A few weeks back, my bride (the long-suffering saint who puts up with me) and I ventured to the tropical paradise known as Maui. And let me tell you, it was a trip. I mean, we really went for it. We weren’t just going to be in Maui; we were going to experience Maui, like proper, tax-paying Americans who believe vacations should involve at least one near-death experience.
Our chariot for the week was a convertible Mustang. Because when you’re 60-something and your knees creak like an antique rocking chair, what you really need is a low-slung sports car that requires the flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil performer just to exit. Every time I unfolded myself from that thing, I swear I felt like I was peeling myself off a sweaty yoga mat, struggling to remember which end was up. I half-expected a polite German tourist to hand me a pretzel and ask if I needed assistance. But hey, top down, wind in our hair (what’s a few tangles), we were practically Hawaiian royalty, just with slightly more bewildered expressions.
Most of our time was spent doing what normal, sane people do in Hawaii: lounging on the beach, occasionally dipping a toe in the ocean, and communing with nature. Specifically, turtles. These aren’t your shy, retiring turtles, mind you. These were practically houseguests, swimming so close you could practically reach out and give them a high-five. Which, for the record, I did not do. Because I’m a law-abiding citizen, and also, I’m pretty sure a turtle high-five would result in me losing a finger. Or possibly my entire arm, depending on the turtle’s mood.
The Road to Hana: A Near-Death Experience Masquerading as a Scenic Drive
Then came “The Road to Hana.” Ah, the legends. The whispers. The sheer, unadulterated terror. People tell you it’s scenic. People tell you it’s beautiful. What they don’t tell you, or perhaps they mumble it under their breath so you can’t quite make it out over the sound of your increasingly panicked breathing, is that it’s basically a winding, narrow goat path designed by a deranged cartographer who really hated tourists.
If the road to hell is wide and paved with good intentions (and probably a few discarded McDonald’s wrappers), then the Road to Hana is a single-lane, cliff-hugging ribbon of asphalt leading directly to some kind of verdant, mosquito-infested purgatory. We’re talking 617 curves. Yes, you read that right. Six hundred and seventeen. I counted, mostly by gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white and muttering increasingly unprintable things. And 59 bridges, most of which were one lane. One. Lane. Which means every time you approach one, it’s a high-stakes game of chicken with whatever vehicle is coming from the other direction. It’s like a real-life version of that old “Who’s on First?” routine, only with more potential for plunging off a cliff.
Now, despite the constant threat of vehicular manslaughter, the scenery was, admittedly, breathtaking. We hiked through rainforests so lush they practically swallowed us whole, and stopped at waterfalls. Of course, the waterfall we picked, thanks to some recent atmospheric unpleasantness, looked less like a sparkling cascade into an idyllic pool and more like something out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory after a particularly nasty Oompa Loompa uprising. A brown, churning torrent, if you will. I swear, I could almost hear the faint, muffled cries of Mrs. Gloop hollering for Augustus.
By the time we finally made it back to civilization, I had to be surgically removed from the Mustang. My sphincter was so clenched it could crack walnuts, and my hands were permanently molded into the shape of a steering wheel. I seriously considered applying for a disability claim based on “chronic steering wheel hand.”
Swimming with the Fishes (The Friendly Ones, Mostly)
But wait, there’s more! Because apparently, escaping the Road to Hana wasn’t enough adventure for us. The next day, we embarked on a half-day snorkeling trip. They even fed us breakfast while shuttling us to a protected reef, which was a nice touch. Nothing says “relaxing ocean excursion” like trying to keep your muffin from flying overboard while the boat bobs like a cork.
Once in the water, it was like swimming in a giant, brightly colored aquarium. The fish were so vibrant, so plentiful, it was almost disconcerting. It was like they’d been hand-painted by a particularly enthusiastic toddler. And then, just for kicks, the tour operators decided to bring in a couple of sharks for us to see. Now, I’m not saying they actually herded sharks over, but let’s just say there were some larger, finned creatures that made me re-evaluate my life choices. Just kidding. Mostly.
After our underwater escapade, they plied us with lunch and, more importantly, adult beverages. Because nothing takes the edge off a potential shark encounter like a frosty beverage. It was, truly, an amazing experience. One that definitely required a good, long nap afterward. And probably a strong cocktail. Or twelve.
So there you have it. Maui. A place of breathtaking beauty, questionable driving choices, and aquatic adventures that make you appreciate solid ground and the comforting embrace of a non-convertible car. And a good stiff drink. Definitely a good stiff drink.
