I moved to Hawaii 18 years ago fully intending to retire, or at least semi-retire. The plan was to spend my days relaxing in paradise. I looked forward to leisurely days of sipping mai-tais on the lanai and reading all the books I’d never had time for. I eagerly anticipated dabbling in the workshop, on fun projects previously abandoned or not yet begun. I envisioned Saturdays on the tennis court and Sundays at the beach. It was a good plan, structured yet flexible, designed to stimulate mind and body yet avoid anxiety and stress. And it would have worked except for one minor glitch: reality. It turns out, that as wonderful a place as Hawaii is to live, affordable it is not. My nest egg turned out to be not much nest and even less egg. My retirement plans were shelved; I went back to work; and having been self-employed for over 25 years and thus completely unemployable, I started a business (actually more than one).
The first of many businesses was a snorkel and beach gear rental shop. Off the beaten path, with little money for marketing and lots of competition, the shop lasted about a year. I like to think of the experience as an $80,000, 12 month, non-credit (pardon the pun), postgraduate course entitled “How Not To Do Business in Hawaii.” It was proof of the popular Hawaiian adage, which we all seem destined to learn the hard way: “the way to make a small fortune in Hawaii is to start with a large one.”
The second business, a faltering attempt to salvage the first business, was a modest visitor magazine about the beaches and activities available on the Big Island, named in a moment of inspiration, The Beach and Activity Guide to the Big Island. A surprisingly popular publication, our first print run, which we could afford, lasted about three days. Our next print run, which we couldn’t, lasted nearly five times as long. The BAG, as we affectionately called it, was our introduction to the all-too-common and universally dreaded Hawaii phenomenon, “the almost-success.” Unlike real success, which can provide a living, if not fame and fortune, and unlike dismal failure, which provides a valuable lesson and allows one to move on, almost-success is a cunning creature that resembles real success, yet at the end of the day, or year, or decade, leaves you with little cash, little confidence, and little else.
Many businesses followed. A larger visitor magazine, twice expanded and once reinvented, was a real success. Eventually, it was sold, unfortunately to an unscrupulous investor who had neither much cash nor the least hint of a clue. The business was a success; the sale was a dismal failure. We learned our lesson and moved on. A restaurant-and-shops discount program, complete with a colorful brochure and embossed plastic membership card, was an almost-success: three rounds, three draws, no harm, no foul, no cigar. A luxury vacation rental property had it all. Real success for a while, admittedly a short while, almost-success for a while longer, and eventually, dismal failure. Another postgraduate course completed (you don’t want to know the tuition), another lesson learned, another opportunity for onward moving.
Today my business is marketing. Coupled with graphic design and publishing, it has all the markings of success. With lots of hard work, a little help from friends and family, and a little upturn in the economy, I might be able to retire or semi-retire, in just a few more years, only 20 years or so behind schedule. I shouldn’t feel bad: unofficial statistics indicate that of all the people who move to Hawaii and start a business, 50% to 60% give up and leave the islands within a year, usually having been very successful in making a “small fortune in Hawaii.”
With this in mind, and for all those who move to Hawaii with such dreams, my marketing company makes this amazing offer: “We guarantee to save you 75% of your first-year start-up costs in any new business.” Normally our methodology is a closely held secret, but I will divulge it here for the very first time. First, we prepare for you a thoroughly researched and meticulously delineated business plan for the first year, carefully calculating all costs associated with the first-year operation, including a specific exit strategy. Then we implement the exit strategy. You cut us a check for 25% of those calculated costs, and we buy you a ticket home.
12/09/10
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Importing to Hawaii
I must admit that I’m at a loss to understand why we import so much stuff into Hawaii. I get that cars, clothes, many consumer goods, boats, and building materials must come from faraway places. They’re not easy to produce here and everywhere not here is, in fact, far away. I know we lack deposits of iron ore for making steel (not that we would want to make steel here anyway, it’s very messy). I know we lack oil reserves for making plastic (not that we would want to make plastic here anyway, it’s very messy). I know we lack sand for making glass (okay, we have lots of sand, but making glass is probably very messy), and we lack good wood for making lumber (I guess eucalyptus, that grows on the Big Island straight and tall in just a few years, doesn’t qualify, and anyway, making lumber is possibly very messy).
What I don’t get is get why we import so much food, especially fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, fresh fowl, fresh eggs, and fresh meat. I live in Hawaii, in part, because the weather here is nearly perfect for pleasant living year round. I believe it is nearly perfect for plant production year round as well. We have lots of sun, areas with hundreds of inches of rain a year, and lots of fertile soil (maybe not in Kona, where real dirt can qualify as a Christmas present, but most everywhere else). We are surrounded by ocean, abundant with a variety of truly delicious fish species. In fact, I could probably eat nothing but Ahi (Yellow Fin Tuna) dipped in wasabi shoyu and be a truly happy haole.
Raising turkeys and chickens here must be easy; they are already raising themselves throughout most of the state. In my subdivision you can trip over a wild turkey just trying to get to your car in the morning. And our C,C & R’s require drivers and joggers to give the right-of-way to chickens crossing the road (no, I don’t know why they’re crossing the road). Then there are the feral pigs and feral cows (maybe not so much feral as lost) and the feral mongeese (are there non-feral mongeese?). So many mongeese, so few recipes……
I really don’t get why we import almost all our energy. I know that most all energy comes from the sun. On a sunny day something like 250 British Thermal Units per hour per square foot make it through the ozone layer (I majored in Physics for about a week when I started college). Some of that sun (but not much) supports the plants that eventually die and rot and become compressed and rot some more and become compressed some more and millions of years later turn into fossil fuels. We then use huge amounts of energy, not to mention money, to extract those fossil fuels and turn them into a readily usable form of, you guessed it, energy.
I know that solar heaters and reflective solar generators and photovoltaics aren’t very efficient, returning only about 10 to 20% of the BTU potential of the sun into readily usable energy. But I have to believe it’s more efficient than the multi-million-year plant to compost to fossil fuel to readily usable energy process. Not to mention that what took many millions of years to create will only last a few hundred years. Not to mention that most of those few hundred years have already gone by.
11/16/10
What I don’t get is get why we import so much food, especially fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, fresh fowl, fresh eggs, and fresh meat. I live in Hawaii, in part, because the weather here is nearly perfect for pleasant living year round. I believe it is nearly perfect for plant production year round as well. We have lots of sun, areas with hundreds of inches of rain a year, and lots of fertile soil (maybe not in Kona, where real dirt can qualify as a Christmas present, but most everywhere else). We are surrounded by ocean, abundant with a variety of truly delicious fish species. In fact, I could probably eat nothing but Ahi (Yellow Fin Tuna) dipped in wasabi shoyu and be a truly happy haole.
Raising turkeys and chickens here must be easy; they are already raising themselves throughout most of the state. In my subdivision you can trip over a wild turkey just trying to get to your car in the morning. And our C,C & R’s require drivers and joggers to give the right-of-way to chickens crossing the road (no, I don’t know why they’re crossing the road). Then there are the feral pigs and feral cows (maybe not so much feral as lost) and the feral mongeese (are there non-feral mongeese?). So many mongeese, so few recipes……
I really don’t get why we import almost all our energy. I know that most all energy comes from the sun. On a sunny day something like 250 British Thermal Units per hour per square foot make it through the ozone layer (I majored in Physics for about a week when I started college). Some of that sun (but not much) supports the plants that eventually die and rot and become compressed and rot some more and become compressed some more and millions of years later turn into fossil fuels. We then use huge amounts of energy, not to mention money, to extract those fossil fuels and turn them into a readily usable form of, you guessed it, energy.
I know that solar heaters and reflective solar generators and photovoltaics aren’t very efficient, returning only about 10 to 20% of the BTU potential of the sun into readily usable energy. But I have to believe it’s more efficient than the multi-million-year plant to compost to fossil fuel to readily usable energy process. Not to mention that what took many millions of years to create will only last a few hundred years. Not to mention that most of those few hundred years have already gone by.
11/16/10
Moving to Hawaii
I visited Hawaii eight times before deciding to move here. I visited four times with my first wife, three times with my second wife, and once with my third wife; eight times to Oahu, three times to Maui, once to Kauai, and twice to the Big Island, where I decided to make my home 18 years ago. Life here has been always interesting, sometimes challenging, occasionally sad, and for the most part fun.
Arriving with minimal clothing (it was Hawaii after all), no furniture, nor anyplace to put any, and little cash, we booked an “affordable, private, rustic, time-honored” hotel for our first few days in paradise. We knew the Kona Surf was on Alii Drive; we didn’t know where. We crept along the Drive for hours discovering that every other hotel and condo was named Kona this or Kona that or Kona Alii something or Kona Kai something else. We were sure we had finally arrived when we came to the Kona Surf and Racquet; we hadn’t. Of course the Kona Surf was the very last hotel on the strip. Affordable, it turned out, meant not very. Rustic, it turned out, meant, literally, lots of rust. Private, it turned out, meant not near anything, and time-honored, it turned out, meant old and weathered and weary: not just the hotel, but also the staff.
Fortunately, about a week and a few pizzas later (the pizza guy, coincidentally, became an employee years later, but that’s another story), we found a house to rent. The gated community was impressive, the lot was pretty, if a bit neglected, the view was magnificent. The house was a disaster. It had been vacant, but not unoccupied, for several months after being vacated by a family who were, shall we say, not very tidy. The new occupants included a mongoose, one or two feral cats, one or two dozen geckos, a few transient turkeys, and a plethora of assorted and various insects and spiders. We were convinced the network of spider webs was designed to trap large rodents and small children. The spiders (harmless cane spiders, we later learned) looked big enough to devour toddlers, if not all at once, then leisurely, perhaps with some fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti.
We nearly didn’t rent the “spider house.” At first, deciding that the house was just too trashed and too expensive, we told the owners, a lovely couple who lived in Florida and had built the house to live in, but never did, that we needed to keep looking. A few hours of looking at houses that were even more expensive and rather trashy, if not trashed, convinced us of the potential of “casa de la spider.” Unfortunately, by the time we got back to them, the owners had agreed to rent the house to a family that had been living on the beach (a family, coincidentally, that we met years later and found to be very weird, but that’s another story). It took nearly an hour of compelling reasoning and brilliant negotiation to convince them that we would be better tenants. Or it may have been my promise to fix up the house for free and my agreement to forward a deposit and first month’s rent by electronic transfer that turned the trick.
Having successfully obtained our new home in paradise, we moved into “Hale Spider” the very next day. The first order of business being a careful analysis of the work to be done, I soon realized that the majority was cleaning and painting. Most of the basic systems and appliances were, if not new or clean, at least in working order. Some hardware needed replacing and some trim, having been omitted from the initial construction, needed placing (I suspect that when the intended owners left for Florida, the punch list got real short). I did discover, however, that the heating system in the house was not of any type with which I was familiar. Recently retired from several years of being an architect and builder in Vermont, I found it odd that none of the conventional systems that I had utilized for years were being utilized here. After an extensive search of the house and property, I finally concluded that the heating had to be a radiant system, with electric coils buried in the concrete slab. It was the only thing that made sense. It still bothered me, however, that I couldn’t locate the thermostat.
12/06/10
Arriving with minimal clothing (it was Hawaii after all), no furniture, nor anyplace to put any, and little cash, we booked an “affordable, private, rustic, time-honored” hotel for our first few days in paradise. We knew the Kona Surf was on Alii Drive; we didn’t know where. We crept along the Drive for hours discovering that every other hotel and condo was named Kona this or Kona that or Kona Alii something or Kona Kai something else. We were sure we had finally arrived when we came to the Kona Surf and Racquet; we hadn’t. Of course the Kona Surf was the very last hotel on the strip. Affordable, it turned out, meant not very. Rustic, it turned out, meant, literally, lots of rust. Private, it turned out, meant not near anything, and time-honored, it turned out, meant old and weathered and weary: not just the hotel, but also the staff.
Fortunately, about a week and a few pizzas later (the pizza guy, coincidentally, became an employee years later, but that’s another story), we found a house to rent. The gated community was impressive, the lot was pretty, if a bit neglected, the view was magnificent. The house was a disaster. It had been vacant, but not unoccupied, for several months after being vacated by a family who were, shall we say, not very tidy. The new occupants included a mongoose, one or two feral cats, one or two dozen geckos, a few transient turkeys, and a plethora of assorted and various insects and spiders. We were convinced the network of spider webs was designed to trap large rodents and small children. The spiders (harmless cane spiders, we later learned) looked big enough to devour toddlers, if not all at once, then leisurely, perhaps with some fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti.
We nearly didn’t rent the “spider house.” At first, deciding that the house was just too trashed and too expensive, we told the owners, a lovely couple who lived in Florida and had built the house to live in, but never did, that we needed to keep looking. A few hours of looking at houses that were even more expensive and rather trashy, if not trashed, convinced us of the potential of “casa de la spider.” Unfortunately, by the time we got back to them, the owners had agreed to rent the house to a family that had been living on the beach (a family, coincidentally, that we met years later and found to be very weird, but that’s another story). It took nearly an hour of compelling reasoning and brilliant negotiation to convince them that we would be better tenants. Or it may have been my promise to fix up the house for free and my agreement to forward a deposit and first month’s rent by electronic transfer that turned the trick.
Having successfully obtained our new home in paradise, we moved into “Hale Spider” the very next day. The first order of business being a careful analysis of the work to be done, I soon realized that the majority was cleaning and painting. Most of the basic systems and appliances were, if not new or clean, at least in working order. Some hardware needed replacing and some trim, having been omitted from the initial construction, needed placing (I suspect that when the intended owners left for Florida, the punch list got real short). I did discover, however, that the heating system in the house was not of any type with which I was familiar. Recently retired from several years of being an architect and builder in Vermont, I found it odd that none of the conventional systems that I had utilized for years were being utilized here. After an extensive search of the house and property, I finally concluded that the heating had to be a radiant system, with electric coils buried in the concrete slab. It was the only thing that made sense. It still bothered me, however, that I couldn’t locate the thermostat.
12/06/10
Tourists Can Be Fun
For several years, I operated a Hawaii air, land and sea, tours and activities, reservations and booking establishment (ad speak for an activity booking desk). Not surprisingly, during those years, I communicated and/or corresponded with many visitors (Okay tourists, but the term tourists is NOT politically correct, don’t get me started). Usually a mundane and occasionally boring task, it was on occasion, quite entertaining.
Working at a Hawaii activity desk, it seems, makes one an expert on everything Hawaiian (even if one has only been in Hawaii for a few weeks, but we’re not telling). And experts, having lots of expertise, get asked lots of questions, intelligent, probing questions on geography like: “I know Hawaii is an island but does the water go all the way around the island?” or “If the Pacific Ocean is on this side of the island, is the Atlantic Ocean on the other side?” I swear, I’m not making this up.
Questions that a concerned traveler might ask about any exotic foreign destination like: “Will I need a passport to get into Hawaii?” or “Do they take American money in Hawaii?” or “Does everyone speak English in Hawaii?” Actually that might be a reasonable question.
Questions about the abundance of varied attractions and activities available, like: “How many whales will be jumping on the whale watching cruise?” or, “What time will the volcano be erupting?” or similarly “What time does the rainbow come out at Rainbow Falls?” or one of my favorites, “Will I get wet if I go snorkeling?”
It is, of course, understandable that visitors want to learn about places they visit, and it’s certainly reasonable that information be garnered. We might expect questions about the tallest mountain like: “If I go to the top of Mauna Kea, can I see California?” or “I know how tall Mauna Kea is but how much does it weigh?” or “If I weigh 200 pounds at sea level, how much will I weigh at the top of Mauna Kea?” I might reply (I shouldn’t, but I might), “Well it depends, will you drive to the top of Mauna Kea or will you walk?”
It is also understandable that visitors want to collect souvenirs of their visit to Hawaii. Despite laws and kapus (taboos, in English) against collecting such things as lava, coral, and black sand, tons of the stuff leaves Hawaii every year. Ironically, tons of the stuff also return to Hawaii via mail, Fed Ex or UPS, when the collector thereafter experiences chronic bad luck (predicted in Hawaiian legend) as a punishment for their crime. Not ‘kapu’, however is the collecting of many other things, especially the abundant artifacts available in souvenir shops that blanket the state including the popular Kilauea Volcano Clock (crafted from real lavalike plastic by skilled Chinese artisans).
Also not kapu is the collecting of water. I reference the lovely lady who proudly told us of her collection of bottles of different colored ocean water from around the island. And she could have taken her collection home without incident, except that her bottles contained more than three ounces of water each. But that’s another story.
11/03/10
Working at a Hawaii activity desk, it seems, makes one an expert on everything Hawaiian (even if one has only been in Hawaii for a few weeks, but we’re not telling). And experts, having lots of expertise, get asked lots of questions, intelligent, probing questions on geography like: “I know Hawaii is an island but does the water go all the way around the island?” or “If the Pacific Ocean is on this side of the island, is the Atlantic Ocean on the other side?” I swear, I’m not making this up.
Questions that a concerned traveler might ask about any exotic foreign destination like: “Will I need a passport to get into Hawaii?” or “Do they take American money in Hawaii?” or “Does everyone speak English in Hawaii?” Actually that might be a reasonable question.
Questions about the abundance of varied attractions and activities available, like: “How many whales will be jumping on the whale watching cruise?” or, “What time will the volcano be erupting?” or similarly “What time does the rainbow come out at Rainbow Falls?” or one of my favorites, “Will I get wet if I go snorkeling?”
It is, of course, understandable that visitors want to learn about places they visit, and it’s certainly reasonable that information be garnered. We might expect questions about the tallest mountain like: “If I go to the top of Mauna Kea, can I see California?” or “I know how tall Mauna Kea is but how much does it weigh?” or “If I weigh 200 pounds at sea level, how much will I weigh at the top of Mauna Kea?” I might reply (I shouldn’t, but I might), “Well it depends, will you drive to the top of Mauna Kea or will you walk?”
It is also understandable that visitors want to collect souvenirs of their visit to Hawaii. Despite laws and kapus (taboos, in English) against collecting such things as lava, coral, and black sand, tons of the stuff leaves Hawaii every year. Ironically, tons of the stuff also return to Hawaii via mail, Fed Ex or UPS, when the collector thereafter experiences chronic bad luck (predicted in Hawaiian legend) as a punishment for their crime. Not ‘kapu’, however is the collecting of many other things, especially the abundant artifacts available in souvenir shops that blanket the state including the popular Kilauea Volcano Clock (crafted from real lavalike plastic by skilled Chinese artisans).
Also not kapu is the collecting of water. I reference the lovely lady who proudly told us of her collection of bottles of different colored ocean water from around the island. And she could have taken her collection home without incident, except that her bottles contained more than three ounces of water each. But that’s another story.
11/03/10
The Dentist
When I was a youngster, I feared a trip to the dentist as much as I feared being beat up by Jimmy Lyons. In fact, on appointment day, given a choice between a visit to Dr. D, short for Devil, as far as I was concerned, and a chance encounter with Jimmy L, I would have gladly chosen the latter. While Jimmy’s physique was impressive, his intellect, not so much; I could usually dissuade him from giving me a drubbing by use of some very clever negotiation techniques, and some cash. Dr. D, on the other hand, was immune to negotiation, or reasoning, or even pleading, and he had more money than God.
Just entering Dr. D’s waiting room and encountering the pungent aromas of anesthetic and antiseptic would provoke a near panic attack in me, not to mention copious flop sweat. If a dentist’s drill spooled up in the background, and it always did, the near would quickly become now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Dr. D, unlike his modern counterparts, never kept patients waiting (but that’s another story), and before long my panic attack and flop sweat would be escorted to the torture room, I mean treatment room. The escort was always Dr. D’s wife, a truly sweet lady who always seemed apologetic for being the one to deliver the victims, I mean patients.
The treatment room was dominated by a very impressive contraption, which originated in a distant corner and traversed the entire room to terminate at the torture table, I mean dentist’s chair. It was, of course, the dastardly and dreaded dentist’s drill. A work of impressive if ancient engineering, it consisted of a huge motor mounted on the far wall, connected to a surprisingly slow turning drill by what looked like miles of little cables. I admired the thing and might have enjoyed watching the cables racing along, turning and twisting over shiny pulleys, had I not been acutely aware of its capacity to inflict pain. Dr. D’s drill was very old, as was Dr. D, having been passed down by his father, Dr. D the I, who, I believe, bought it used; the drill that is, not Dr. D the II. It certainly didn’t have any of those fancy modern attachments, like a high speed head, or a cooling water spray.
If his drill was old school, Dr. D. was archaic school: “no nonsense and no sissy stuff” in his office. Anything but drill it and fill it or pull it, as it turns out, was the nonsense. Novacaine was, to my great dismay, the sissy stuff. Fortunately my teeth were never bad enough to pull out. Unfortunately, they almost always needed the drill and fill. I would like to think that the grimace/smile that invariably appeared on Dr. D’s face when he was drilling away was concentration rather than sadistic glee, but I doubt it. I must admit, when Dr. D. passed on, at the tender age of 94, it was difficult for me to muster even a small degree of sorrow. I did have a certain empathy for Mrs. D, but knowing that her teeth were in no great shakes, I suspect that even she was somewhat relieved.
My new dentist was also a Dr. D. But this Dr. D. was the savior incarnate, as far as I was concerned. I could get novacaine for a cleaning if requested, and his drill was a state-of-the-art, high speed, water-cooled wonder. A drill and fill may not have been a procedure to be anticipated, but it was, at least, no longer to be feared. His dentist chair was very comfortable, quite unlike your typical torture table. He had pretty pictures on the ceiling, and even personal headsets that played soothing music during procedures. The new Dr. D was young and pleasant and caring, and he always wore a surgical mask when drilling; so if he was grimacing, I couldn’t tell.
I will admit, however, that even to this day: when I hear a dentist’s drill spooling up, at a dentist’s office or even in a movie or on television; there is still a twinge of the old panic attack and a drop or two of the old flop sweat.
01/08/11
Just entering Dr. D’s waiting room and encountering the pungent aromas of anesthetic and antiseptic would provoke a near panic attack in me, not to mention copious flop sweat. If a dentist’s drill spooled up in the background, and it always did, the near would quickly become now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Dr. D, unlike his modern counterparts, never kept patients waiting (but that’s another story), and before long my panic attack and flop sweat would be escorted to the torture room, I mean treatment room. The escort was always Dr. D’s wife, a truly sweet lady who always seemed apologetic for being the one to deliver the victims, I mean patients.
The treatment room was dominated by a very impressive contraption, which originated in a distant corner and traversed the entire room to terminate at the torture table, I mean dentist’s chair. It was, of course, the dastardly and dreaded dentist’s drill. A work of impressive if ancient engineering, it consisted of a huge motor mounted on the far wall, connected to a surprisingly slow turning drill by what looked like miles of little cables. I admired the thing and might have enjoyed watching the cables racing along, turning and twisting over shiny pulleys, had I not been acutely aware of its capacity to inflict pain. Dr. D’s drill was very old, as was Dr. D, having been passed down by his father, Dr. D the I, who, I believe, bought it used; the drill that is, not Dr. D the II. It certainly didn’t have any of those fancy modern attachments, like a high speed head, or a cooling water spray.
If his drill was old school, Dr. D. was archaic school: “no nonsense and no sissy stuff” in his office. Anything but drill it and fill it or pull it, as it turns out, was the nonsense. Novacaine was, to my great dismay, the sissy stuff. Fortunately my teeth were never bad enough to pull out. Unfortunately, they almost always needed the drill and fill. I would like to think that the grimace/smile that invariably appeared on Dr. D’s face when he was drilling away was concentration rather than sadistic glee, but I doubt it. I must admit, when Dr. D. passed on, at the tender age of 94, it was difficult for me to muster even a small degree of sorrow. I did have a certain empathy for Mrs. D, but knowing that her teeth were in no great shakes, I suspect that even she was somewhat relieved.
My new dentist was also a Dr. D. But this Dr. D. was the savior incarnate, as far as I was concerned. I could get novacaine for a cleaning if requested, and his drill was a state-of-the-art, high speed, water-cooled wonder. A drill and fill may not have been a procedure to be anticipated, but it was, at least, no longer to be feared. His dentist chair was very comfortable, quite unlike your typical torture table. He had pretty pictures on the ceiling, and even personal headsets that played soothing music during procedures. The new Dr. D was young and pleasant and caring, and he always wore a surgical mask when drilling; so if he was grimacing, I couldn’t tell.
I will admit, however, that even to this day: when I hear a dentist’s drill spooling up, at a dentist’s office or even in a movie or on television; there is still a twinge of the old panic attack and a drop or two of the old flop sweat.
01/08/11
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