The most troubling matter is that it cannot be unbent. No amount of fiddling or fudging or twisting or prying, no matter the tools at my disposal, will return it to its original, manufactured perfection. Through the slightest unfavorable nudge of fate, its tiny world of purpose has been shattered.

It may be that I can one day restore its functionality. It would always look funny, but reinstating it to active service could be enough. It would live on in its imperfection, fulfilling the duties of its role in subtle disgrace. It doesn’t have a consciousness with which to feel embarrassment or shame, though it concerns me that I would feel these things on its behalf. Would its disfigurement reflect poorly on me? Perhaps by allowing this marred thing to live on, the condition of it becomes irrelevant, exposing my own flaws instead…

By allowing this fault to endure, through inaction, do I claim it as my own?

Both are around me, in abundance. I see the empty shells of former lifeforms, helplessly, tirelessly chasing the whims of their new merciless, unforgiving master. They willfully surrendered their humanity for the illusion of greatness, and their lives will never be the same. The inevitable result of only a handful of lousy choices. I fear this fate like no other. As prevalent are the champions. Masters of all they encounter, brute force and determination has gifted their touch with the spark of rapidly proliferating gold and holy light. The very presence of these inhuman beings fills the world simultaneously with hope and despair. Though we know it is possible, we also know this fate will never be our own.

I stand between, in this place of comfort. And not alone, the masses of the world stand with me in this ‘bubble’, as some would call it. The safety of insignificance. The assurance that if I don’t raise my voice, or take a chance of any kind, or dedicate myself to the creation of something, then I will not be brought down by the hand of greater forces or failure. I cannot be harmed in this warm little corner of the earth, yet the rain still passes through, reminding me of what I stand to lose should I ever try to break free.

I can feel the fear beginning. Too many things can go wrong. I should turn back, but I won’t; I’m too near to my goal now. If I can just limp across the finish line, I’ll be okay. The foreboding reality of my situation is obscured by the paradise that lies beyond. Victory is near. As I contemplate the reward awaiting me in the distance, it is suddenly clear to me how much I’ve left behind to pursue it. Is it worth it? Is this the achievement that will open the doors to the places I want to go? I dismiss the thought, thinking – at the least, it’s a stepping stone. It brings me closer. The sacrifice is worth it. I can see the runway now, and I allow myself a moment of joy. And then, the engine stops.

I could still make it. It’s not that far away. I struggle with the controls as the nose of the plane fights it’s way downward, little by little. The engine coughs as I try to restart it, black smoke pouring out with every turn. A gust picks me up for a moment, pushing me off course but also higher, giving me more time. I gently guide the small craft back toward the airstrip, and relentlessly coax the engine to start. I don’t know what’s wrong, and I probably couldn’t fix it from here anyway, but all I need is a little more power to get me there. Instead, the engine produces a massive wall of smoke, and moments later catches fire. I’m afraid now. The fear is inside me, in every part of me, but still I press on. It’s not death that scares me, or injury, but failure. The thought that I’ve come this far, I’ve tried this hard, and I might not make it.

The plane is nearing the ground now, accelerating. I’m so close. I’m so damn close. I can feel it, the taste of it, the smell and the sound. It’s right there, but I just can’t make it. There’s nothing I can do. All that’s left now is to ride out my failure with as much grace as possible. I’ve lost.

But I can’t. I can’t even sleep. I can only sit alone in the dark, and wait for the light to come.

During the colder seasons of the year, however, the design becomes problematic, unreliable at maintaining that familiar level of comfort. Specifically, it gets crazy cold crazy quick. To offset this, there are a variety of solutions at my disposal – a diesel heater; various ceramic and coil heating systems, and (the preferred choice) 2 parabolic heating dishes.

One would think with so many options at my disposal, a workable solution would make itself apparent. There’s this expression that goes something like “cheap, effective, efficient. Pick two” that seems appropriate. Though a variety exists, each adheres to this philosophy. Specifically: The diesel heater runs on diesel, and also doesn’t really cover the area that needs heating very well. The ceramic heaters are basically useless for heating anything but about a 2cubic ft cone directly in front of them, which tends to randomly burst into flame and cause 3rd degree burns. There was an oil heater once too, but it really didn’t have a single redeeming quality.

So, the parabolic dishes are the only practical choice. Naturally, they too have issues. To use the analogy of the hot pocket, a la Jim Gaffigan, these things come in 2 flavors – frozen solid, or boiling lava hot. Admittedly, there is a third option that features a variety of temperatures to suit your mood. However, the sound produced in this mode is what you might expect when combining a swarm of mosquitos and that long, final baritone note of an opera performance. Eardrum-piercing and Skull-shattering all at once. To clarify, Death Valley and Arctic Freeze are the only useful settings. I use this term loosely.

With the temperatures of the current season, the result is a lot of minor adjustments in rapid sequence. Turn heater on, bundle up. Wait. Unbundle. Wait. Turn heater off. Wait. Repeat. Ridiculous.

It’s Monday afternoon. Only a few hours until our flight. We’re all laying around the condo now, in something of a daze. Many of us have slept, after such an early start we’ve been pretty tired. There’s work to be done – cleaning up, packing. I think we’re all pretty focused on putting that off until the last minute. I have an urge to soak up as much excitement as possible in the few hours that remain here in paradise. The water is salty though, and the sun hot. I’m also red from head to toe. I’m not well motivated despite my enthusiasm.

I didn’t put up a post for yesterday because Sarah was sick, and there was some drama Saturday night that put a wrinkle in the otherwise silky smooth surface of our adventure. I won’t go into detail, but in the end most of yesterday was spent in bed, some at an urgent care clinic, and a little bit exacerbating an already extreme sunburn by the pool. Everyone’s alive though, so nothing to worry about.

The aforementioned drama and illness caused hesitation when considering going to the crater atop the mountain. The thought was that Sarah and I would skip it, and make the most of our time in other ways. Come 3:30am though, when the condo was abuzz with barely lucid zombie adventurers preparing for a long ride to the top to catch the sunrise, we reconsidered. I was ready, but Sarah took some convincing. In the end she complied. She thanked me later, as I knew she would.

We had 2 cars this time, and a few extra people. I drove Sarah’s rental, and we split the crew between vehicles. There was some amusing confusion over GPS directions (navigation is all but worthless here) Jason, the other driver, made all the mistakes it took us days to figure out. Once we got on the highway though, it was smooth sailing.

As we started to ascend the base of the hill, we noticed a large cloud of smoke coming off the fields to the side of the road in the distance ahead. As we approached, we saw that under all the smoke was a dark red glow. There were licks of flame along the edges, and billowing smoke from the field it was consuming. LAVA! It was still pitch black outside, and raining, and as we approached, the road curved, and aimed directly into the fire. We pressed on, wanting to get a closer look, and eventually reached the very edge of the fire, as the road casually turned to avoid the field entirely. It turned out the ‘lava’ was just some farmers burning the bush to enrich the soil, or whatever it is they do. How disappointing. We rolled out the tripod, got some pictures, and moved on.

The road up the mountain was built switchback style, with those trademark hairpin turns we’ve come to expect. It’s not as bad as the Hana highway, but still goes to great lengths to limit any semblance of speed. Along the tiny 2-lane mountain road were various warning signs – watch for bikers was pretty common; some local tour groups take mountain bikes up the road and patrons can then ride down. Another was ‘watch for cattle’, it seems there’s a bit of farm land up that way. We also saw ‘watch for néné’ which features the silhouette of what appears to be some variety of duck.

When one is driving in the dark, around corners, there aren’t many tools at your disposal to illuminate the road ahead. Typically the headlights don’t make visible the road you’re turning into, even with the brights set. This creates something of a blind spot, where, at the wee hours of the morning, as one’s eyes strain to see what occupies the void of the black, Godzilla, Yeti, and Dragons are prone to pop into existence without warning. I was turning one such corner, Jason directly behind me (I later found out he was looking for the defrost button) when a creature appeared. Then another, and 2 more. I slammed on the brakes, swerved to avoid them, and Jason miraculously did the same. Inches from my front bumper, now clearly visible in the headlights, stood 2 grown cattle and 2 of their young. As a cow does, each of them seemed to barely notice our presence, unaware of any danger or immediate threat. None made any attempt to move. With some effort, we managed to convince them to allow passage. Not long after, we passed a coffee stand. None of us could think of a reason to stop.

The crater itself wasn’t what I was expecting, I’m reminded that this is the nature of expectations. Parking was available on the edge of the highest side, near some rocks surrounding the edge of a cliff that descended into the bowl below. I would guess the crater spanned several miles, and may have been a mile or two deep. It had the distinct impression of an unnaturally large ice cream scoop, as if some incomprehensibly large being had ordered Dublin Mud Slide, 1 scoop, no sprinkles. Also, it was freezing the @#$% cold. I remember thinking as I left the condo that I wouldn’t need my lulu (hoodie) but brought it along anyway. Shoes, socks, and pants would have been laughable had the thought even crossed my mind. It was easily 40 degrees there, and I wasn’t the only one from our group dressed for the beach. Most of the tourists had come prepared, and were in parkas or full windbreaker gear, often wrapped in a thick blanket. It seems we missed the memo.

Looking into the distance, the sun seemed to be hiding under the horizon, taking its time in making an appearance. The horizon itself was illuminated fairly well, and though the ocean wasn’t visible, a sea of clouds reached into the distance as far as the eye could see. As we were hoping, the sun did eventually make its daily appearance. I had walked up a small path that circled a little peak to the top, away from the parking lot, and I was on my way back down when it happened. I watched as the fiery light consumed the pack of tourists, an inch at a time, from head to toe. Like racehorses at the starting shot, hundreds of cameras fired at once. Flashes went off, video cameras started rolling, small groups of naive amateurs crowded their way to the edge to get their silhouettes permanently etched on digital film next to a giant white spot and a lens flare. Within minutes, it was over. The pack dispersed. Cameras away, keys out, heat to full blast, and away they went. Down the hill to the hot, sandy beaches from whence they had come.

We stuck around for a few minutes. We made our way up to the summit lookout that had previously been barricaded due to lack of parking. A small building with a panorama of windows sat atop the peak, and a few straggling visitors came and went. The summit sign read 10,000ft, and another small sign next to a staircase read “walk slowly at this altitude”. I was instantly reminded of my time in India in a small town built at 11,000ft where ascending a staircase was a recipe for a nap. Good advice.

The sun was surprisingly high in the sky as we took a few final photos, then packed up and made our way down following the masses.

I remember my parents traveling to Hawaii in my younger years, returning with exciting stories of adventure that had zero contextual relevance to me at the time. I’m fairly sure the only interesting things in the world at the time were Legos and Ninja Turtles. I’m looking forward to unlocking the secrets of a decades-old puzzle, now that I’m equipped with a more fitting perspective.

As an added bonus, I’ll be with friends and family. My sister pointed out it had been at least a decade, perhaps 15 years or so since we traveled together. Too long. I think we’re going to have a good time…