“Hawaii-philes.” A phrase coined to describe VST and me. Over 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. What began as a fascination with paradise slowly grew into something much deeper over time.
It all started in 1988, when we were still adorable kids. Married six months, reality was beginning to settle in. The monumental task of parenting a blended family of five was, at times, overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate; it is quite another to fall in love with someone who already has young children. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five kids, ages seven to twelve, all while trying not to offend grandparents and extended family who were watching closely, holding their breath, and hoping for the best. Some had even given up counting to nine, convinced we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we sorted that out on the first date—five was plenty.
One evening, after an especially stressful day, VST came home with a brochure he’d received from a coworker’s wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit.” The blue waters on the cover were irresistible. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked if I would run away with him, even if just for a week. This, while children played in the background and dinner simmered on the stove. What’s a girl to do? Of course.
Our first trip cost $450 per person, including airfare from Fresno—money we truly did not have. But it was worth every penny. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of being adults together. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the wonderfully cheesy things first-time visitors do to capture memories they will treasure forever. We were that young couple, and older couples smiled at us knowingly. I understand now—they were remembering what new felt like. We were glowing, tanned, alive. That week, we got to know each other more deeply, celebrating the anniversary of our reunion—when two independent people realized their lives were meant to be shared.
Over the years, we visited Hawaii thirty times. In hindsight, we probably should have bought a place. Every time I stepped off the plane, I felt the same thing—I was home. The air, soft and alive, seemed to revive my Central Valley lungs. No matter the weather, it felt like a return to something essential. Back home, life was full—farming, two careers, college courses, parenting, and still being parented. The weight of it all was real. But in Hawaii, when a warm rainstorm caught us walking, we could stop and kiss in it—rather than worry about crops laid out in endless vineyard rows.
At first, our trips were annual. We searched endlessly for deals, stretching every dollar to get closer to the ocean. Eventually, those trips became biannual as flight miles added up and discounts improved. Each visit got better.
And always, the rhythm was the same. We talked. About everything. Without the daily pressures, our minds could wander freely. We dreamed up business ideas, solved vineyard problems, marveled at our children’s growth, and laughed—deep, belly laughter. Sometimes we said nothing at all, sitting side by side under a cabana, and somehow, that silence said everything.
On the five-hour flights, I began to notice something. We were the couple talking, holding hands, laughing quietly, sharing music through headphones, and nudging each other with a grin. The rest of the plane seemed to disappear. We were in our own world. And yet, I couldn’t help but notice how many couples sat side by side like strangers—one buried in a book, the other lost in a screen. I promised myself we would never become that. It would take effort, but we would protect what we had.
One of our best trips was taking the kids when they were older. With a rented condo and a great deal of patience, we created something unforgettable. We watched them experience flight for the first time, saw them relax into the spirit of Aloha, and made memories that remain frozen in time. We celebrated our unique family—complete with arguments, laughter, a brief missing-child incident that ended at the police station, and moments of quiet chaos. It was imperfect, magical, and entirely ours.
For years, I thought that if anything ever happened to VST, I would return to Oahu and stay. There was a woman we always saw near Waikiki—“Cannie Annie,” we called her. She sat cross-legged each day, crushing cans, smiling as she worked. I imagined I might become some version of her—simple, quiet, breathing in the healing air, letting the Menehunes guide me. I believed that without VST, my world would stop.
Then Covid came, and that possibility vanished overnight. Paradise closed. The one place I thought might hold my memories was suddenly out of reach. Maybe the islands needed rest. Maybe they had given enough.
So, in month five, Oliver and I took a different kind of trip—a Covid trip. Aloha in the living room. Don Ho played as if just for us. I served fresh pineapple while Elvis sang in Blue Hawaii. I pulled out memory books and returned, in my heart, to that moonlit beach where we once stood alone, wrapped in the kind of love that feels endless. It was a beautiful trip. No quarantine. No travel worries. Just memories—rich enough to carry me.
I like to think Oliver noticed the Menehunes nearby, quietly discussing that my world had not, in fact, ended, and that perhaps their guidance wouldn’t be needed after all.
So grab your own Mai Tai and find your own Aloha. As the State of Hawaii defines it, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and feel good toward others.” The world needs each of us to live Aloha today. Remember your moment under the moonlight and hold onto it—not as something lost, but as something that still lives within you.
