or two, then link off to this one, which will act as my main blog.

As a followup to my entry about chumming for sharks the other day, I wanted to post the comment from the Divester writer who sparked the original item I found on Divester. You can read his original post on my MySpace blog (Nov. 25), or right here:

Hi, Jenna. My name is Willy Volk, and I wrote the piece on Divester to which you refer. First, let me say that I enjoyed your trip report, and I'm glad you had the opportunity to share the beauty of sharks with the rest of us. However...

Chumming for sharks is irresponsible, and Jimmy -- as knowledgable as he is about sharks and their behavior -- knows this.

Although some degree of conditioning can occur between sharks and cage diving boats, this happens when operators do not comply with regulations and allow sharks to feed on bait (http://www.divester.com/2006/09/27/finding-a-balance-how-sharks-and-beachgoers-can-live-together/). I don't believe that sharks learn to associate chum with humans (and, as a result, acquire a taste for people). However, it is commonly accepted that chumming the water alters sharks' behavior and attracts them to shore -- where they face increased dangers, through fishing, and may inadvertantly attack a person (http://www.divester.com/2006/10/05/oahu-to-limit-shark-tours/). Consequently, the fact that "Jimmy was more than three miles offshore" really has no bearing on the situation. He's altering their behavior. And anyway: how long does it take for a shark to swim 3 miles?

Moreover, it amazes me that people would recoil in horror at the thought of dragging a kudu through the African bush to attract a lion, but they don't have a problem with chumming the water to attract sharks. What's the difference?

"Jimmy had mentioned how several of his competitors do it as well": Unfortunately, the fact that Jimmy and his competitors all chum for fish does not make it right.

"I don't believe he felt what he was doing was illegal": I'll bet most commercial fishermen -- and many drug dealers, for that matter -- don't feel what they're doing is illegal.

I don't have a problem with Hall taking people out to see sharks: exposure to these wonderful animals is the best way for peope to overcome their fears and understand their importance in the ecosystem. For that, I commend Hall. However, when Hall expressly denies chumming the water (http://www.hawaiisharkencounters.com/faq.asp), even though you clearly witnessed it, it makes me wonder: Why deny it, Jimmy, if it's so harmless?

Comments?