Pocket full of jingle and a venti lactaid black tea latte

A little rushed this morning as the male counterpart couldn’t seem to get his ass out of bed.  Of course he didn’t sleep much as usual.  He is usually up all night before he travels – you would think with the amount of travelling he has done he would be a little more relaxed about it, but no, he is an anxious flyer.  I don’t think it is the actual flying but rather the displacement that makes him anxious and with flying through the soul sucking frankfurt airport, he is on edge….and can’t find his watch.  Tick tick tick, we are running late and finally it appears under a pile of clothes I plan on getting rid of.
He hands me a pocketful of loonies and toonies to rid himself of his canadian coinage and off we go.  The traffic is light and we get there in good time, and he anxiously wants to get through security so he can have a cigarette or 12 before the long flight.
Good bye for 3 months.
At the parking check out I discover the pocket full of loonies and toonies is in reality british pounds, euros and dubi whatever they use.  So now I have a bunch of sounds signifying nothing.
Ahhhh well, a latte on my way home.  The pretentious coffee shoppe and the grossly over priced beverage await.  There I watch and wonder at the history of the coffee klatch – it has been going on as long as the monkey men discovered warm beverages serving the purpose of tribal community and friendship.  too bad starbucks wasn’t more into the friendship aspect of the ritual.  The prices are ridiculous.  But yet, I buy.  I LIKE my black tea latte.  It is a justified treat whipped to sooth my jangled soul on a dirty spring morning.
A shower and a banana later I am scruffing through the dirty and grit of the parking lot on my way to work.  I hate this time of year and yet look forward to it the whole long hard winter.  The ease at walking out of the house without boots and jackets and mits and survival gear cannot be minimized.  My feet, freed from the servetude of boots can farely fly me up the stairs.  I feel if not decades younger, at least a winter lighter.
Hours with email and reports and data and problems and I find myself suddenly filling out an online application for admision to the masters program at the university!  What strange maddness is this!?

rain in maui

rain.  in maui.  complete with a rainbow – for a moment – looked like it might be clearing, but when I look to the south I see grey and heavy clouds.  No matter, it is maui afterall, warm and tropical. 
The early morning streets are still full of joggers.  The mania from home mostly likely driven from spending yesterday on the beach and serriptiously marvelling at the fecundity of some people’s bellies.  I know it certainly makes me wish I had brought running shoes.  I worried last night some while standing in line to get on to the boat – do boats have a weight limit like planes? – if they do, that man’s belly must account for at least two people.  Old fat and so very white, I limit myself to walks on the beach and meals of fruit and fish.  Will it make a difference?  I doubt it but I feel better.
The boat experience didn’t pan out, unfortunately.  The swells, that which delighted hundreds of beach attendees yesterday, were the bane of those trying to get on the catermerans.  I was relieved after spending an hour watching and waiting.  It seemed too much an iffy thing…beach the bow of the boat on the shore, quickly run up the stairs timing your run to the swells.  My anxiety increased with each attempt to bring the boat in, I could see the inherent difficulty in getting such a moetly crew of landlubbers aboard – including the two smallish girl childs who wanted to be carried on.  The boat bobbed about off shore trying to catch the wave perfectly – the eternal quest of all things hawaiian.   After several frustrating attempts, the plan was scuttled (I love pirate lingo!) and we were presented with our shoes once again with profound apologies from the crew, off shore and on, and sent on our way.  The whales would just have be unwatched.
Back at the Castaway, it was catch of the day again.  So many different fish types to eat.  Ono, a spearfish, tasting much like swordfish and Ahi, both as wonderful as the previous dinner at the Castaway – a mostly quiet little restaurant on the grounds of the resort, pearched on the beach with an open patio to the ocean view.  The view which from this point gives a clear to cloudy sighting of Lahini and Molikai and quite often, the splash and spout of the whales.  Much like fireworks, the crowd forgets all else and oohs and ahhs at each glimpse of the black tail, each slap of the dorsal fin on the surface, each massive splash from heaving the huge body out of the water for our delight.  Do the whales do it for us, or for themselves?
Today becons, like the hawian laws for living, in search for the perfect wave.