After five hours of flying across the Pacific Ocean, the Big Island of Hawai`i came into view at last.
Broad mountains dominated the landscape with wisps of cloud gathered at the peaks. The upper sections were covered with lush forest, but as the land sloped down to the coastline, it turned dark and jagged.
Lava rock.
It edged closer and closer as we descended for landing, until I was certain we'd crash right into it. But the runway appeared at the last moment, and we touched down.
Back to Hawai`i.
It had only been four years since we'd left. I thought back to where we'd lived: a large, two-story house in a suburb near the town center of Waimea. It had been a kid's paradise. My brother, friends and I would ride our bikes around the neighborhood making stunt videos, building go-karts, and even ATVing around the undeveloped land.
One time, we snuck into a construction site and played on the heavy machinery. When a guard spotted us, we ran for our lives, and she chased us all the way back home. We hid upstairs, nervous but unable to stop giggling, as Dad answered the door.
We'd ride our bikes ten minutes to school—a private school in the center of town—where I'd hug the same girl every morning to her chagrin, then play tetherball during recess under the warm Hawaiian sun. There was only one kid in the entire school I couldn't beat, and he was three years older.
Dad would build giant forts with us in the backyard, and one time we built one so tall I'd feel like the king of the neighborhood when I stood on top.
And now we were coming back.
We'd be on the outskirts of the same town as before, but this time we got to build our own house. Dad had already built two of our houses before, but that was before I was alive. Now, I'd get to build it with him.
I smiled. It'll be like one big fort, I thought.
I wouldn't be going to the same school, though. Mom said we didn't have the money to afford it this time. Instead, we'd be homeschooled. Mom would teach us the academic stuff, and Dad would teach us building.
I couldn't wait.
After taxiing for a few minutes, the plane pulled up to the gate, and we gathered our things. I walked down the aisle to the open door, where I was hit with a wave of heat that made me take a step back. Then I looked down. There was no jetway like in California, only steep stairs that led down to the black tarmac that glimmered in the sun.
We climbed down, then walked across the tarmac to the gate: a fenced-in waiting area partially shaded by roofs that looked like mini volcanoes. We grabbed our suitcases, picked up a red minivan rental, and began the drive to the Hapuna Prince Beach Resort.
We hadn't booked it ourselves. Carlton—Dad's friend with the land—had offered to put us up while we figured out our next steps. I was thrilled, but Dad drove in silence, and Mom just stared out the window.
I watched the landscape fly by as we drove down the narrow two-lane highway. Half an hour later, we pulled off and cruised down to the resort between rows of palm trees and manicured grass. A valet took our van and a bellhop offered to help with our bags, but Dad waved him away.
We hauled out all nine suitcases ourselves, struggling to maneuver them down the entrance to the lobby. A few tourists walked past, bellhops wheeling their bags behind them on carts.
I gazed up at the sixty-foot stone columns, then out through the open-air lobby to the ocean. A warm breeze drifted through, and I could hear birds somewhere above us.
Yes, this will do just fine, I thought.
We found our room—a single with two queen beds and a large bathroom—and settled in for the night.
The next morning I woke up to use the bathroom and found Mom working on her laptop on the toilet. I asked her what she was doing. "Work stuff," she said, "I didn't want to wake you guys."
I shrugged and started getting ready for breakfast. We walked over to the resort's breakfast buffet: an open-air restaurant that overlooked the beach below. I eyed the endless stations, mouth watering, but first we had to greet our host.
Carlton sat at a table by himself. He wore a bowtie and had a white beard with no mustache. He stood when he saw us and gave each of us a hug. Before we sat down, he called the waiter over. "We need fresh silverware please," he said. "These aren't clean enough."
Once we'd said hello, Mom said I could go grab some food, and I shot off into the feast. I piled my plate with fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, sausage, and mountains of waffles, with some fresh guava juice to wash it down. Back at the table, Dad and Carlton were catching up, but I didn't hear much.
After breakfast, we drove out to the property that would be our new home: a two-acre stretch of lava rock alongside the highway. It was nested at the base of the mountain with a view of the ocean, but the wind had become harsh again, and the birdsong gave way to the engines of semi-trucks.
Carlton's "house"—it looked more like a windowless cabin than a home—sat atop a small hill at one end overlooking the property. We would build ours at the other.
It wasn't the sliver of tropical paradise I'd imagined in my dreams, but it seemed good enough for Dad, and I knew we didn't have a plan B.
While Dad started planning the build, I lived like a king back at the resort, running each morning to the buffet, then savoring the sun and warm water at the beach a few minutes' walk away.
But after just three days, Dad said we were leaving. "There are better uses for Carlton's money," he said. "We're going to stay at the Waimea Inn."
I was sad to leave, but I didn't fight it. We didn't seem to belong at places like the Hapuna Prince. As we packed our suitcases into the van, I took one last look at the ocean through the lobby. It was nice while it lasted.
The Waimea Inn felt more familiar: a simple room, no buffet, and no pool. I didn't complain. I knew better than that. At least we have a roof.
The next day, Dad met with Carlton again. Mom, my brother, and I were at the dining table when the door slammed. Dad paced over, sat down, and took a deep breath.
"Carlton just backed out of the deal," he said.
At last, I said, "We're screwed."
Dad turned to me. "No Ryan, we're fucked. It's okay, you can say it."
I didn't say it, but I knew it was true.