We landed in darkness—tired, jet-lagged, full of that quiet buzz you get when you’ve just crossed an ocean and haven’t yet adjusted your internal compass.
A young woman named Bella met us with leis and kind eyes, adorning the kiddo with a shell necklace like he was someone she already believed in. She gave us some great insider recommendations for local spots to check out.
The line at the rental car place crawled at island pace, which is to say: not at all. But the Jeep we ended up with felt like a small triumph. We loaded it with sand dreams and unspoken hopes and set off to find our home base, fumbling through the dark curves of unfamiliar roads.
The night didn’t feel real. We stopped by Jack in the Box for a midnight snack. We don’t usually do fast food, which made it oddly ceremonial.
By the time we found the house and fumbled with locks and paperwork, Jen and the kiddo slipped away toward the shoreline and found themselves beneath a sky stitched with stars. The Milky Way, bold and unbothered, reminded us that there’s more than one way to arrive.
In the morning, hunger and curiosity lured us into Old Koloa Town, where a simple snack shop offered Spam, eggs, and a sense of place. We found a roadside picnic table and met a squad of local chickens. The kiddo was already pacing with skater energy, using Google maps to track down spots like he had lived here in another life.
Elephit Skateshop in Kapa’a wasn’t just a store—it was a story. The owner found his rhythm on this island and carved a life from grip tape, daily T-shirt designs, and knowing every skater on the island by name. He even let the kiddo cut his new deck and asked questions like someone who actually wanted to know the answers.
And then, just by chance, next door we saw a sign for Uncle Mikey’s dried fruit—something one of our dearest friends requested as a souvenir, even though the website insisted it was online-order only. The door wasn’t a shop, just a kitchen. But Uncle Mikey and his daughter opened it anyway, letting us into the aroma of mangoes and sugar and generosity. We’ll pick it up before we leave. They insisted. That’s how they do things here—fresh, intentional, kind.
We tried to chase our poke cravings but every recommendation led to a closed sign, so we gave in to wherever we were drawn. Olympic Café was open, old skool Hawaii vibe, upstairs with fans circling slow and views of the street below. Mai tais and a poke wrap gave us pause. Not everything needs to be on the rec list. Some things just need to be enough.
Later, we stumbled upon an unassuming beach with a little parking lot and nearly no one there. We changed into suits and let the island seduce us—just as we hoped it would.
The kiddo joined us after a few hours at the skatepark, all of us sandy and satisfied, and we followed our curiosity to Kauai Juice Co. for heat and sweetness—hot sauce, papaya mango juice, watermelon like childhood. Every flavor had a story, and all of them began with Grown Here.
We rented a skimboard. Because why not skate the beach?
We braved Costco. Because somehow you still need lunch meat and mai tai mix and toilet paper in paradise. We picked up some local goodies we can’t find at home. And because part of being here is living in it, not just visiting.
At night, the sunset melted pastels into the horizon. The kiddo swam and made friends, noticed a girl as the tide was coming in, and we watched the slow, sweet ache of teenage courage build and waver. He tried. She walked past. Maybe she didn’t hear him. Maybe she did. We talked strategy over sushi, gently, laughing but listening.
This morning began before light, with the hum of anticipation and sea air. We boarded a boat bound for the Nā Pali coast, not expecting to be stunned again, and yet—dolphins, sea caves, beaches only reachable by water. The kiddo flipped off the boat when we stopped to snorkel. We sampled real poi, not luau poi and fresh pineapple with li hing powder that wrecked me in the best way.
We were salted and a little bruised by the waves but completely alive. We got an accidental parking ticket, but Jen deftly talked the guy out of it, and then we celebrated with roadside coconuts.
Later came the famous Puka Dogs. I waited in a line wrapped around the building and made some new friends while my fellow musketeers tackled beach setup. Definitely a little hangry and tired from the coffee-less early morning, we finally tasted what the fuss was about—Polish sausage, jalapeño sauce, mango relish, passionfruit mustard. Then we split one with coconut relish because it sounded weird. It turned out to be my new religion.
Poʻipū Beach shimmered with beauty and chaos—tourists climbing over sea turtles, kids throwing rocks into the ocean, shameless selfies in sacred places. It reminded us a little of The Children’s Pool in La Jolla, of how people forget that wonder deserves reverence. We agreed the vibe was a little off, so we didn’t stay long.
Back at our beach, the kiddo hoped the girl might return. She didn’t, but he skimboarded and tried to find the kind of quiet joy that says this is enough.
Jen and I sat in the sand and floated in the ocean for a bit, sun-kissed and thankful. There are so many more days ahead. But this already feels like something we’ll never forget.
Maybe that’s the thing about being somewhere unfamiliar but ancient, somewhere slow but humming—you begin to remember things you didn’t know you’d forgotten. Like how to notice. How to listen. How to move at the speed of your own breath.
And maybe that’s the real gift of this place: not just the beauty or the beaches, not even the juice or the dogs or the sky full of stars. But the way it invites you back to yourself—gently, quietly—one salty, sunlit moment at a time.
