The Kama'aina tourist

I didn’t take many photos on our recent trip to Hawaii – which is uncharacteristic as I call myself a photographer. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity as the trip was filled with numerous Kodak moments, but for me (and assumingly Jeremy who didn’t take many photos either), Hawaii doesn’t need to be documented. Hawaii just is. Hawaii is home.

It’s been nearly four years since we moved from Oahu and two years since we graced the islands with a visit. And every time we come back, regardless of our time apart, she makes it easy. The island wraps us in a plumeria-scented blanket and rocks us to sleep; she nestles us in her mountainous bosom and allows life to fall into place; she pushes us forth to experience the graciousness and warmth of aloha.

We swam in her oceans, we hiked through her bamboo forests, we climbed her mountains. And while the spirit of Oahu merits praise, our amazing friends also played an important role.

We did a bit of planning of this trip, but not much. We sent out a call for a few couches to sleep on and were rewarded with numerous crashing pads, a complimentary van to drive around while we were there, and rides to and from the airport.

Without planning, we saw our friends play at the coolest private venue in Honolulu … twice. Without effort, we unknowing caught the annual bluegrass festival – where most of our lovely peeps played and camped. We experienced the day-to-day life we once lived without skipping a beat. We were handed poke on a silver platter.

Hawaii doesn’t need to be documented; it needs to be experienced. So I’m not posting any photos, but the memories still swim in my head. And damn, aloha, you make me smile every time.