Inevitably on vacation I’m injured. In Japan it was scarlet fever, this winter in New York I had The Cold, two summers ago in Kona I slashed my foot open on a rock the first time I stepped into the ocean. This time, I was stung by a Portuguese Man o’ War. Well, two of them. Babies.

These little fuckers are like tribbles on the Kailua beach near our house, constantly washing up on shore, leaving little prickly blue surprises for the unaware. Thought I was aware—I’d managed to dodge a few in the ocean already, and in the 3-mile walk we took down the beach yesterday a few dozen more. A mere 100 yards from home, the surf brought in a couple of baby Boy o’ Wars—I jumped to dodge most of them, and thought I was successful. Then the tingly cigarette-burn started and I noted a pair of them attached to my left foot.

Glad they were babies.

Yesterday we went to a farmers’ market, visited the Dole plantation, went to the north shore for breakfast burritos and coffee, and got soaked in a spontaneous downpour while simultaneously running out of gas. We visited Mormon-ville, saw a natural arch, Krissy practiced 5-minute headstands, David practiced being Judge & Jury and Beau found passion fruit and made cocktails. For dinner we ate poke, grilled and ate papaya salad and had a few good conversations about the US healthcare system. At one point I think we inadvertently committed some kapu interrupting a funeral on the beach.

Learning to surf today!