Sometimes you have to just say yes.
So, ignoring the fact that I have approximately 1,500 things to do,
I accepted my parents’ offer to take the entire family to Hawaii for a
week. After driving from Nashville, TN to Bend, OR to play a show with
Brett Dennen, I then turned around immediately after the show and drove
to Fort Worth, Texas to meet up with my family and fly to Maui, Hawaii.
I justified it by saying that I would be able to work while I was
there. I would just take 2-3 hours a day and work from the hotel. WELL
THERE WAS NO WI-FI. And the one time that I went down to the business
center to work on their dial-up-speed computer, my dad and brother took
surfing lessons without me.
So I swallowed the fact that I would be
working into the wee hours every night for the rest of the year and
just took a vacation. I hadn’t had one in a long time.
Of course, no blog entry would be complete without the description of a completely avoidable misadventure, so here goes…
Day One:
we went to the beach, because, well. we were in hawaii. it was just as
you’re probably picturing in your head right now: Sand. Water. Dudes in
way-too-little clothing.
We made the mistake of bringing the babies (my
brother has a 10-month old to accompany Lincoln, who is 6 months old
already. half a year already.) After a few minutes, Jordan (my brother) decided that we ought to walk up the beach to look at the people surfing.
“it’s just up that way – maybe a 10 minute walk.”
I hadn’t put any sunscreen on yet, but … it was 10 minutes, right?
We got to a little lava-rock impasse, but wasn’t a big deal to go over one little pass of rocks, right?
Surely the second, nay, third little mini-mountain-range of razor rocks would be the last, right?
Surely that wave won’t knock me over, right?
I’m not going to die out here, right?
finally, almost an hour later, we arrived at the surfer’s beach. By
this point, my nerd-white back and feet were burned to a nerd red. I
was certain my right toe was broken, and my hand was bleeding in three
places. I hated surfing, surfers, and
Dick Dale.
But this adventure was only half-over. We had to get back somehow,
and I was not, I repeat not going to give the rocks any more of my
blood.
So we did what only idiots who leave their shoes a half-mile away
do: we found the sidewalk and ran. Not a steady or measured pace, but
the gait of men looking for the next patch of shadow.
sprint-sprint-sprint-stop.
sprint-sprint-sprint-stop.
sprint-sprint-sprint-stop.
“it burns huh?” Jordan admitted.
“yeah, in the chest?” I huffed, nerd-out-of-shape.
“ummm… no. your feet.”
“right, yeah. that’s what i meant. in the feet. … it burns. in- .. on my feet.”
we eventually made it the nearly 3/4 mile (stop and think about
that.) back to the original beach, only to find that our wives ...had not
stayed. They had taken our shoes and gone back to the hotel.
Thank you, Mario and Luigi, but your princess(es) are not at
this beach. They got sick of waiting on you. Oh, and they took
your shoes.
We found out later that a sandstorm had whipped up, shooting beach sand into the babies’ eyes.
Also, strollers are not built for sand.
Thank God for the kindness of strangers to help out the wives of two reckless explorers.