Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
When I arrived at the beach, I felt as though I had been there before; it definitely was a case
of déjà vu. The white, fluffy sand formed a large, sloping crescent as it arched around the
sparkling, blue water of the bay. They called this White Manele, as opposed to the Black
Manele Harbor; boats were banned from anchoring here as it had been declared a marine
reserve. The land on the left rose up gradually and ended steeply in a cliff that plunged
down to the boulder strewn shore. The split cliff was separated by several hundred feet
of seawater with large boulders and rocks around its base. This little cliff islet was called
Sweetheart Rock, where legend has it that the prince, Kamehameha, had taken his life after
his sweetheart had forsaken him. It was accessible only by helicopter, or so it seemed to
me.
There were well sculptured Kiawe trees along the beach which had obviously been bon-
sai'ed by the local Japanese. Picnic tables were placed under these shady trees, and the
whole place had a very tranquil air to it. Murphy had followed me all the way down to the
sea and was now standing next to me staring out at it, as I was. I cast a look down at him,
“What do you think Murphs, could you get used to this?” I asked in catonese.
“Oh yes, easily dad!” he answered quickly. I was amazed that he had followed me down as
far as he did. I bent down and picked up his light little frame and fondled his ears; he was a
dear little fellow and I was grateful for his sweet companionship. I must impose on the dear
reader at this point to say that I have a habit of talking to dogs and cats and pets in general
in an animal voice as I'm sure we all do. I don't know why it is that we feel compelled to
do so; perhaps it's the voice we imagine hearing if they were to answer us back.
There was nobody about, save for one local car and two kids sitting under a Kiawe tree.
It was quite idyllic. I sat down in the sand and lay back, the sun warm on my body; I felt
drowsy and content, and lying back I watched the white clouds out at sea form in a variety
of puffy creatures and people. I started up when I heard car doors slam, and the locals drove
off. I was alone on the beach. This was novel. I did enjoy being alone at times. I walked
to the end of the beach and took in some of the details of the trees and little cold water
showers that were wrapped modestly with wooden slats for privacy. There were one or two
lava rock barbecues for visitors and locals.
I strolled back to the boat with Murphy tripping behind. It had been a long day, and the
afternoon was wearing on. I was tired and hungry at this stage. Murphy and I ate the rest of
the fish and I turned exhaustedly in for the night.
Manele Harbor was surprisingly busy the next morning. I was awakened, as the sun was
rising, by a few fishermen readying their boat for sea. Murphy was outside at the end of the
dock washing his whiskers and eying the bait from the fisherman next to Déjà vu. I said
good morning as I leaned into the lazarette locker to turn on the gas for tea. There were a
