A Kauai honeymoon
I squeezed my new husband’s hand as the rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” sung by the late Hawaiian singer Israel “Iz” Kamakawiwoole, flooded the bulky earphones providing the soundtrack for our stunning helicopter ride through the Waimea Canyon of Kauai.
It was a moment of true wonder, a soaring feeling I experienced often during our 11-day Hawaiian honeymoon in August.
Checklist
Where to stay:
• Waimea Plantation Cottages, 9400 Kaumualii Highway, Waimea, Kauai. 808-338-1625 or through Aston’s reservation center at 866-774-2924. waimeaplantation.com
• St. Regis Princeville Resort, 5520 Ka Haku Road, Princeville, Kauai, 866-716-8140. stregisprinceville.com
Helicopter tour: Island Helicopters
3643 Ahukini Road, Lihue, Kauai
808-245-8588
More info: gohawaii.com/kauai
Exactly a week before, Bobby and I had listened to the song as we compiled our wedding playlist, somewhere around 2 a.m. I never heard it during the blur of the reception, but now I was fully present as I stared at the waterfall-dappled red cliffs known as the Grand Canyon of the Pacific.
We shared our six-person helicopter tour, which included a stop at the powerful waterfall featured in “Jurassic Park,” with a British couple celebrating their golden wedding anniversary and a military couple from Oregon who, like us, tied the knot five days earlier.
I hope we don’t wait 50 years to come back here, I thought.
We planned our time in Kauai mostly away from the bustling resorts, and the payoff was that at times we felt like we were inhabiting our own deserted island.
We spent a week in sleepy Waimea on the western coast, where we stayed in the historic Waimea Plantation Cottages – restored sugar plantation-era cottages, dating from the early 1900s and clustered in a coconut grove.
When we arrived to check in at midnight, the lobby door was locked and no one answered our phone calls. With our batteries dying, Bobby finally pounded on the door. A light came on and a sleepy-eyed employee escorted us to our cottage.
That first evening, we walked about 200 feet to a beachside hammock tied between palm trees. As we swayed, we listened to waves pound the sand and watched in amazement as shooting stars streaked through the tar-colored sky.
Our ocean-view cottage with a kitchen and living room proved the ideal place to play house for the first time.
We slept late each day, despite our lack of earplugs to drown out the roosters, who seemed to outnumber guests.
Bobby cooked a different style of eggs every morning. We drank orange juice in wine glasses we found in the cupboard. I chopped a pineapple and we put wedges in the freezer, just as Bobby’s grandmother used to do as a treat. We shooed squawking roosters away from our lanai while sipping drinks at sunset. We had written our own vows for the wedding and read them aloud to each other in each room of the cottage until we’d each memorized the other’s promises.
Each afternoon, we roused ourselves for an excursion. The day before our helicopter ride, we explored Waimea Canyon from the ground. We stopped our rental car at lookout spots, kissed in the shade of a tree and climbed rocks. At another stop, we played around in a phone booth, a reminder that cellphone coverage is slow and spotty on the island.
Several hours later, we arrived at a staggering viewpoint for the Napali Coast’s jungle mountains, blue and turquoise water that shimmered like stained glass and exquisite tropical flowers. Again, I felt a sense of blissful awe.
We drove several times to the Poipu beach area to snorkel and dine. Afterward, we always returned happily to our cozy cottage, where there was never a need for a Do Not Disturb sign.
Signs warn against swimming in the choppy water along the property. But we loved walking along the gold-flecked black sand beach, littered with driftwood long and sturdy enough for us to sit on.
We never saw another person, save a few locals with their fishing rods. At the end of a rickety pier, railless like a pirate’s plank, we saw a sea turtle pop from the water. We chatted with a friendly local high school teacher about his visits to Southern California. I collected sea shells as black as the night.
As we prepared to leave for the northern resort of Princeville, I caught sight of my wedding bouquet of orange dahlias, baby artichokes and leafy kale, still soaking in a glass of water. It had traveled with us because I couldn’t bear to throw it away the day after the wedding. So on our last night, we walked to a tiny cemetery on the property, behind a church. I left the bouquet on a grave belonging to a father who died in the 1800s, although the engraving was too faded to read the exact year.
The next morning we left the serenity of Waimea for a four-night splurge at the St. Regis resort, where the window to our room offered an unencumbered view of the infinity pool, ocean and a green mountain often shrouded by clouds.
The luxury hotel was the perfect place to break in my new last name. I was called Mrs. Farmer at every opportunity, from the valet who opened the car door for me to the hostess at the breakfast buffet. Bobby certainly wasn’t used to being called Mr. Farmer either.
One evening we joined a group of children and roasted marshmallows over a resort fire pit to make messy s’mores. At midnight we found the hot tub empty and soaked in the steaming bath while watching a spectacular meteor shower.
We spent our days reading with a fruity cocktail in hand or snoozing by the pool. We visited the nearby Kilauea Lighthouse and stopped at a beach where we watched children expertly surf tall waves.
For our final night, we indulged in a spectacular dinner at the resort’s Kauai Grill. Halfway through their entrees, diners dropped their white napkins and scurried out to the balcony to photograph the setting sun as it melted into the ocean.
Since returning to the real world, we’ve struggled with intense withdrawals. For our first evening at home, we watched “Jurassic Park” to relive our helicopter ride.
Through Facebook we’ve seen two sets of friends go on honeymoons to Kauai. We recognize all the familiar spots in their photos – the surreal sunset captured at the Beach House restaurant near Poipu and the cliff overlooking the lighthouse.
“They’re copying us!” my husband insists.
We feel the happy memories wash over us and the surge of envy that while the honeymoon is lasting, we’re no longer in Kauai.
Contact the writer: cperkes@ocregister.com or 714-796-3686
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