in just the right way, nothing can be seen but the
Pacific and the far off edges of continents. The Hawaiian Islands are
specks in the middle of this immensity. Kauai is a hundred miles from
Oahu, practically next door. The Aloha Airlines jet climbed and then
descended into Lihue before Joe had time to finish a glass of juice.
Green sugar cane and red earth swept past lowering wings. A bump, a
screech of tires, and they were down, taxiing to the small terminal.

Mo put away a small day planner in which she had been making notes.
"Canyon first?" she asked.

"Banana pancakes? Hard to explore on an empty stomach."

"I brought some fruit," she said. They rented a Toyota sedan, and Joe
drove into Lihue.

"Too early for saimin," he said. "Too bad. There's a great
place--Hamura's--biz people from Honolulu have been known to fly over
for lunch to cure their hangovers." He parked by Kenny's. "O.K., this
won't take long." They ordered breakfast.

"When I lived here," Joe said, "there was only one traffic light on the
island, and it wasn't on a highway; it was in the middle of a cane
field, for the trucks."

"It's changing fast," Mo said. "Too beautiful not to be discovered."

"If they stop the sugar subsidies, it's all over." Joe pushed his empty
plate away. Mo was wearing a black sweatshirt, tan jeans, and running
shoes. He had on his Filson bush jacket, Levis, and his all purpose
Clarks shoes. They looked good together, he thought, Mr. and Ms.
Competent.

"Did you notice the Kentucky Fried Chicken place on the way in to
Lihue?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I helped landscape it. Me and Whistling Ed Swaney. He was a sheriff in
L.A.; he quit after the Watts riots. He had a whistling show on a radio
station over there, fifteen minutes a week."

"Really?"

"Yup. He was a mighty muscle man--thirty years older than I was. I
could barely keep up with him. The good thing about Whistling Ed was
that he didn't talk much."

"Giving you free rein . . . "

"Yok. No. I didn't talk either, so we got along well. Anyway, we went
from one posh house to the next, cutting grass and trimming trees. The
owners treated him with great respect. I finally figured out why--he
was always sweating. I gave it a name: Swaney's Law. If you're
sweating, they can't shit on you."

They drove down to Nawiliwili Harbor and along a back road through cane
fields that followed a line of mountains. Narrow green valleys cut into
the mountains, mysteriousl