Lizardo Goes Yachting
Hawaii, 1971
“Whaddaya mean you haven’t been to Kalalau Valley yet?”
It was my old friend Lizardo, calling from the Big Island.
Fresh off the plane, I defended myself. “I just got to Hawaii. I haven’t been anywhere yet.”
“Slacker. We’ll have to do something about your lazy attitude.”
Lizardo and I went way back. He’d been our campus’s most reliable pot connection before he moved to the Islands to grow Kona Gold. When he’d brought back a sample of his work he changed my worldview. One joint of da kine and I knew what I had to do: Law school was out, going to Hawaii to grow the world’s best pot was in.
A couple months later, standing in a Waikiki apartment building, I was not thrilled with the ambiance—two blocks from the ocean and all I could see were high-rises and polyester-clad tourists. Not a compelling place for a nature lover like me. Why was I there instead of Kona? Because that maniac Lizardo had moved from Kona to Volcano just days before and could only be reached through his landlords, the grouchy owners of the Watanabe Store. Now, instead of a groovy coffee farm with a guest house and pot plants out back to welcome me, I was languishing in a disgruntled ex-lover’s apartment.
“Just get me out of here,” I complained, “because this is not what I came to the Islands for.”
Lizardo had a plan: Meet the next day at Honolulu’s airport and fly to Kauai. Intrigued, I looked up Kalalau Valley in my Crowded Planet guidebook. The valley was on the back side of Kauai, reachable only by sea or an eleven-mile trail along spectacular cliffs. The photos of the place were mind-boggling. According to the guidebook, Kalalau Valley was a must-see for adventure travelers. That was me!
Looking at Kauai’s lush mountains and stunning beaches from the Aloha Airlines window, I got a nature hard-on. The island looked like a postcard, and just like that, I was enchanted. Who wouldn’t be? The tour group from Los Angeles that shared our flight, that’s who.
A fat lady in a polyester muumuu looked at the verdant mountains and sneered. “Uh oh…I don’t see any shopping malls.”
Her husband was attired in matching polyester shirt and shorts held up with a shiny white patent leather belt. His feet were casually adorned for the tropics in black socks and wingtips. He peeked over his wife’s shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, there aren’t any clogged freeways, either.”
Hearing deep sighs, he looked at Lizardo and me. We smiled and flipped him peace signs. He scowled and flipped us the bird.
Disgusted by the colorful sight across the aisle, he demanded, “Get your hair cut, hippies. And knock off that friendly attitude.”
Was it any wonder I’d moved away from the mainland and given up on the American Dream? With my unhinged Dad in charge of the CIA’s Secret Weapons Department and my creepy Uncle Dick as President, I’d seen the American Dream—work non-stop, obsess over Commies, and make everyone cut their hair. I’d rejected that nightmare. I had better dreams: see the world and enjoy the hell out of my life. Plus, change the world. Specifically, raise its consciousness with excellent pot, end war, and depose Nixon. But first, a little vacation.
We’d made it to Kauai, now we just needed to get to Kalalau Valley, a backpacker’s dream destination. I couldn’t wait—although I’d have to—what with remote Kalalau on the far side and me with no helicopter. Instead, we planned to hitch a ride to Haena Beach Park, not far from the trailhead. We’d camp there overnight and hike in the next day. We saw the friendly tourists from Los Angeles loading up a rental car.
Lizardo, never shy, cruised on over. “Hey, Big Fella, how about a lift to the end of the road?”
The hefty tourist had a question of his own. “How about I punch you in the mouth?”
We decided against it. No thumbing permitted in Hawaii, so we stood on the side of the road like morons. Hippie surfers took pity and picked us up.
“We’re living just past the beach park at Taylor’s Camp,” said the driver.
“In a tree,” clarified his buddy.
“You’re not worried about falling out?” asked Lizardo, as he lit up a joint.
“We built a house in it. Sort of.”
His buddy took a toke and coughed for half a minute. “Jesus, what is this stuff?”
“Heh, heh,” chuckled Lizardo. Listening to partakers choke was like applause to a pot grower. He added humbly, “That, my friend is da kine da kine.” Which meant the best there was…twice. “Grew it in Captain Cook.”
“We’re hiking to Kalalau Valley tomorrow,” I mentioned. “You guys been there?”
“Aw man, it’s only the grooviest hike in the world.”
“Really?”
“Well, I’m from Kansas, so I’m just guessing.”
“It’s incredible,” agreed his partner. “Just be careful you don’t fall off the cliff.”
“Fall off?”
“It’s right along the shore. Only way up in the air.”
“It’s a floating trail?” asked Lizardo.
To his credit, he smoked a lot of weed.
“Not exactly,” clarified the driver. “The point is, you gotta stay focused or, you know…splat!”
“Uh oh…” groaned Lizardo.
Staying focused wasn’t his specialty. Along the way to Haena, I was stunned by all the shades of green. They didn’t call Kauai the Garden Isle for nothing. After drifting all the way from Asia, Kauai’s mountains were the first land clouds encountered. Like someone stuck in a car way too long, the clouds really let loose when they arrived, dropping over four hundred inches of rain annually. The volcanoes, ancient and severely eroded, featured serrated ridges sharp as knives at their peaks. A very King Kong-y effect. My kind of place!
The hippie driving pointed at the mountains. “There’s the Sleeping Giant.”
Sure enough, reclining across the ridgetops, we could make out a giant.
A little further, “Look there. See the Crouching Lion?”
That one required more imagination. “Umm…sort of.”
After passing through serene Hanalei, we reached the beach park and hopped out. Hardly anyone was at the park, just two boisterous groups of massive locals. Which made it feel crowded. The ones closest to us were busy smashing each other around—either working out family issues or practicing sumo. Maybe both.
Incredibly friendly for monsters, they stopped battling to say, “Howzit, brah.” The biggest one grunted, “Put da packs down right dere.” Then pointed at his feet.
“Huh?”
“We guard ‘em fo’ you, brah. Make sure da buggas don’ take nuttin’ dat we wan’.”
I turned to Lizardo. “What he hell did he just say?”
“Maybe we’ll just hold on to them,” suggested Lizardo to Beach Security.
Beach Security didn’t think so. “We wuzn’t asking, brah.”
We reconsidered. “When you put it that way…”
While Beach Security rifled through our loads, we cruised down the road. Our destination: Taylor’s Camp, where a whole mess of hippies had built shelters in the trees on Elizabeth Taylor’s brother’s property. Some of them were nude, all of them were stoned. For a hippie with no other aspirations than to enjoy life in the most extraordinary setting possible, Taylor’s Camp was Nirvana. They had the sun and surf and jungle all right there—and lived in it! On Kauai you could pick wild fruits until you couldn’t eat any more. Apart from the chaste Professor’s ingenious technological improvements, Taylor’s Camp dumped all over Gilligan’s Island. And these castaways were not celibate.
Back at the beach park, we sat on the beach, toking on our traditional sunset doobie. A gleaming white yacht cruised up and anchored just offshore.
“Wow! Those guys are traveling in style, huh, Lizardo.”
“We grow us enough pakalolo, Mikey, one day we’ll have toys like that, too.”
Hmmm, seeing the world from my own pleasure yacht. Why not, right? I might be a philanthropist, but I would graciously accept the perks my mission offered. A few minutes later, a dinghy rowed in, stopping near us.
The young guy in it, all bronzed and athletic-looking, said, “Howzit.” Then, with a double take, he added, “Is that you, Lizardo?”
Lizardo, with his effervescent good will, his wild hair, and his even wilder eyes, was hard not to remember.
“Captain Kimo? Hey man, small world! Nice boat.”
Was this an example of someone who had grown enough pakalolo? No, it wasn’t. In fact, Captain Kimo was working for the Robinson Family, the richest people on Kauai. The Robinsons basically owned the island and they had earned their money in a much more boring way. They inherited it. Anyway, the guys had met recently while hiking in Maui’s Haleakala Crater.
Captain Kimo (Jim to his mainland friends) gave Lizardo a hug. “I’ve been taking the Robinsons around the island, doing a bit of sport fishing. Tomorrow we’re going to Niihau.”
“Niihau?” I asked. “Where’s that?”
Kimo explained that Niihau was a small private island off Kauai.
“Wow. They have a private island?”
“Yeah, the Robinson Family owns the whole thing.”
I decided right then I wanted my own island, too. I’d need one to go along with my gleaming yacht. Plus, think of how much world-changing pot I could grow on my own island.
“Hey Kimo,” I asked, “think the Robinsons would let us live there?”
“No way, Mike. Only Hawaiians can live there, no haole tourists.”
No belligerent fatties in polyester telling me to cut my hair and get a job? Ha! Even better.
“Now I really wanna go there.”
“Well, you can’t. That’s why they call it the Forbidden Island.”
Lizardo, confused, said, “I thought they called it Niihau.”
Kimo gave Lizardo a look and laughed. “Pass me that joint, it must be pretty good.”
“It’s da kine!” said Lizardo, handing Kimo the doobie.
After he finished choking, Kimo asked, “So, what do you guys got planned?”
“Camping here tonight, then hiking to Kalalau Valley tomorrow.”
“Far out. Kalalau will blow your minds. Hey, you guys want, you can hitch a ride on the boat.”
“You hear that? We’re going to Niihau, Mikey,” cheered Lizardo.
Kimo shook his head and laughed. “No, not to Niihau, you nut…but we can drop you off at Kalalau. The view of the Na Pali coastline from the water? A real mind-blower!”
“Wait a second,” said the canny Lizardo. “Even better than a strenuous eleven-mile hike on a dangerous trail?”
“Believe it or not.”
“What do you think, Mikey?”
“I can’t believe you have to ask.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Kimo.
We couldn’t believe our luck. We looked at the sparkling white boat…then at ourselves. Tie-dyed t-shirts, faded surf shorts, flip flops. Long hair, red eyes, goofy smiles. The beautiful people on the yacht, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson and their twin boys, dressed all in white, seemed to shine. We’d be hopelessly out of place. So, pretty much like normal.
We drooled with appreciation. Surprised by the good will, I double-checked, “You’re sure the Robinsons won’t mind?”
“Nah, they’ll be cool with it. Nice people, considering how rich they are.”
“How could they not like us, Mikey?” wondered Lizardo. “It’s impossible.”
“See you bright and early,” said Kimo. As an afterthought, he reached into the skiff. “Hey, almost forgot. Here’s a fish.”
He held out a twenty-pound fish. Surprised by the unexpected offer, we just stared at it for a minute.
Finally, Lizardo spoke. “I think you’re right. It is a fish.”
“It’s an aku, man,” said Kimo.
Lizardo agreed. “And a nice one at that.”
“Well here, take it.”
“That’s okay, I can see it fine from here.”
Kimo rolled his eyes, held the fish towards me. “How about you, Mikey?”
“Yeah, I can see it pretty well from here, too.”
Kimo shook his head, clearly impressed with our eyesight.
Trying again, he said, “It’s a gift, you stoners.”
“Oh, heh heh,” said vegetarian Lizardo, hesitantly grabbing the fish. “Uh, thanks?”
“Sure, brah,” said Kimo, picking up another gift fish.
I was afraid he’d hand it to me so I wouldn’t feel left out.
To my relief, he said, “Well, I’m off to visit some friends. I’ll pick you guys up at sunrise.”
Lizardo looked at the big fish in his hands quizzically. He shrugged as if to say, “What am I gonna do with you?”
The enormous locals near us were drinking Primo beer, guzzling downers, and cooking Spam on a grill.
Seeing our quandary, a colossal man named Lopaka grunted, “Eh brah, you like da kine Spam, we trade ‘em fo’ da feesh.”
“Lizardo, please translate.”
“The house specials are Spam and tuna. He wants to know your order.”
I think he was paraphrasing. At any rate, also a vegetarian, I didn’t want either. Of the two entrees, I really didn’t want Spam, not that it was recognizable as meat. Or food of any natural origin.
“Just out of curiosity, Lopaka, what in the world is Spam made out of?”
Stumped by my lame question, the sumo enthusiast looked at me like I’d been born on Mars. Or the mainland. Hawaiians, not picky eaters, consumed more Spam than the rest of the universe put together.
Rolling his eyes, Lopaka said to Lizardo, “You tell ‘im, brah.”
“No one knows for sure, Mikey. Could be almost anything.”
“Except healthy?” I speculated.
“Dat’s da truth,” declared Lopaka. “And, trust me, we don’ wanna know wat’s in da can.”
“Spam is unspeakably vile,” added Lizardo, “but the commercials have a great jingle.”
Inspired by the smell of seared Spam, the wrestlers started singing the Spam song: “It’s mysterious, pink and greasy…guaranteed to make you queasy! It’s not really even ham…that’s why we call it Spam!”
Unlike the locals, I was a picky eater. The kind of picky eater whose mother makes him sit at the dinner table until “every last bite is gone” and then outwits her by vomiting on the first bite and asking, “Are you happy now, Mom?” Looking at the Spam sizzling ominously on the grill, I remembered those times.
The other family of locals, hearing the popular jingle, joined in. So did Lizardo. Soon, a dozen gargantuan Spam fanatics and one demented haole were doing the Spam dance. I’d describe the dance, but no one knows what’s in it.
Soon our meal was ready. Reluctantly, I joined the group around the grill, then proceeded to piss them off. Rejecting Spam did not sit well with Lopaka and his family. They gave me this funny look that locals like to give haoles. It’s called stink-eye. Let me just state for the record, when a group of giant sumo wrestlers wasted on Primo beer and reds gives you a funny look, it’s more intimidating than funny. After all, their ancestors ate Captain Cook on a beach not unlike this one, and not to brag, I probably appeared more appealing than a can of Spam. Not a comforting thought.
So when Lopaka put a hunk of grilled aku on my plate and growled, “Grind ‘em, brah,” I did just that.
The locals looked at me like I was crazy…again.
“What am I doing wrong, Lizardo?” I whispered. “I don’t want them to eat me.”
Lizardo shook his head. “Grind means eat, you maniac, not smash your fish into little pieces.”
Ashamed, I ate my ruined fish, afraid they’d kick me off their beach (or worse) if I didn’t eat some. The locals did not like snobbery any more than they did haoles. Better to be polite than murdered, I always say. To my happy surprise the fish, even all smashed up, was delicious. Ono, the locals were saying. And here I thought it was aku.
Trying for their good side, I said, “Well, this ono is yummy!”
“Da feesh is aku, brah, not ono,” grunted one of the men, letting me know I’d failed.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, “an ono is not a fish.”
Lopaka snarled, “Yes, it is.”
“Your friend just said it wasn’t…”
While Lopaka laid a little stink-eye on me, Lizardo came to my rescue. “Mikey, an ono is a fish. Just not this one.”
“I’m so confused…”
A little later we were lying on our sleeping bags, looking at the sky. A warm breeze was blowing, and with no light pollution, the stars were brilliant.
“Wow, we can see a million of them!” said Lizardo.
“Actually, only a few thousand.”
“What?”
“Depending on atmospheric conditions, where you are on the planet…”
“Thanks for the buzzkill, Mr. Science.”
“Sorry…still feeling the effects of all that education.” I took another toke. “Lizardo, if this isn’t paradise, I don’t know what is.”
“Beats going to grad school, huh, Mikey?”
“No kidding.”
It never got below the mid-70’s, so I reclined like a blood bank atop my sleeping bag. Not only so the mosquitoes could have better access, but because when I cowered inside, I sweated like a fat man in a sauna. Paradise came at a price.
Swatting furiously, I griped, “These mosquitoes are eating me alive.”
Nothing was worse than mosquitoes.
“Just be glad it’s not centipedes.”
Except maybe centipedes.
“Aw man, I hate those things. How come I didn’t see any while we were walking around?”
“That’s ‘cause they come out after dark!” he explained, pointing at something almost a foot long, thick as my finger, and heading right at me.
After stomping it a few hundred times (just to be sure), I said, “Not that I’m squeamish, but did you bring any bug spray?”
“You mean like mosquito repellant?”
“No, like mosquito attractant.”
“Pfft, I don’t think we need any of that.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh. You mean like Off?”
“Exactly.”
“No. Why?”
I sighed. Loudly.
“Oh yeah, right…” Then, “Hey, you didn’t think of it either.”
“Sure I did. But then I spaced out.”
“Actually, Mikey, camping with no mosquito repellent is smarter than you think.”
Lizardo, after years of dealing pot, was a master of the spin.
“In what possible way?”
“Think about it.”
“It’ll just make my head explode.”
“Dig it, brah, with less blood, we travel light. Plus, we’ll be all dizzy.”
I remained skeptical. “Being light-headed from blood loss is…good?”
“For sure, man. It’ll help us feel even more stoned! We just gotta make sure not to fall off the cliffs.”
“I’m not sure about your plan, Lizardo.”
“You want to fall off a cliff?”
“Of course not. But we’re going in a boat.”
“Well, we don’t wanna fall off that, either. Then we’d get eaten by sharks.”
Sharks. The centipedes of the sea. Lizardo had managed to make the delightful trip sound like a death trap.
And so, I cringed there on a heavenly piece of paradise, feeding voracious bugs and thinking about sharks. I slept not a wink. The apparently un-tasty Lizardo slept like a baby. That pissed me off, so I kept waking him up.
On the bright side, I was wide awake when the sky turned colors. We barely had time for a traditional sunrise doobie before Kimo picked us up. The handsome Robinson family looked like an ad for a yachting magazine: deep tans, day-glo white teeth, casual clothes that cost a mint. Introductions made, we cruised past Taylor’s Camp and gorgeous Ke’e Beach at the end of the road. As we did, my jaw dropped. The view was nothing if not magnificent—sculpted mountains full of greenery, an ocean full of bluery, and steep cliffs dropping straight into the surf—as far as the eye could see.
Here and there we could spot hikers. As if to entertain us, one dove…fell…whatever…off the narrow trail. Screamed to get our applause. It took a long time before he hit the water. So, a lot of screaming.
Judge Lizardo held up a big number eight. “Not bad, but I took a couple points off for the sloppy landing.”
I shook my head. “Man, am I glad we’re on a boat.”
“Don’t worry about the trail,” said Lizardo. “You’ll get your chance to fall on the hike out!”
Prophetic words, as it turned out.
It would be impossible to overstate the beauty of that uninhabited coastline of Kauai. The mind-boggling Na Pali coast has been featured in lots of movies, including the remake of King Kong with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange. Which was only fitting. It was easy to imagine a dinosaur stomping into view, gulping a tasty hiker. Probably why the guy jumped.
Talk about cruising in style—the boat was da kine, with everything a millionaire might want. The seats were plush, covered with white Italian leather made of unborn calfskin from virgin cows.
“Unborn calves from virgin cows?” I hadn’t heard of that before. “How does that work?”
Mr. Robinson shrugged, rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
“Ah.”
He added, “It’s rather hard to come by.”
The teak was polished to a reflective shine. Everything metal had a mirror-like finish. Everything on the boat (except Lizardo and me) literally glistened.
Excited, I asked my pal, “What could be more cool than seeing the Na Pali Coast for the first time from a yacht?”
Lizardo later argued, “Not seeing the Na Pali Coast for the first time from a yacht.”
The view was extraordinary: sculpted mountains, waterfalls, sea caves! As we bounced along in the swells, my buddy became queasy, made weird faces for me to laugh at. He also made provocative noises. Which I found more alarming than funny. As did our hosts.
“Are you okay?” asked a concerned Mrs. Robinson.
“Just fine, Mrs. R., except for all the nausea. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh dear. The head is right down there,” she hinted politely, helping the disgusting hippie out.
“Thanks, but I’ll try to tough it out,” moaned Lizardo heroically.
“Are you sure, Mr. Lizardo? You look rather green.”
Covering for my friend, I explained, “He always looks like that.”
Lizardo spent an uncomfortable ten minutes praying he wouldn’t hurl on the white leather seats…so did everyone else. Then we hit a squall and Lizardo lost it. He glanced towards the head, knowing he’d never make it, then, just to show how classy he was, he leaned out over the rail before spewing.
“Good bye, Mr. Aku,” he groaned.
Unfortunately, the wind was in his face. The poor guy ralphed non-stop until we were sure he’d die.
Mercifully, the squall passed and Lizardo lived. Barely. Sensing his need, I went to his aid and tossed a bucket of sea water on him.
Like a nautical paramedic, I urged, “Quick, smoke this, it’s good for settling the tummy. Other stuff, too.”
“Ummm, yeah…that’s better,” sighed Lizardo, blowing out a cloud of healing smoke, shrouding the appalled senior Robinsons. “So nice to get the hurling out of the way. You Robinsons must know what I mean, right?”
“Well, actually, no,” disagreed Mrs. Robinson tersely.
“Really?” gushed Lizardo, impressed. “You Robinsons are so classy, no offense, you don’t even puke? How cool is that, Mikey?”
“Only totally,” I agreed.
After watching Lizardo’s performance, it was clear—jillions of dollars kicked projectile vomiting’s ass.
“Hey,” said the oblivious Lizardo, sniffing the pungent air, “what’s this weird crap all over the place?”
The unborn calfskin imported from virgin cows in Italy, the polished teak, and the shiny metal looked like they had been texture-coated. The whole yacht smelled like…well, you know.
Not pleased, he chided, “You ought to take better care of your stuff, Mr. R.”
Mr. Robinson, freaked out but finally able to speak, had an idea. “Kalalau Valley is only a few more miles. Are you boys strong swimmers?”
“You’re funny for a rich guy,” laughed Lizardo, who had an idea of his own. “I was thinking, you know, since you own the place and all, that we’d accompany you to Niihau!”
“Sorry, Mr. Lizardo, but Niihau is the Forbidden Island.”
Lizardo waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But who’s gonna say anything, right? I mean, you’re The Man, man.”
“He’s got you there, Mr. Robinson,” I said.
Mr. Robinson turned and gave me a pained look. Even without words, I knew what he was trying to say.
“Hey, you’re right. Lizardo has been bogarting that doobie. Show some class, Lizardo, pass it to our hosts.”
Lizardo, taking the hint, held out the joint. “Sorry, brah. I’m all about class.”
That got a laugh out of Mr. Robinson. Just not a happy one.
“There ya go, man,” encouraged Lizardo. “You need to loosen up. Here, have a few tokes and catch up!”
It would take a lot more than a few tokes to catch up with Lizardo.
Mr. Robinson looked at the slimy joint skeptically. The part that had been in Lizardo’s nasty mouth was covered in spittle…and other off-putting stuff. A pig wouldn’t have taken a toke off of it.
“Oh, I get it,” said the classy hippie, “you’re a little grossed out by all the vomit, right?”
To prove he wasn’t, the stoic Lizardo put the joint back in his mouth.
“Well, yes, Mr. Lizardo, I am a bit, as you say, grossed out…among other things.”
“No problem, old buddy,” said Lizardo, adroitly pulling out a fresh, unsullied joint.
Politely lighting it, and thus ruining it, he handed it to our horrified host. From Mr. Robinson’s face, you’d have thought it was a dog turd.
“That one is for you and your foxy old lady,” said the generous Lizardo. “By the way, I’m available for a threesome.”
When the appalled millionaires didn’t respond, Lizardo felt affronted. “What? You richies too sophisticated to say mahalo?”
“Sorry, Mr. Lizardo,” said the gracious Mrs. Robinson out of instinct, “you are too kind.”
“That’s me!” Turning to the teenagers, he yelled, “I know you guys get high! Don’t worry, ‘cause I got a fatty for you, too!”
“Of course we do,” assured the eager boys. “And we don’t care if there’s puke on it.”
“Boys,” snapped Mr. Robinson, “you do not smoke pot.”
The kids shook their heads at their square dad. “Yeah, we do.”
“Not with vomit on it,” insisted their mom.
“Come on, Mom, get real. It’s da kine.”
Lizardo had a brainstorm. “Speaking of da kine, Robinsons, why don’t we grow a bunch of it when we get to Niihau?”
“Far out!” said the twins.
“What?” blurted Mr. Robinson.
“That’s the spirit! Any cops there, boys?”
“Nope!”
“Well, then, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Group hug, everybody!”
Mr. Robinson, a cultured man, didn’t know quite how to deal with the pot-smoking hippies that Captain Kimo had invited along, but one thing seemed likely: Captain Kimo would be soon be looking for a new job. Meanwhile, Mr. R. couldn’t figure out how to tell Lizardo to screw off and still remain courteous.
Mistaking our host’s refined manners as assent, Lizardo pressed on. “Great idea, Robby-boy!”
“Excuse me?”
“Exactly! Since we’re gonna be partners, I’m gonna call you Robby.”
“What are you raving about?”
“Same thing as you. Turning Niihau into a pakalolo plantation! That’s the least you could do, man, after getting me all sick.”
“Mr. Lizardo is right, Dad,” cheered the kids.
Mr. Robinson took a deep breath. “Let me just have a word with Captain Kimo.”
A minute later the boat picked up speed and hurtled through the water.
“Must be in a hurry to get us to Niihau,” smiled Lizardo. “Hey look, Mikey, I think we’re coming up on Kalalau Valley now. Let’s get away from these stinky leather couches, check out the view.”
We moved to the back of the boat where there were no Robinsons. Classy of them to let the hippies have their own area. You’d have to be all class to let guys who looked like Lizardo and me on your yacht. They probably wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Seeing amazing Kalalau Valley for the first time, my eyes popped out.
“Wow, what a place!”
“Hey look, Mikey, dolphins are following the boat!”
“Must be all that chum.”
“Good thing I got sick.”
When we leaned over the rail to better check out Flipper and his pals, Captain Kimo spun the boat—hard—and headed off towards Niihau. Accidentally (?) flipping the two hippies and their stuff right into a breaking wave. As if we did it all the time, we floundered in our own classy way to the shore half-drowned. Always cool, we gagged out salt water and little fish. A moment later our packs smoothly rode another wave in. By the time we stopped choking, the boat was far away.
“Don’t they realize we fell off?” wondered Lizardo.
Take some Weird Trips