I know this will sound hackneyed, but…

Vacation had finally arrived!

Yes, everybody waits expectantly for vacation, but, dammit, I want to tell you about mine… because I can -- and you’ll read it.

I would like to start by whining a bit because, well, I had been feeling put upon at my frustratingly useless job, and I had been spending every evening beating the kinks out of a play, and my Guinness intake was dangerously low, and my sleep index even lower, and, no, I had not gotten to properly cruise with my friends for a very, very long time. Life was sucking hard right about then.

But it arrived. It arrived right on schedule on Friday at 4:30 PM: work done for nine whole days and a bonus -- a short trip away, off island, to another island, only bigger. Big Island, here we come. Two days and three nights of hiking and snorkeling and paddling and turtle watching in the serene wilderness -- or so we thought. Upon the magical day, the sun rose, and we arrived at the inter-island terminal at HNL for our forty-minute hop to Kona amid ominous news.

It’s called a hurricane.

They hit out here, too, not just in the Caribbean.

And they scare the bejezus out of folks.

After fifteen years of barely even a hint that a hurricane was headed our way, the morning of our departure brought squawks from all news outlets that Flossie was headed right towards us -- specifically toward the southern end (read: Volcanoes National Park) of the Big Island… and she was going to get gnarly.

Still, we landed in Kona to clear skies and began our trek around the island. As we pulled into Hilo around lunchtime, some ripping sets of waves were starting to roll into the harbor, harbingers of the storm to come. We, along with what likely represented all the residents of the island, took that next hour to stock up on what they deemed necessities -- to some that’s water and batteries -- to us it’s beer, chips, and ham sandwiches. So, after a mad couple hours of panic shopping and driving up to our temporary home in the volcano, hoping to beat the storm, we finally turned on the news and found out that Flossie was still twenty-four hours from making landfall.

Out we went. We had come to Big Island to see some things, and we were going to see some things. What we saw were not so much things but the lack of things -- craters where things used to be. And after an hour or so of exclaiming about how lovely all those thingless things were, we worked our way to the bar for what we assumed would be our last drinks before all hell broke loose. And in fact, all hell tried to break loose a lot sooner than expected but from a different quadrant then where we were looking. IT came from below Kilauea. Yes, folks, not only were we running from a hurricane, we happened to be standing in the crater of one of the world’s MOST ACTIVE VOLCANOS when a magnitude 5.4 earthquake struck right beneath us.

I know it’s beginning to seem an accursed trip, and believe me, I was kicking myself for straight piss-poor timing, but after a few tasty adult beverages in the bar, we headed back to our humble home for the night, high on the volcanic slopes, in the dense, dark forest, away from just about all sources of light and noise. And we waited. We slumbered in the assumption that the next day would be hideously difficult, and we remained unsure if getting home later that week was even an option.

So, up we rose, early on Tuesday, packing and slurping down coffee in order to get on the road to our next overnight retreat before the storm hit. It all seemed a bit funny as we drove around the southern point of the Big Island (the southernmost point of the US by the by) and still did not see any really threatening clouds -- no menacing tendrils of storm, no high gusts of wind, not a rain squall. We got more and more nervous: Why was it holding back?

Upon arrival at our host’s house, we began maniacally checking the local news for updates, and we watched the heavens. We cracked open bottles of wine and pounds of cheese for a sophisticated sort of hurricane party, and we began to marinade our steaks.

The day wore on, and evening arrived: breezes light, and sky clearing.

We finished dinner, and the night was darkening: no rain and no gusting winds.

We drank and talked into the wee hours: Flossie gave us a miss.

Now, don’t get me wrong -- there were areas of the Big Island that got hammered, but, at the risk of jinxing myself and inviting a storm of extraordinary proportions down on top of my head -- WTF, mate? We had a hurricane party for Flossie, and she decided not to show. What kind of storm is that? It was more of your typical wine and cheese than any sort of wild night waiting for the winds to die down. Cripes.

So, this, my friends, is why I’m writing this missive. I had looked forward to a Big Island adventure for months, and instead I spent forty-eight hours sitting on my ass, looking out at the sky. No days in the sun, no beaches, no reefs, no seals. No. In fact, I might as well have just decided not to leave my own house for two days than buy plane tickets and rent a car on an outer island.

Just to spite Flossie, then, we came home to beautiful weather and spent the next few days sunning, paddling and generally telling the sky, “UP YOURS.”