This time I’m not so philosophical.
This time, the punch was on home-ground – the west side of the miniscule Island of Kaua’i, where ‘Iokepa and I lay our heads and eat our meals.
The statistical odds were defied – El Nino be damned - against the likelihood that a second hurricane within that vast, global reaching Pacific Ocean would actually find the tiniest of specks and deliver knock-out punches - twice - in a couple weeks. Well, it appears that this speck – the Hawaiian Islands – just defied the odds.
We watched, through desperately leaking sliding glass doors our 60 foot, Cook Pine trees repeatedly fold to the ground and then straighten --awaiting the snap that never came. We listened to (there was no way not to hear) the Albizia and Swamp Mahogany limbs crack off like gunshots over and over throughout that crazy windy, black, unending night.
And then there was the morning after. The inventory:
Ninety-one percent of our 80,000 people without power or phone.
Roads impassibly blocked by the magnificent trees and greens that define “The Garden Island.”
The culturally sacred Salt Pans, where generations of Kanaka Maoli harvested, covered by ocean and sand.
Coastal homes, roads, and beaches – gone.
The airport, stores, government offices – all closed. Generators hummed, and then ubiquitously failed.
Oh, we will, and are, recovering. The heroes of the utility companies and the road crews have been working night…day, weekday…weekend. The tourists have finally returned home – many struggling unsuccessfully to leave before, .and then after, the hurricane.
The Island is left to those who live it, love it, and truly (as is now becoming increasingly apparent) know how to take care of it, and each other.