Waimea Plantation Cottages on Kauai.
Special to the Star-Bulletin

The more the fantasy resurfaced the more appealing it seemed. Though we don't have family here, we had met some new neighbors we thought would be fun to have join us. Secretly, I thought it a bit risky spending a long weekend with people we only had had dinner with a few times.

What the heck. Nancy, daughter Carly, and I flew to Kauai on an early morning flight with Bob and Julie Hansen, and Emma, their 8-year-old daughter, for three-days at Waimea Plantation Cottages where we would share a single residence.

Nancy had been looking for a place where a family or several families could visit, relax, connect and not bankrupt themselves in the process. We chose Waimea Plantation Cottages after several family considerations: We were tired of mega-resorts, hadn't been there before and could cook meals in house.

Carly had some serious preteen concerns: "What if it's, you know, boring? Will there be a television, a VCR? How about a pool slide?" Nancy investigated: Yes to TV and VCR and pool, no to the slide. And yes to a horse shoe pit, tennis court, recreation room with a big-screen television, ping pong table and barbecues. Carly agreed.

The cottages are atypical as Hawaii destinations go. No room service or daily cleaning, bars, in-hotel shopping, spas, or $5 bowls of cereal. The 48 cottages go from one bedroom up to five in the Manager's Estate; all have the feel of a simple, dignified home, a little blemished in spots, but quiet, and very old Hawaii. It sits along a dark sand beach littered with driftwood and other flotsam from the Waimea River.

Our house - the 4,000 square-foot, two-story, 1900-era Manager's Estate - had two dining areas, laundry, ceiling fans everywhere, high ceilings, a linen closet filled with thirsty towels, and lots of nooks and crannies to get lost in when we tired of one another. I ended up reading a lot in several crannies.

Each cottage is the original home of former plantation employees of the Kekaha Sugar Co. and the Waimea Sugar Mill Co. Ours once belonged to Michael A. Faye, developer of the cottages, and grandson of H.P. Faye, who leased 200 acres from King David Kalakaua in 1884.

A grove of coconut palms, half-century old banyans and ironwoods are scattered throughout the property. The only sounds are breaking waves, tradewinds, an occasional chirping bird. The beach, though rocky in spots, was still good for running and walking and watching the sunset disappear behind Niihau.

The kitchen was big enough for us to cook meals together while jabbering about world and local issues and munching toast and coffee and cinnamon rolls and fruit and juice.

The master bedroom had a wonderful bath with a Jacuzzi, a watery nook that I used for reading and a pastoral view from the deck or from the bed through french doors.

Conversation took up major parts of our days. Julie and Nancy solved several world problems and our kids' squabbles. Bob spent lots of time in the pool with the girls; I hid in quiet corners pondering life and death. At sunset we wandered down to the salt-and-pepper sand to sit on driftwood, watching Niihau change from pink to a black silhouette.

The only real diversion came from a fierce-looking boxer - we named it Hootch after the movie - which quickly adopted us. Hootch lounged with us, walked with us, drooled on us, shared meals with us, and by the end of our stay barked at anyone who ventured by our beach house. (Turns out Hootch - his real name is Boxer - belonged to one of the property owners.)

One night we barbecued hunks of steak, eating at the picnic table outside the back door under a full moon. We talked about families, feeling isolated in the middle of the Pacific, friends moving away, sudden illnesses, futures altered by family obligations and government bureaucracy and bad bosses. Finally we gave up to sleep.

Nancy and Julie shopped the next day in Waimea and Hanapepe. Carly and Emma played with Boxer; Bob and I talked about UH football. We later visited Polihale, the most blistering beach in the state and returned - miraculously without a sunburn.

That night while the adults played Scrabble, the exhausted children crashed near us on a couch. Hootch snored nearby. We laughed, teased, scorned, challenged, got tipsy and acted silly.

As dawn approached the last morning, I crawled out of bed and wandered from the darkened house to watch the sun rise over McBryde Sugar several miles east. One moment the smoke stacks were back lit, the next they were ablaze in pinks and reds.

When we checked out at the last possible moment we agreed that the three-day escape seemed like a week off at other places.

"Do we have to go, Daddy?" Carly pleaded. "I miss Hootch."

I drove slowly feeling relaxed and reluctant, watching Waimea fade in the rear-view mirror, promising to return with our new friends. And we will. The Ryans and Hansens are celebrating Thanksgiving there.