The clock hit 11am. I quietly counted on my fingers. “…twelve, one, two, three, four, FIVE pm.”
I closed my MacBook and sat up, feeling the pop of my back as I stretched. “Alright, we’re good!”
Chaz peaked his head around the corner of the hotel bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “Oh, yeah?”
“Done until Monday!”
“Are you beginning to feel a sensation resembling hunger?”
“I need that and a mai tai.” The rooster outside our door–whom we lovingly named Molotov Cocktease, after the Venture Bro’s character–squawked in agreement.
Well, I decided it was an agreement. In truth, Molotov hadn’t shut the fuck up once since I’d logged on at 3am. I guess he was pissed at the rain, too.
Dumb rooster, rough weather, and early-ass work days notwithstanding, we were already finally starting to relax after what had been a veritable odyssey of delayed flights, nearly-lost-luggage, de-plane-ings, and an unintended stopover in San Francisco that cost us a full day of our trip…
…but, like, how could we not? Yards away from the door of our Wyndham suite, a hammock swayed beneath the large canopy of a banyan tree. Several yards further, the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean collided into a jagged, rural coast.
Appropriately dubbed “the Garden Isle,” Kauai had, in the sliver of time we’d been there, already greeted us with an unrefined, uninhibited ferocity. It shares this unique quality southwest Florida has, where the rain only makes it feel wilder; reckless and crackling in its own whirling chaos.
Except Kauai has mountains: glorious, indignant masses of emerald, hunter, jade, and evergreen that cut into the dark clouds and shove back against the roaring blue of the Pacific.
“Okay, so we need to grab lunch, I need to try a mai tai, and then I’m thinking we find a smoke shop…and then you wanted tape?” Chaz said, turning down Wyllie Road.
I grinned at the piece of paper I was holding, “yes. And a stick.”
“Ah, yes,” Chaz nodded, reverently, “a stick.”
The printed photo in my hands stared back at me. Somehow, the fact that the business center’s printer only printed in black-and-white made Alex’s face seem all the more haunting.
Years before, my old roommate, Dustin, created the Official Alex Portrait. Inspired by the traditional Sears portraits of the 80’s and 90’s, it featured Alex’s face poorly photoshopped onto a terrible Danny-Tanner-like sweater, holding a cat in front of a purple and neon-streaked cloth backdrop.
Alex does not own that sweater; Alex does not own that cat.
This masterpiece has resurfaced at all of the most important events in our group’s lives. It was the only conceivable choice for my current endeavor.
Twelve years before, Alex and I were living in the woods of Alaska, serving tables at 6 am with nothing but espresso and the leftover fumes of Rich-and-Rare whiskey to power us through our morning shifts at the lodge.
We were in our twenties. We were reckless. We were free…
It was during one of those breakfast shifts–after one of many eternally twilit nights breathing in cigarettes and campfire smoke along the freezing Chulitna river–that a lodge guest made the completely irresponsible decision to tell my wannabe-Kerouac-ass that the site where Jurassic Park was filmed not only existed but was a world-famous, incredibly difficult hike.
I, having discovered hiking approximately three weeks prior, immediately set to work convincing Alex that we could do it.
It should be noted that, the first time I met Alex, it was because I was crashing his birthday party. There, he spent the first 20 minutes of knowing me selling me on the idea that we should spend a year learning Kung-fu at a temple in China. We never got around to that one, but it set the tone for our friendship.
So, you can imagine that it took approximately 65 seconds of rhetoric to convince Alex to join me on this adventure. Alex (especially late-twenties Alex) has always generally been up for anything.
It’s one of his best qualities.
The problem is, stuff came up and I bailed after we bought the tickets. Alex trekked forward with the plans even though I’d backed out and has been passively (deservedly) lording it over me ever since.
So, when Chaz and his business partner decided to base their first-ever company retreat in Kauai this year, my only request was that he come with me to right this wrong.
And what better way to right the wrong than to bring Alex with us?
So it was that Alex-on-a-Stick was born: the nearly perfect travel companion, second only to the real thing.
Right as we approached a cute little downtown area, the rain let up. We parked and walked into the local hardware store, and then stopped for smoothies, where we procured an extra straw from enthusiastic Gen-Z supporters of our mission.
Before long, we were back in the rental car, stretching packing tape over Alex’s goatee and the white tip of a cat ear.
“You want it over the whole thing?” Chaz asked, eyeing my craftsmanship.
“Yes,” I replied, cutting another strip, “it’s raining. We need this thing to last.”
And soon we had it: our very own portable Alex…ghetto-weatherproofed with tape and sure to make it through at least part of our upcoming adventure.
By then, Chaz was super hungry. We stopped into a hole-in-the-wall joint along the highway and ordered mai tai’s that were…ok. A chicken waddled around at the foot of our barstools and a tired pony grazed next to a goat in the overgrown lot next door.
I fanned myself with Alex-on-a-Stick as Chaz and I fleshed out the rest of our weekend plans.
“It’s pouring today,” I noted.
“Yeahh, I mean we can start the hike now if you want, but it’s pretty bad out right now. You wanna just see how tomorrow goes?” Chaz asked, practically breathing in his cocktail.
I sighed. “I think that’s probably our only option.” The voices of my parents warning that April is right in the middle of the rainy season for Hawaii echoed in my head.
Okay, then let’s snag some gummies and go get dinner somewhere.”
“I can get on board with that,” I said, holding my phone up in the air to get better signal so I could post the first images and reels of Alex-on-a-Stick.
The rest of the afternoon was spent zipping around Kauai and familiarizing ourselves with the neighborhoods, shorelines, and shops.
We dropped into a local smoke shop, where a fabulously dressed older Asian lady and her protégé greeted us. In no time, we realized they both knew everything there was to know about every possible strain of THC and CBD. Floridian medical cards don’t work out-of-state, so we settled for some (completely legal) Delta 9 gummies for me and a vape and a couple of rolls for Chaz.
And then we slipped in the door of a coveted unicorn of a place: Tikilniki.
Takilniki is that rare hybrid of tourist favorite and local haunt that hovers just above “dive” but somehow still serves the best Ahi tuna I’ve ever had in my life. It’s quirky and fun and is run by a set of bartenders that you can tell genuinely and begrudgingly would lay their lives down for their fucking bar, but are sort of sardonic about it.
This has always been my favorite type of bar.
These are my people.
We were just on our third drinks for the night when my phone began buzzing on the bar top.
It was Alex.
“He knows,” I said, looking Chaz with wide eyes.
“Alex-face,” I answered.
“When the fuck did you even come up with this?” Alex cackled.
“It came from my soul. I was…inspired…”
“Yeah? You inspired enough to do that trail, then?”
“That’s the plan…heading out tomorrow morning.”
“Look, man, I won’t lie to you…it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world, but be careful.”
“Oh, I know,” I agreed.
“Yeah, like, Crawler’s Ledge is some bullshit, dude. Like it’s a sphincter-puckering experience.”
“Sphincter-puckering” I mouthed to Chaz.
“Ask him if he has any tips,” Chaz said, taking another bite of ahi.
“Any tips and tricks?”
“Dude, after Crawler’s my ankle started acting up, so I ended up hitching a ride with some pot-smuggling pirates on the far side of the island. I bartered with a bottle of whiskey and some cash…so, like, bring some.”
“You bartered with a pirate?” I wrinkled my nose, weighing the likelihood of what he was saying to me.
“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t get to the beach. Like, the only way back is the way you came and I was like fuuuuck that. So I gave him some booze and he took me back on his boat.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We got off the phone and I glanced at Chaz.
“Pot-smuggling pirates?” he asked.
“Apparently.”
“Do you think he’s messing with us?”
“Honestly? It’s Alex. It probably happened.”
“ALRIGHT, we’ll pick up some rum or something on our way out tomorrow.”
“For the pirates?” I asked, picking up my fork.
Chaz shrugged, polishing off his mai tai, “sure.”
…to be continued...
Kara Adamo is a globe-trotting ex-bartender, booze nerd, and booze writer. She is the author of Fancy Grape Juice: De-Snootifying the World’s Snootiest Beverage; Artimals: Coloring the Whimsical Wild; and Brews & Hues: A Coloring Book About Beer.
Adamo is a digital nomad, working as a UX writer and UX designer.
She is writing her fourth book, Layers of Cake.
Karita's Travels 
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