The haves and have-nots
of isle home ownership

For years, the idea of putting money into a home flitted through our heads without taking root, flushed away by horror stories about huge mortgage payments, expensive roof repairs and unending battles with termites.

There had been some close encounters, usually when places we rented were put up for sale, but the string of apartments and cottages, while OK for temporary nomadic life, weren't ideal for permanent quarters.

Then chance and circumstances converged. Had we not been lured by hiking and camping in a nearby park, had my sister not moved upland, had the weather been lousy, had the real estate guy been a pushy jerk instead of a gentle helper, we might be among the swarms now vying to buy a piece of paradise or priced out of Eden altogether.

The house was one of about a half-dozen on our show-of-homes tour. I often wonder if Ron, the soft-spoken real estate man, saved the best for last or by gauging our reactions through the tour came to understand better what we ourselves weren't sure we were looking for.

To be frank, we saw some really ugly houses.

There was the rat-maze house, a dizzying sprawl of odd-sized, odd-shaped rooms, one leading to another off a splintered deck with a broken hot tub. There was the no-closets structure we dubbed the "parking lot" house for the smooth, black-tarred expanse that smothered almost the whole lot with space enough for 10 cars easy. (We later found out that the seller's father owned an asphalt-paving business.)

A "weekend warrior" house contained a helter-skelter of add-ons, the crowning touch being a playhouse on stilts accessible by a teetering second-story walkway. Another seemed to have been a dorm with rooms off a long, dark hallway. The yard was largely devoid of vegetation, abnormal for rain forest terrain. It had in its favor antique brass towel bars; interesting, but not reason enough to make a bid.

As morning moved to afternoon, housing hunting began to lose its luster. I wasn't too disappointed. We hadn't been desperate to buy, though we liked the village where my sister enjoyed living, the climate and community with friendly people who respected privacy. Prices were reasonable -- actually downright cheap -- so we would be able to afford the kind of space unusual in the islands.

The day was beautiful -- cool mountain air, light that amplified color so that every ohia blossom flaunted vivid red against cloudless, deep blue skies, which we knew was not the prevailing weather there. Still, we were captivated. As we stepped down a grassy knoll, a graceful roofline appeared beyond a stand of trees. Beneath it, a wide deck surrounded a tiny house in a clearing. It was perfect. We quickly decided to put our money down.

Unlike buyers today, we hadn't had to fight the market, calculate the financial weight of ownership while settling for less and paying through the teeth for the privilege. We feel lucky. There's a certain amount of guilt, too, because though I wish everyone could get what they want, I'd hate to see the islands shrouded with houses from sea to mountain to sea again.

Hawaii's buildable land and property earmarked for housing are close to being full up, and unless other spaces, such as agricultural spreads, are released from development curbs, homes will stay in short supply.

It's hard to say no to opening up more acreage, denying others a chance at what the more fortunate among us already have. But it seems we're nearing our island's frontiers, the edges of tangible resources like water and land. In crossing over those boundaries, we may lose the soulful substance that fuels the desire to dwell here. It's a tough call.