Inner Peace and the Kool-aid Blue Surf

Treasure map to the turtles we found.  They were located along the right most part of the light green area.

After the NWR, we drove a few miles down a few miles down the highway that crosses Maui to the north coast. At Jessica's suggestion, we stopped at the Maui Tropical Plantation, which, as the name suggests, is a one-time agricultural facility that has been preserved and renovated a lush compound of gardens and ponds with several detached restaurants, gift shops, educational facilities and exhibits. 

On the grounds one finds a delightful combination of tropical architecture amidst rusting pieces of machinery for the processing of sugar cane and pineapples. The mix between classical wooden tropical architecture and the old equipment, which was used as punctuation more than the dominant theme, was pleasing. I personally find industrial facilities, whether abandoned or in use, to have a beauty unique to them and have made road trips specifically to experience that.

We made an early dinner at the main restaurant. I chose the collarbone of a certain type of fish whose name I don't remember (but Jessica certainly would). I noticed the walls were covered by large framed reproductions of nautical charts from the early days of the European exploration of the Hawaiian Islands (the Sandwich Islands, as the British labeled them on charts). One sees there the partial outlines of islands, that been seen from only one side initially, and the elevation profiles for reference. Then the outlines get filled in, and the islands take better shape, like the filling in of pixels in an image that gets more clear at each iteration.  I could have enjoying examining these charts, had they been positioned directly above the tables of other dining parties. Such are the trials of life.

After dinner we drove all the way to the north coast, returning to the vicinity of the airport where we had begun our journeys in Maui ten days before. Jessica wanted to visit a place where one could watch sea turtles on the beach. She had remembered it from her previous visit, I think. We soon arrived at the small cliff on the north side of the island outside town where a small park allowed one to park on gravel and walk out to the edge of the cliff. Down below the undeflected surf of the North Pacific, driven by the Trades, pound the island turning the volcanic rock into rubble over time, and also providing the best surfing along the extended sand beaches.

We could see the curled waves arriving and the surfers nearby, at a spot where they would not be wrecked upon the rocks. The sun was perfect in the hour before sunset. I had never seen a more luscious apricot golden mixture of the sunlight in my life, with the blue kool-aid ocean seeming to emit its own subtle light. I reflected on the physics of what makes these luscious blues of certain waters.

We could also see the place where the sea turtles lay in a sheltered cove. We moved the car to get there, finding this one much busier. A family was grilling in the cinder block bbq shelter. It felt like a mixture of tourists and locals. We descended onto the beach and approached the people who were standing on the beach watching the turtles. I counted about twenty of turtles. They were not easy to distinguish from the volcanic boulders in some cases.

There was no barrier protecting the place where the turtles were basking and sleeping. There was only a pair of signs, one free-standing in the sand, and the other mounted to the black sea wall of the parking lot.

A man taking pictures crossed the invisible barrier and was called back his wife. I was angry at him at first, out of some general principle, but the spirit of Aloha restored my inner peace.   

It was almost dark when we came back through the trees to the gate of our BnB. It had been almost the perfect day.