Mahalo, Hawaii


Water v-ed into a satisfying whoosh with each strike of the paddle. We followed the turtles up the river until rocks hitting rudder in the shallowed water below the bridge forced us to turn around and head back to the mouth of the ocean. Out of this salty, silty river. Back to the clear gradated turquoise of the North Shore. We paddled past mongoose playing in the grass along the river’s edge and waved aloha to locals drinking their morning coffee beneath massive mango trees. The clouds puffed and expanded into a soft crown around the distant mountain while the sea turtles announced their breach for air with an ancient croak.



There was paddling over a large reef rock area only to realize it was a sting ray the width of a car, and snorkeling much too close to a terrifyingly creepy-beautiful eel, and actually surfing the warm waters with a face covered in salt and triumph. There was hiking the heat of a tropical canyon to swim the cold infinite depths beneath the pool of waterfall at it’s end.


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There were lips shiny with butter-garlic shrimp from the food truck with the green picnic tables covered in plumeria flowers that had fallen lazily and plentiful from branches above. There were siestas in the starched whiteness of taut hotel sheets and biking woven patterns in sandy trails between the banyan tree.



I’m needy in a way that is understandable to some but not universal to all. I crave new experiences to help awaken my senses. For the spark of free-spiritness to activate, the one that feels most me but goes into unconscious self-imposed lockdown at times. A week on Oahu’s North Shore with sleep and adventure and playfulness and good food and beauty was the perfect way to spend our ten year anniversary and regroup after our recent weird year of swirlingness. We did everything and nothing all at once and it was all soul rest.




Mahalo, Hawaii. 20150630_184518

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