6
If a globe is turned in just the right way, nothing can be seen but the Pacific and the far off edges of continents. The Hawaiian Islands are specks in the middle of this immensity. Kauai is a hundred miles from Oahu, practically next door. The Aloha Airlines jet climbed and then descended into Lihue before Joe had time to finish a glass of juice. Green sugar cane and red earth swept past lowering wings. A bump, a screech of tires, and they were down, taxiing to the small terminal.
Mo put away a small day planner in which she had been making notes.
"Canyon first?" she asked.
"Banana pancakes? Hard to explore on an empty stomach."
"I brought some fruit," she said. They rented a Toyota sedan, and Joe drove into Lihue.
"Too early for saimin," he said. "Too bad. There's a great place—Hamura's—biz people from Honolulu have been known to fly over for lunch to cure their hangovers." He parked by Kenny's. "O.K., this won't take long." They ordered breakfast.
"When I lived here," Joe said, "there was only one traffic light on the island, and it wasn't on a highway; it was in the middle of a cane field, for the trucks."
"It's changing fast," Mo said. "Too beautiful not to be discovered."
"If they stop the sugar subsidies, it's all over." Joe pushed his empty plate away. Mo was wearing a black sweatshirt, tan jeans, and running shoes. He had on his Filson bush jacket, Levis, and his all purpose Clarks shoes. They looked good together, he thought, Mr. and Ms. Competent.
"Did you notice the Kentucky Fried Chicken place on the way in to
Lihue?" he asked.