Taking Off.

Ten years ago this summer, I landed on Maui for the very first time. It was late and dark and I couldn't see a thing, but the air was gentle, warm, sweet.

My dear friend, Katie, and I rented the ubiquitous tourist Sebring, and drove off into the inky night, convertible top down. I had no sense of the island or lay of the land; I didn't know we were driving across the flat of Central Maui, or that our route to Lahaina was carved into the hills of the West Maui mountains. All I knew was that the sky was saturated with bright stars, the salty ocean was nearby, and it felt heavenly. I woke early the next morning from a jet-lag heavy sleep and stepped out onto the beach. Behind me, bright, green mountains stretched toward the blue sky, a light morning drizzle lending to their sparkle. In front of me, volcanic islands rose from the sea.

Yesterday, I came across a photo of that very first morning. I’m in a yellow bikini, arms raised exuberantly at the wonder surrounding me. I remember thinking that I'd had no idea this beauty existed. And, I thought, I need to be here.

So I moved here. Twice.

The first time I moved was for ten months, a delicious break from what hurt. During those delirious, free-spirited months, I steeped myself in life on a tropical island. And I lived in three different places. My first six months were spent in a clean, simple vacation rental in the lush countryside of Haiku. My view reminded me of the picture on the back of the old Cornflakes box; vast meadows, golden sun, birds in the sky. I then moved down the coast into the small neighborhood of Kuau, makai side. I lived in a tiny pale, yellow cottage where the kitchen sink doubled as the bathroom sink, and the mildew-speckled refrigerator stood outside. A black and white coral beach was a stone's throw away. When the owner decided to move back into the space, I found yet another temporary home. My final stop was a light and breeze-filled apartment atop a garage, a short, plumeria scented, bike-ride to a mile-long sandy beach. And to get to my Volleyball 101 class, I biked along the airport’s runways.

Without realizing it, with each new home, I had moved closer and closer to the airport. Six weeks later I was back in Manhattan.

This time, I’ve lived in Maui for five years. Again I’ve had three different homes. This last one, my lovely studio in Spreklesville, happens to have again landed me right beside the airport. And soon I will be taking off for New York City, a one-way ticket in hand.

People have asked me why I'd leave the beauty of this island, the perfect weather, the warm year-round sun for the grit of the city, the unpleasant smells, the horrible summer humidity. Fair questions. I wonder about those things, as well. I am not tired of the beauty, the sun, the sea, the full moon over Haleakala, the jungles full of ginger and waterfalls. No, I am not.  I can list the reasons for my move if pushed to do so. I can appeal to my, and perhaps your, logical side. But in the end, there is just a knowing that it is time to go back… for now.

From the beach by my house, I see the planes as they take off. And from the path where I run, I can see them land. I often stop and wait for the plane to touch down. I watch it take the traditional landing route, heading away from me as it crosses the island to make a giant u-turn over the south side. It glides back towards me into the head winds, easing its way down gradually until it touches the ground, roaring its arrival.

Each time, I wonder if there is someone on the plane landing for the first time. Looking out the window. Excited. Wondering what it will be like. And each time, I whisper a welcome and I wonder if - no, hope - they will experience even a little of the magic that I have.