Rookie Golfer on the Kona-Kohala Coast
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On lava-lined fairways, LISA COSTANTINO battles
local deities for the ball.
local deities for the ball.
BORING, GEEKY, TOO MANY RULES, and not enough fashion sense.
That's always been my opinion about golf. But from the day my
boyfriend, Paul, and I got together, I knew I would have to play the
game. Making a commitment to a golf fanatic is no small matter, and I
realized that if I wanted to see my guy on his days off, if I wanted him
to travel with me and not his golf buddies – in short, if I didn't want
to be a golf widow – I would have to put down my prejudices and
pick up a club.
So I took lessons, haunted the driving range, played a couple of
rounds on a municipal course – all, I might add, during Seattle's
coldest winter in nearly a decade. Long before I felt ready, the
opportunity arose to spend a week on Hawaii's Kona-Kohala Coast.
"Pack your clubs!" Paul said, full of golf-nut gusto, as he pulled up
image after image of championship fairways and greens on our
computer screen. He saw an opportunity of a lifetime wreathed in
lush tropical greenery; I saw my trial-by-fire introduction to serious
golf and a need to break out the Xanax. I took a deep breath,
packed my clubs along with my swimsuit and sunscreen, and headed
into the flames.
I'M TRYING TO SHAKE MY AIRSICKNESS as the taxi conveys us to the
Four Seasons Resort Hualalai at Historic Ka'upulehu. We enter a
complex of low-rise bungalows blending into a landscape of palms and
plumeria, lava-rock walls, tidal ponds, and beach. Hualalai melds
seamlessly into its surroundings, undetectable from the highway. We
pass the golf course's 14th hole. "Check out those bunkers guarding
the green," Paul says with respect. I give a nervous laugh.
We're welcomed with leis and a jovial Aloha!, a salutation we're to
hear throughout our stay, and it doesn't take long for us jaded
mainlanders to succumb to this infectious spirit, an expression of the
harmonious way of life that permeates the Big Island. A bellhop –
Aloha! – takes us via golf cart to our room.
The room opens onto a patio garden, complete with chaise lounges.
Common mynahs chatter as we step out to glimpse the tumbling surf.
The salt tang riding the afternoon breeze clears my head. Inside, a
fan spins lazily above rattan chairs, nautilus-shaped lamps, and
Hawaiian artwork. We dip into the outdoor shower, seductively
hidden behind lava walls and dwarf palms. As we dress, two cats peer
in from the lanai.
Dusk sneaks in through the marine haze, and we head for the Beach
Tree Bar & Grill, where tiki torches and a monkey pod tree strung
with lights illuminate T-shirted tots dancing to a jazz trio. Paul orders
seared ahi and proclaims it delicious; I savor the vegetable-stuffed
portobello mushroom topped with tropical aïoli. We stroll dreamily
under the glittering sky. Tomorrow's golf – the challenge, the
competition, my nerves – seems oceans away.
WE WAKE EARLY TO THE VOCAL SURF. As the sky lightens, the mynahs
are outdone by plump gray francolins, partridge-like birds that
screech in sudden bursts, as if alarmed by the sunrise. We walk over
to the Hualalai Coffee Company for espresso and scones. The
humidity is higher than I'd expected; my face is already beaded with
sweat.
Queen Ka'ahumanu Highway cuts through the lava fields that spill
from Hualalai Volcano. Hualalai last erupted in 1801, destroying the
village of Ka'upulehu, for which the area is named. Legend has it that
Pele, the goddess with eyes of fire and molten lava for hair, erupted
in a jealous rage over King Kamehameha's wealth. Pele's power is very
much present here, as I'll soon discover. Hualalai stands a 30 percent
chance of erupting again in the next century, a forecast that
evidently doesn't trouble the resorts and gated communities along
the Kona-Kohala Coast. We pass several construction sites, where
bulldozers rearrange the moonscape.
With less than ten inches of rain annually, there's little life along this
stretch. What does thrive is Hawaiian graffiti: bleached coral
arranged into greetings and affirmations of love. The messages are
cheerful, more proof of the prevailing Hawaiian goodwill.
We turn in to the Mauna Lani Resort and head to the Francis H. I'i
Brown South Course. My anxiety dissipates thanks to friendly banter
and – Aloha! – the folksy look of our fellow golfers. Although both
courses here cut challenging swaths through lava flows, we play the
par-72 South Course on the advice that it's gentler on beginners. I
tee up on the mua, or forward tee, and waste no time overshooting
the dogleg and landing in the a'a lava, which plays like a water
hazard, and rightly so – this rough volcanic sea can cut right through
your spikes. So I take a penalty shot, the first of many, but am
redeemed by a 20-foot putt.
After losing two more balls on the fourth hole – the longest of the
course – I recall the local folklore: If Pele favors you, your ball will
bounce off the lava and back onto the fairway. Mindful of the
mercurial goddess, I force myself to breathe, focus, and set up more
quickly.
Needing no divine favor, Paul lands his drives with ease. We approach
Hole 7, a downhill par 3 that follows the rocky shoreline. Recharged
by the brisk ocean spray, I sink a nice putt on the two-tiered green.
The ocean will reappear on the back nine, where six holes cluster
close to the water.
Paul tees off across a three-acre lake on Hole 12 and places it
perfectly. At the 13th we join Hiroshi and Yuki, a couple from Tokyo.
Yuki – a woman even less buff than I am – hits from the regular tees,
which Paul notes admiringly. "More strokes for the money," says
Hiroshi. My first foursome results in a battery of divots. The spray
whips in from the breakers, camouflaging my tearful frustration. I find
myself running to my next shot. Paul chases me in the cart and
exhorts me to hop in and save my energy. I try not to compete with
Yuki. We discover a mutual admiration for Seattle Mariners star Ichiro
Suzuki, and my anxiety finally abates.
The signature 15th is a stunning par 3 across crashing surf. Paul nuts
it and finishes with a 25-foot putt. I drive across turf rather than surf
and hit a bunker, then land the green perfectly and sink my putt in
one. I jump around like a kid. "Good up and down!" Paul says, and our
new friends grin. In the end, Paul shoots an 89. I manage 68 front and
back. We shake hands with Hiroshi and Yuki and head to the
clubhouse, where I collapse into a bowl of potato chips. I expended
more energy trying to empty my mind and focus on the target than in
all my hustling down the fairways. Now I'm practically shaking from
the ordeal, and the rush of playing in the footsteps of champions
under the Hawaiian sky. Paul's grinning with satisfaction – he's played
his best game ever. "How do you feel?" he asks. "Can't wait for
tomorrow's game," I say, and I mean it.
Before heading back, we visit Puako Petroglyph Archaeological
Preserve, just north of Mauna Lani. A feral calico cat darts down the
trail and we follow, quickly losing sight of it as we trek the gnarled
kiawe forest to an old pahoehoe lava flow, where numerous stick
figures, many in the same confrontational pose, are carved into the
red rock. It's as if someone took the cave paintings at Lascaux and
exposed them to the sun.
We return and hurry to dress for the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel's
weekly luau. The concierge tells us the increasing winds are not the
notorious trade winds that blow from the northeast, nor the less
frequent Kona winds from the southeast, but a wicked windstorm
coming in due west. By the time we arrive, the wind has already
chased the luau into the relative calm of a beachfront terrace. We're
disappointed, but we enjoy the traditional foods, the dancers, and
our fellow tourists. I'm learning that nobody messes with Hawaiian
deities.
That's always been my opinion about golf. But from the day my
boyfriend, Paul, and I got together, I knew I would have to play the
game. Making a commitment to a golf fanatic is no small matter, and I
realized that if I wanted to see my guy on his days off, if I wanted him
to travel with me and not his golf buddies – in short, if I didn't want
to be a golf widow – I would have to put down my prejudices and
pick up a club.
So I took lessons, haunted the driving range, played a couple of
rounds on a municipal course – all, I might add, during Seattle's
coldest winter in nearly a decade. Long before I felt ready, the
opportunity arose to spend a week on Hawaii's Kona-Kohala Coast.
"Pack your clubs!" Paul said, full of golf-nut gusto, as he pulled up
image after image of championship fairways and greens on our
computer screen. He saw an opportunity of a lifetime wreathed in
lush tropical greenery; I saw my trial-by-fire introduction to serious
golf and a need to break out the Xanax. I took a deep breath,
packed my clubs along with my swimsuit and sunscreen, and headed
into the flames.
I'M TRYING TO SHAKE MY AIRSICKNESS as the taxi conveys us to the
Four Seasons Resort Hualalai at Historic Ka'upulehu. We enter a
complex of low-rise bungalows blending into a landscape of palms and
plumeria, lava-rock walls, tidal ponds, and beach. Hualalai melds
seamlessly into its surroundings, undetectable from the highway. We
pass the golf course's 14th hole. "Check out those bunkers guarding
the green," Paul says with respect. I give a nervous laugh.
We're welcomed with leis and a jovial Aloha!, a salutation we're to
hear throughout our stay, and it doesn't take long for us jaded
mainlanders to succumb to this infectious spirit, an expression of the
harmonious way of life that permeates the Big Island. A bellhop –
Aloha! – takes us via golf cart to our room.
The room opens onto a patio garden, complete with chaise lounges.
Common mynahs chatter as we step out to glimpse the tumbling surf.
The salt tang riding the afternoon breeze clears my head. Inside, a
fan spins lazily above rattan chairs, nautilus-shaped lamps, and
Hawaiian artwork. We dip into the outdoor shower, seductively
hidden behind lava walls and dwarf palms. As we dress, two cats peer
in from the lanai.
Dusk sneaks in through the marine haze, and we head for the Beach
Tree Bar & Grill, where tiki torches and a monkey pod tree strung
with lights illuminate T-shirted tots dancing to a jazz trio. Paul orders
seared ahi and proclaims it delicious; I savor the vegetable-stuffed
portobello mushroom topped with tropical aïoli. We stroll dreamily
under the glittering sky. Tomorrow's golf – the challenge, the
competition, my nerves – seems oceans away.
WE WAKE EARLY TO THE VOCAL SURF. As the sky lightens, the mynahs
are outdone by plump gray francolins, partridge-like birds that
screech in sudden bursts, as if alarmed by the sunrise. We walk over
to the Hualalai Coffee Company for espresso and scones. The
humidity is higher than I'd expected; my face is already beaded with
sweat.
Queen Ka'ahumanu Highway cuts through the lava fields that spill
from Hualalai Volcano. Hualalai last erupted in 1801, destroying the
village of Ka'upulehu, for which the area is named. Legend has it that
Pele, the goddess with eyes of fire and molten lava for hair, erupted
in a jealous rage over King Kamehameha's wealth. Pele's power is very
much present here, as I'll soon discover. Hualalai stands a 30 percent
chance of erupting again in the next century, a forecast that
evidently doesn't trouble the resorts and gated communities along
the Kona-Kohala Coast. We pass several construction sites, where
bulldozers rearrange the moonscape.
With less than ten inches of rain annually, there's little life along this
stretch. What does thrive is Hawaiian graffiti: bleached coral
arranged into greetings and affirmations of love. The messages are
cheerful, more proof of the prevailing Hawaiian goodwill.
We turn in to the Mauna Lani Resort and head to the Francis H. I'i
Brown South Course. My anxiety dissipates thanks to friendly banter
and – Aloha! – the folksy look of our fellow golfers. Although both
courses here cut challenging swaths through lava flows, we play the
par-72 South Course on the advice that it's gentler on beginners. I
tee up on the mua, or forward tee, and waste no time overshooting
the dogleg and landing in the a'a lava, which plays like a water
hazard, and rightly so – this rough volcanic sea can cut right through
your spikes. So I take a penalty shot, the first of many, but am
redeemed by a 20-foot putt.
After losing two more balls on the fourth hole – the longest of the
course – I recall the local folklore: If Pele favors you, your ball will
bounce off the lava and back onto the fairway. Mindful of the
mercurial goddess, I force myself to breathe, focus, and set up more
quickly.
Needing no divine favor, Paul lands his drives with ease. We approach
Hole 7, a downhill par 3 that follows the rocky shoreline. Recharged
by the brisk ocean spray, I sink a nice putt on the two-tiered green.
The ocean will reappear on the back nine, where six holes cluster
close to the water.
Paul tees off across a three-acre lake on Hole 12 and places it
perfectly. At the 13th we join Hiroshi and Yuki, a couple from Tokyo.
Yuki – a woman even less buff than I am – hits from the regular tees,
which Paul notes admiringly. "More strokes for the money," says
Hiroshi. My first foursome results in a battery of divots. The spray
whips in from the breakers, camouflaging my tearful frustration. I find
myself running to my next shot. Paul chases me in the cart and
exhorts me to hop in and save my energy. I try not to compete with
Yuki. We discover a mutual admiration for Seattle Mariners star Ichiro
Suzuki, and my anxiety finally abates.
The signature 15th is a stunning par 3 across crashing surf. Paul nuts
it and finishes with a 25-foot putt. I drive across turf rather than surf
and hit a bunker, then land the green perfectly and sink my putt in
one. I jump around like a kid. "Good up and down!" Paul says, and our
new friends grin. In the end, Paul shoots an 89. I manage 68 front and
back. We shake hands with Hiroshi and Yuki and head to the
clubhouse, where I collapse into a bowl of potato chips. I expended
more energy trying to empty my mind and focus on the target than in
all my hustling down the fairways. Now I'm practically shaking from
the ordeal, and the rush of playing in the footsteps of champions
under the Hawaiian sky. Paul's grinning with satisfaction – he's played
his best game ever. "How do you feel?" he asks. "Can't wait for
tomorrow's game," I say, and I mean it.
Before heading back, we visit Puako Petroglyph Archaeological
Preserve, just north of Mauna Lani. A feral calico cat darts down the
trail and we follow, quickly losing sight of it as we trek the gnarled
kiawe forest to an old pahoehoe lava flow, where numerous stick
figures, many in the same confrontational pose, are carved into the
red rock. It's as if someone took the cave paintings at Lascaux and
exposed them to the sun.
We return and hurry to dress for the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel's
weekly luau. The concierge tells us the increasing winds are not the
notorious trade winds that blow from the northeast, nor the less
frequent Kona winds from the southeast, but a wicked windstorm
coming in due west. By the time we arrive, the wind has already
chased the luau into the relative calm of a beachfront terrace. We're
disappointed, but we enjoy the traditional foods, the dancers, and
our fellow tourists. I'm learning that nobody messes with Hawaiian
deities.
I'D EXPECTED TO WORK ON THE ELEMENTS of golf, not to battle the
elements while golfing. With a tee time early enough to avoid the
afternoon winds, we thought this morning's game would be our
easiest. But now plumeria blossoms scutter like pinwheels, palm
fronds litter the walkways, and anxious francolins call from the
shrubbery. Today it won't be Pele that I wrestle with, but
La'amaomao, god of the winds.
Jack Nicklaus designed his par-72 course to blend with the natural
topography. The Hualalai course sluices through the Ka'upulehu
flow, incorporating a kipuka, or oasis, here, an outcropping there.
Paul jokes with Brown Bear, the starter, about the conditions. "Hold
on to your hats!" he advises us.
The first two holes face Hualalai, its summit obscured by low clouds.
It looks like rain, but the clouds tear apart in the wind. Still, I fret
and flail in the long rough. This is where the grand masters of the
sport will gather for the upcoming Senior PGA Tour MasterCard
Championship. Will Arnie, Jack, and Fuzzy have to play amid my
chunky and frequent divots, I wonder? I entreat myself to breathe
and score my first bogey on Hole 5. Paul hits for par.
The gale forces are contorting palms into bent straws. On the
seventh, which features a grassy chute so narrow it's more like a
mini-golf hole, I ping the ball against the lava barrier. Pele lets me
through, grudgingly, and the ball bounces back onto the rough. By
the elevated ninth hole, I'm fighting to stay upright, but somehow I
manage another bogey. The wind actually favors us on the tenth,
and I drive the ball a respectable distance. I praise La'amaomao, but
not for long. My ball caroms off rock into a lunar no-man's land, and
my hat follows, forcing me to tread carefully. Other golfers are
pointing their carts for home. The wind rips away the flag on the
11th green, but Paul gamely perseveres. He pars on the 12th despite
a crevasse-like bunker, and I think things will improve as we drive
toward the ocean. They don't. We give up on Hole 13 and just drive.
Pressure over, I take in the blues of the ocean, the wind whistling
melodically through the cart. At the signature 17th, the spray coats
my sunglasses, and as I wipe them I spot a humpback whale
breaching among distant whitecaps. Paul decides to shoot the 18th,
a long par 4 over lush wetlands. The ball splashes, disappears. We
don't talk for a while.
Despite this freak wind, which will bring 60- to 90-mph gusts, cause
power outages, and generate a high surf that closes all beaches, the
sun is warm, and it's early yet. Paul could shoot hoops, and I could
drop in at the Ka'upulehu Cultural Center for an impromptu lesson
on natural history. We could scale the 24-foot climbing wall, or defy
La'amaomao on a Rebound Ace-surface tennis court. Instead, we
take lazy refuge under a poolside umbrella, enjoying occasional dips
and the iced towels brought to our lounge chairs.
Unrelenting, the winds shut down the patio at Pahu i'a, which turns
out to be a blessing of sorts. We dine instead on the restaurant's
more sheltered upstairs terrace. Contemporary Pacific cuisine
headlines the menu here, and Paul obliges by ordering grilled
swordfish in a creamy Maui onion sauce, which he relishes. My
vegetarian bento box, with smoky eggplant, mushroom mélange, crisp
stir-fry, and hearts of palm salad, paves a healthy path to the
flourless chocolate cake, its liquid center oozing decadently into
chocolate-orange sorbet. We waddle like fat francolins back to our
room.
THE WINDS HAVE ABATED, AND THE MORNING humidity returns. Lillian
Paiva, a resort landscaper and my tour guide, dabs sweat from her
nose, as do I. We are walking the grounds, Lillian pointing out flora
as I scribble notes and snap pictures. Few of these tropical plants
would survive a Seattle winter, but I can dream.
As Lillian puts names to plants, she describes medicinal uses and
relates legends, such as that surrounding the mountain and ocean
varieties of naupaka, which bear small white half-flowers. It seems
that jealous Pele separated two lovers by chasing the man into the
mountains and the woman into the sea. The goddess's sympathetic
sisters took pity on the couple, turning the man into mountain
naupaka and the woman into the ocean variety. When put together,
the half-blooms of the two varieties form a perfect circle of petals.
But they grow in disparate climates, so like the ill-fated couple,
they're doomed never to be joined.
No golf today. We head south to Pu'uhonua O Honaunau National
Historical Park, once the place of refuge for taboo-breaking
Hawaiians on the lam. It's here we discover that the beach, one of
the area's best for snorkeling, is closed. As workers rethatch Hale o
Keawe temple with ti leaves, we watch enviously as honu – green sea
turtles – body surf in the restless royal cove. On the way back we
stop in Kailua-Kona, where cars line Ali'i Drive while locals and visitors
alike watch surfers paddling into the rollers, catching a ride, wiping
out. Traffic's a mess. A power line is down, closing a lane. Waves
smash over the seawall. And everyone is smiling.
PAHU I'A'S BREAKFAST BUFFET IS JUST THE ticket for fueling up
before our final round of Kohala golf. We load our plates with
breakfast burritos, banana bread, yogurt, pineapple, and papaya; our
cups with Kona coffee and pineapple-guava juice. We sit in the
reopened patio. Zebra doves with periwinkle faces and red-beaked
Java sparrows seek out crumbs, while shy kolea, or Pacific golden
plovers, tiptoe into the naupaka.
Arriving at the Mauna Kea Golf Course with time to spare, we stroll
along its perfect crescent beach, then through the hotel, where
Laurence Rockefeller's art collection decorates the open-air
corridors and landings. We come upon a seventh-century Buddha
atop the grand staircase, a framework of Tibetan bells in the atrium,
traditional Hawaiian quilts in the upper corridors.
What a joy it must have been in 1964 for Robert Trent Jones Sr. to
take charge of this remote spot beneath dormant Mauna Kea and
carve out a trendsetting, par-72 championship course. Over the last
40 years, the greenery has matured to soften the lava edges,
subduing Pele's presence. There are few stark fields, more thickets
of established trees. And there is the crashing ocean below:
Practically the entire course lies in a series of natural drops, with
elevated tees and greens.
The signature hole comes early: a par-3 blast across a rugged inlet.
Paul's drive sails over the water and, though the forward tee offers
less drama, so does mine. But the midday heat is taking its toll. My
silk shirt clings distractingly. I complain to Paul. "It looks nice,
though," he offers. Mollified, I tee off into Hole 5's greenside bunker
and get out in a single shot. "These greens are full of subtle breaks
that I'm just not seeing," Paul remarks after a too-short putt. Still, he
hits for par on holes 6 and 7. But when we hit the ninth, the
ambience deteriorates: From here on, we play alongside bulldozers
plowing the adjacent property. A sign apologizes for the
inconvenience. I see it as an opportunity to hone my focus. Or at
least I try.
Maui, the trickster god, suddenly enters the scene. Paul leaves his
sandwich on the cart's seat at the 10th; we return to see two
furtive cats running off with the ham and cheese. When we head
uphill to the next lie, our cart wheezes pathetically and stalls. An
employee happens by at that moment and cheerfully swaps carts. He
beams at Paul: "You're a lucky man to have a wife who will play golf
with you." We beam back.
The party behind us is catching up, and I whack a few divots. At this
point I recognize my biggest misconception about golf: that it is a
leisurely game. Perhaps once you have your swing down and don't
have to peel your shirt away from your back before every stroke and
don't have to wipe sunscreen off your club and no longer hover
worriedly over the tee, then it becomes leisurely. For me, it's still
hurry-up-but-slow-it-down.
My last drive of the day matches the 18th's soaring view. I'm tired,
relieved, exhilarated by the cumulative effect of three championship
courses in four days. Also, my left arm aches, and the blister that
erupted early on is now molten red. We head for the clubhouse,
settle in with drinks, and watch the Sony Open over in Maui, where
14-year-old Michelle Wie is astonishing the golf world – and me – with
her poise and sweet swing. Paul squeezes my hand, and I smile. Hey,
I'm no golf widow.
© 2004 Lisa Costantino, as first published in VIRTUOSO LIFE magazine.
elements while golfing. With a tee time early enough to avoid the
afternoon winds, we thought this morning's game would be our
easiest. But now plumeria blossoms scutter like pinwheels, palm
fronds litter the walkways, and anxious francolins call from the
shrubbery. Today it won't be Pele that I wrestle with, but
La'amaomao, god of the winds.
Jack Nicklaus designed his par-72 course to blend with the natural
topography. The Hualalai course sluices through the Ka'upulehu
flow, incorporating a kipuka, or oasis, here, an outcropping there.
Paul jokes with Brown Bear, the starter, about the conditions. "Hold
on to your hats!" he advises us.
The first two holes face Hualalai, its summit obscured by low clouds.
It looks like rain, but the clouds tear apart in the wind. Still, I fret
and flail in the long rough. This is where the grand masters of the
sport will gather for the upcoming Senior PGA Tour MasterCard
Championship. Will Arnie, Jack, and Fuzzy have to play amid my
chunky and frequent divots, I wonder? I entreat myself to breathe
and score my first bogey on Hole 5. Paul hits for par.
The gale forces are contorting palms into bent straws. On the
seventh, which features a grassy chute so narrow it's more like a
mini-golf hole, I ping the ball against the lava barrier. Pele lets me
through, grudgingly, and the ball bounces back onto the rough. By
the elevated ninth hole, I'm fighting to stay upright, but somehow I
manage another bogey. The wind actually favors us on the tenth,
and I drive the ball a respectable distance. I praise La'amaomao, but
not for long. My ball caroms off rock into a lunar no-man's land, and
my hat follows, forcing me to tread carefully. Other golfers are
pointing their carts for home. The wind rips away the flag on the
11th green, but Paul gamely perseveres. He pars on the 12th despite
a crevasse-like bunker, and I think things will improve as we drive
toward the ocean. They don't. We give up on Hole 13 and just drive.
Pressure over, I take in the blues of the ocean, the wind whistling
melodically through the cart. At the signature 17th, the spray coats
my sunglasses, and as I wipe them I spot a humpback whale
breaching among distant whitecaps. Paul decides to shoot the 18th,
a long par 4 over lush wetlands. The ball splashes, disappears. We
don't talk for a while.
Despite this freak wind, which will bring 60- to 90-mph gusts, cause
power outages, and generate a high surf that closes all beaches, the
sun is warm, and it's early yet. Paul could shoot hoops, and I could
drop in at the Ka'upulehu Cultural Center for an impromptu lesson
on natural history. We could scale the 24-foot climbing wall, or defy
La'amaomao on a Rebound Ace-surface tennis court. Instead, we
take lazy refuge under a poolside umbrella, enjoying occasional dips
and the iced towels brought to our lounge chairs.
Unrelenting, the winds shut down the patio at Pahu i'a, which turns
out to be a blessing of sorts. We dine instead on the restaurant's
more sheltered upstairs terrace. Contemporary Pacific cuisine
headlines the menu here, and Paul obliges by ordering grilled
swordfish in a creamy Maui onion sauce, which he relishes. My
vegetarian bento box, with smoky eggplant, mushroom mélange, crisp
stir-fry, and hearts of palm salad, paves a healthy path to the
flourless chocolate cake, its liquid center oozing decadently into
chocolate-orange sorbet. We waddle like fat francolins back to our
room.
THE WINDS HAVE ABATED, AND THE MORNING humidity returns. Lillian
Paiva, a resort landscaper and my tour guide, dabs sweat from her
nose, as do I. We are walking the grounds, Lillian pointing out flora
as I scribble notes and snap pictures. Few of these tropical plants
would survive a Seattle winter, but I can dream.
As Lillian puts names to plants, she describes medicinal uses and
relates legends, such as that surrounding the mountain and ocean
varieties of naupaka, which bear small white half-flowers. It seems
that jealous Pele separated two lovers by chasing the man into the
mountains and the woman into the sea. The goddess's sympathetic
sisters took pity on the couple, turning the man into mountain
naupaka and the woman into the ocean variety. When put together,
the half-blooms of the two varieties form a perfect circle of petals.
But they grow in disparate climates, so like the ill-fated couple,
they're doomed never to be joined.
No golf today. We head south to Pu'uhonua O Honaunau National
Historical Park, once the place of refuge for taboo-breaking
Hawaiians on the lam. It's here we discover that the beach, one of
the area's best for snorkeling, is closed. As workers rethatch Hale o
Keawe temple with ti leaves, we watch enviously as honu – green sea
turtles – body surf in the restless royal cove. On the way back we
stop in Kailua-Kona, where cars line Ali'i Drive while locals and visitors
alike watch surfers paddling into the rollers, catching a ride, wiping
out. Traffic's a mess. A power line is down, closing a lane. Waves
smash over the seawall. And everyone is smiling.
PAHU I'A'S BREAKFAST BUFFET IS JUST THE ticket for fueling up
before our final round of Kohala golf. We load our plates with
breakfast burritos, banana bread, yogurt, pineapple, and papaya; our
cups with Kona coffee and pineapple-guava juice. We sit in the
reopened patio. Zebra doves with periwinkle faces and red-beaked
Java sparrows seek out crumbs, while shy kolea, or Pacific golden
plovers, tiptoe into the naupaka.
Arriving at the Mauna Kea Golf Course with time to spare, we stroll
along its perfect crescent beach, then through the hotel, where
Laurence Rockefeller's art collection decorates the open-air
corridors and landings. We come upon a seventh-century Buddha
atop the grand staircase, a framework of Tibetan bells in the atrium,
traditional Hawaiian quilts in the upper corridors.
What a joy it must have been in 1964 for Robert Trent Jones Sr. to
take charge of this remote spot beneath dormant Mauna Kea and
carve out a trendsetting, par-72 championship course. Over the last
40 years, the greenery has matured to soften the lava edges,
subduing Pele's presence. There are few stark fields, more thickets
of established trees. And there is the crashing ocean below:
Practically the entire course lies in a series of natural drops, with
elevated tees and greens.
The signature hole comes early: a par-3 blast across a rugged inlet.
Paul's drive sails over the water and, though the forward tee offers
less drama, so does mine. But the midday heat is taking its toll. My
silk shirt clings distractingly. I complain to Paul. "It looks nice,
though," he offers. Mollified, I tee off into Hole 5's greenside bunker
and get out in a single shot. "These greens are full of subtle breaks
that I'm just not seeing," Paul remarks after a too-short putt. Still, he
hits for par on holes 6 and 7. But when we hit the ninth, the
ambience deteriorates: From here on, we play alongside bulldozers
plowing the adjacent property. A sign apologizes for the
inconvenience. I see it as an opportunity to hone my focus. Or at
least I try.
Maui, the trickster god, suddenly enters the scene. Paul leaves his
sandwich on the cart's seat at the 10th; we return to see two
furtive cats running off with the ham and cheese. When we head
uphill to the next lie, our cart wheezes pathetically and stalls. An
employee happens by at that moment and cheerfully swaps carts. He
beams at Paul: "You're a lucky man to have a wife who will play golf
with you." We beam back.
The party behind us is catching up, and I whack a few divots. At this
point I recognize my biggest misconception about golf: that it is a
leisurely game. Perhaps once you have your swing down and don't
have to peel your shirt away from your back before every stroke and
don't have to wipe sunscreen off your club and no longer hover
worriedly over the tee, then it becomes leisurely. For me, it's still
hurry-up-but-slow-it-down.
My last drive of the day matches the 18th's soaring view. I'm tired,
relieved, exhilarated by the cumulative effect of three championship
courses in four days. Also, my left arm aches, and the blister that
erupted early on is now molten red. We head for the clubhouse,
settle in with drinks, and watch the Sony Open over in Maui, where
14-year-old Michelle Wie is astonishing the golf world – and me – with
her poise and sweet swing. Paul squeezes my hand, and I smile. Hey,
I'm no golf widow.
© 2004 Lisa Costantino, as first published in VIRTUOSO LIFE magazine.
