In the early part of this year, I bought a one-way ticket to the Hawaii with very little idea of what I'd do there. I had a few small paying gigs and a vague plan to WWOOF on a farm on the Big Island. I had some friends meeting me out there. I brought a small backpack and a hammock that made me feel like I could sleep anywhere (turns out that's not the case).
I knew Hawaii was a pretty place. But I didn't expect it to take hold of me like it did. I fell head over heels for those islands. I struggled to leave. I got "Aloha" tattooed on my elbow.
Hawaii is a vibrant, pulsing place. Stunningly beautiful of course and a world that feels small and also infinite. I spent two months on three of its islands, and the airport of a fourth one, wearing torn jeans and baggy tee shirts and a red polka dot bathing suit, chasing the sun and the moon, climbing waterfalls, and trees and towers of volcanic rock; swimming with dolphins and turtles in teal water, watching whales breach from the Captain Cook coast line. Eating shave ice and the freshest fish, mangoes that made entire rooms smell like flowers. Our hair was in knots, our skin a deeper beige. We drove our shitty cars around the islands, our 10-person white van with a hula girl that swayed on the dashboard. We took turns lying in the back of a pickup truck, watching the coast line wind.
I met the Big Island hippies and learned about shakras. I picked up hitchhikers who tried to sell me LSD. The locals let me watch them slaughter pigs and roast them. I was a girl that jumped off a cliff and broke her tailbone in the water. I lived with ten people and a pitbull puppy on a farm we built together. It was easy to connect with people: with all the other transplants, just like me with no ticket home, no plans beyond a desire to travel until they couldn't anymore.
There were the songs we listened to when we camped on the North Shore, dancing in the middle of the road. The meals we made with a pocket knife, a can opener, and a purse-size jar of salt. The steep peaks we climbed up with the beautiful views of the ocean, the water so clear we could still see to the bottom of it. The clean water pools, the black volcanic cliffs, the light that rose into the valley. The grass always dewy and a rich green, the sun a yolky yellow that beat down on us. The teals and tans and whites. The rich sky and ocean blues. The evergreen trees that line the beach nearest where we lived. The beach we laid on until the sun set, and the moon rose, and the moon set, and the fire died, and the stars spanned the sky to the horizon.
I can say with certainty it’s the best place I’ve been to. And so, as a toast to the sandwich isles, here’s a recipe for the sandwiches we made when we camped on a beach in Kauai, one you can make for about $20 including wine, and with no equipment other than a pocket knife.
Shrimp Sandwich: Take local Kauai shrimp, cleaned & deveined, and roast them over a campfire. Squeeze lime over them. Toast some Hawaiian sweetbread over the fire. Squeeze sriracha all over the bread, add the shrimp, half an avocado, cilantro, sliced cucumber, sprouts, and scallions. Eat with cheap wine.
