Escape from Maui
In the heart of paradise, amidst the alluring landscapes of Maui, my family and I embarked on a journey that was meant to be a celebration of memories, but soon turned into an unexpected adventure of resilience and adaptation.
Departing from the bustling city of San Francisco, our flight was met with fierce winds as we approached Maui, resulting in a heart-pounding turbulence. The plane seemed to dance and dive, propelled by 45-mile-per-hour gusts, offering us a foretaste of the unpredictability that lay ahead.
Upon landing, we followed our cherished tradition by visiting the quaint town of Wailuku, a mere 20-minute drive from the airport. Every visit to Maui had seen us revel in the town’s delights, and this time was no different. Marking our 10th wedding anniversary, we were keen on buying rings, and where better than our favorite store, Treasure Imports? Mr. Bruce, the ever-affable owner, greeted us with his customary warmth, making the shopping experience memorable.
After our purchase, we stopped at a nearby Target, gathering groceries in anticipation of our stay at the Westin Kaanapali, where a villa awaited us. But as fate would have it, our journey to the resort took an unexpected turn. The highway, normally a path of seamless transition, became a quagmire of halted vehicles and anxious drivers. News of downed power lines reached our ears, and after hours in gridlock, I ventured to take an alternative route. This path, frequented mostly by locals due to its challenging terrain, seemed like our ticket out.
But as we were about to embark on this less-traveled road, a police barrier halted us. The officer’s words were clear — this path was being used for evacuation, accessible only to locals. The gravity of the situation began to dawn upon us.
Desperation led me to dial every hotel in the vicinity, each call echoing the same response: “We’re fully booked.” It was as if Lahaina’s unforeseen events had sent the entire region into a scramble for shelter. With a sinking heart, we turned to the Courtyard by Marriott near the airport. My Platinum Elite status gave a glimmer of hope, but upon entering, the sight of a jam-packed lobby quickly shattered our optimism. The night seemed to stretch indefinitely, with our prospects dwindling. I could secure just two seats for my parents, while Aditi, my wife, stayed with our sleeping children in the car.
Just when the weight of our circumstances seemed too heavy to bear, a beacon of hope appeared in the form of the hotel’s pool area. There, nestled in the moonlit backdrop, were three unoccupied cabanas. It felt like serendipity. This unconventional setting became our haven, providing shelter and an unforeseen bonding experience for our family.
In the stillness of the night, with the gentle lapping of pool water and the soft rustle of palm leaves as our backdrop, our momentary tranquility was disrupted by the stern presence of hotel security. The officer’s flashlight cut through the darkness, momentarily blinding us, before settling on our makeshift setup in the cabanas.
“You’re trespassing,” the officer declared, his voice firm yet tinged with sympathy. The gravity of the word “trespassing” hung in the air. I could feel the unease among my family members, their tired eyes darting between the officer and me.
I took a deep breath, my voice steady yet laced with desperation. “Sir, I understand we’re not in an ideal situation here. But, as you can see, I have my family with me — my wife, my kids, my elderly parents. We’ve tried every hotel, every inn, and found no rooms. We thought this would be a safe place for just one night.”
The security officer’s gaze softened a bit, clearly torn between his duty and the human predicament in front of him. “I understand your situation,” he began, pausing to choose his words carefully, “but you can’t stay here. This is private property.”
I took a step forward, my voice thick with emotion. “We’ve traveled so far and encountered challenges at every turn. We just need a few hours to rest before we can figure out our next steps. Please, is there any way you can make an exception?
The tense silence that followed was broken by Aditi’s soft voice. “We have nowhere else to go. Please, let us stay.”
The security officer, taking a moment to assess the situation, finally sighed. “I can’t promise anything, but let me talk to my manager.”
No sooner had we begun to settle into our makeshift haven than we were again interrupted, this time by a more assertive presence: the hotel manager. Her stern demeanor was unmistakable, even in the dim lighting.
“You cannot stay here,” she declared with an authority that left little room for negotiation. “If you do not leave, I will have no choice but to call the police.”
My heart raced. My family, their faces etched with worry, looked to me. Their anxious whispers filled the air, urging me to reconsider and take the safer route of retreating to our car. But something within me wouldn’t budge.
With a newfound determination, I stood up, addressing the manager directly. “You can call the cops, the mayor, or even the governor for all I care. My family’s safety and well-being are my top priority. We’ve been turned away from every corner, and this is where I draw the line. We’re not leaving until the roads reopen.”
A tense standoff ensued. The manager, taken aback by my resolution, seemed to measure the weight of her next steps. Around us, the hotel’s late-night ambiance became an unlikely witness to our predicament, amplifying the gravity of the moment.
Aditi’s voice, soft yet firm, broke the silence. “We mean no harm. We’re just looking for a safe place for our children and parents. Please, understand our situation.”
My parents, in a bid to diffuse the tension, tried reasoning with the manager. They shared tales of our journey, the turbulence we faced, both in the air and on the ground. But the manager remained resolute, her professional duties clashing with the desperate pleas of a family.
Amid the spectral glow of Maui’s midnight hour, our desperate quest for refuge took an unexpected turn. The hotel manager’s relentless insistence that we vacate, coupled with her threats — accentuated by photographs she snapped as if collecting evidence — had forced us into an untenable situation. By midnight, feeling cornered and out of options, I made a fateful decision: to brave the treacherous back route one more time, hoping that perhaps the passage had opened up. Dad’s plea to seek refuge at the airport fell on deaf ears; the mere thought of my children sprawled on airport floors sent shivers down my spine.
Empowered with a concocted story about a local offering us sanctuary, we approached the checkpoint, praying that luck would shine on us just this once. The young coast guard officer’s face was a mask of professional resolve, making it impossible to predict her response. Aditi, voice unwavering, narrated our tale. After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the magic words were spoken, “Drive safe.”
The next leg of our journey was nothing short of harrowing. The perilous roads, winding tightly along the sheer cliffs, were an unending challenge, demanding every ounce of my concentration. In the pitch darkness, the single lane path was a tightrope walk, fraught with the imminent danger of collision.
The eerie parade of cars rushing in the opposite direction was ominous. The chilling words of a stranger, “Everything is fricking burning”, resonated, echoing the panic and urgency in the air. Both Aditi and Dad, fear evident in their voices, begged me to turn back. But driven by a stubborn resolve and a fierce instinct to protect, I pushed forward, repeating my mantra: “Until I see smoke and fire, I’m not turning back.”
As we approached the outskirts of Kanapali, the sight of cars parked haphazardly and the anxious chatter of evacuees painted a grim picture. An encounter with a fellow countryman further intensified our fears; tales of burning hotels and urgent evacuations swirled around us. But I was guided by an unyielding intuition that told me to keep moving.
When the familiar silhouette of our resort finally emerged from the darkness, it was as though we had arrived at an oasis in the midst of chaos. The subtle glow of the lobby and the presence of staff were sights for sore eyes. Their reassurance — that the hotel, though bereft of power, was still standing and safe — was music to our ears.
That night, as the lukewarm water of our powerless bathroom cleansed away the day’s fatigue, it felt rejuvenating; a renewal after a perilous odyssey. That night became an indelible memory, a tribute to determination, endurance, and the enduring flame of hope in challenging times.
In the warm embrace of the morning sun, as the rhythmic sound of waves kissed the shores of Maui, a deceptive tranquility belied the underlying turmoil. I had been naive, thinking that a roof above our heads was our only concern. The realities of a power outage and its cascading effects became strikingly evident as I stumbled upon that long line of weary guests. A hotel renowned for its opulence was reduced to serving just coffee and pastries for breakfast.
The hotel, which I believed would be our refuge, was not prepared for such an eventuality, neither were its guests. Our kitchen, packed with groceries, lay useless; our perishable items on the brink of ruin. The decision to venture out in search of sustenance, however, led us to confront an even grimmer reality. The sight of thousands of people, a testament to the chaos and despair, waited hopelessly outside closed stores. The police, perhaps overwhelmed themselves, could offer no respite.
Hunger is a great equalizer. Here we were, amidst a paradise, lining up for hours, cash in hand, to buy a couple of pancakes. But amidst this gloom, a spark of inspiration struck. The primal instinct of survival spurred an idea — if only I could get my hands on a lighter, I could harness the ancient art of cooking over open flame. Standing in line day after day was not just unsustainable, it was demeaning. This was not the vacation we had envisioned, but necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention.
With resolve steeled, and my family’s welfare in mind, I set out on a new mission: to transform our ordeal into an adventure, to find ways to adapt, and to ensure that in this land of abundance, my family would not go to bed hungry.
The sun beat down on the asphalt as I scoured the parking lot with a singular mission — to find a lighter. It was an unassuming quest but one that held the key to our sustenance. A few dismissive glances and polite refusals later, I found myself standing before an old man with wise eyes and a weathered pickup truck. He rummaged through his pouch and handed me a worn-out red lighter, a beacon of hope in our time of need. His kind refusal to accept any money for it reminded me of the inherent goodness that exists, even in dire circumstances.
With a new-found energy, I made my way back, already planning the makeshift stove in my head. However, as if the universe was playing a cosmic joke, I was greeted with the news that the hotel had powered up the grills. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but neither was the relief. That day, seated around a table with my family, enjoying simple rice with the tangy flavor of homemade mango pickle, I realized the truth in the saying — it’s the simple joys that matter most. After all the chaos, here we were, counting our blessings over a humble meal, grateful for the togetherness amidst adversity.
The simple act of turning on the grills had transformed our circumstances. That night, the soft glow of the grill illuminated our faces as we hungrily devoured freshly made rotis, an ode to our resilience and adaptability. But as the rotis piled up, a twinge of frustration began to grow within me. Here we were, in a situation where conserving our resources was crucial, and Dad, perhaps buoyed by the joy of being able to cook again or maybe trying to provide some semblance of normalcy, had made more than we needed.
The sheer volume of rotis wasn’t just a source of contention due to the waste; it became a metaphor for the emotional rollercoaster we were all on. We were cocooned in our bubble of hope, shielded from the harsh reality of the damage unfolding nearby, but the weight of the uncertainty and the inherent need to ensure our supplies lasted often led to emotions spilling over in unexpected ways. The periodic wail of sirens in the distance served as stark reminders of the volatile world outside. And while our immediate needs were met, the fires, though unseen, cast a shadow over our temporary reprieve, hinting that the path to normalcy might be longer than we’d hoped.
The sun might have been shining, but a cloud of anxiety cast its shadow over our makeshift abode at the Westin Kannapali. The enormity of our plight had reached family shores far and wide, echoing in the worried conversations of loved ones in New Jersey and Virginia.
It was Aditi, with her characteristic resilience, who decided to reach out and break the news to her father, Ramesh. The call carried not just the weight of our dire situation but also the palpable undertones of hope and reassurance, a desperate attempt to remind them that we were still safe, albeit trapped in the unpredictable whims of Maui.
And then, in the midst of despair, emerged a beacon of hope. Ramesh, with his relentless spirit and a heart full of concern, swung into immediate action. His conversations became a source of solace for us, a distant yet reassuring voice, affirming that we weren’t alone in this ordeal.
Through a web of contacts and frantic calls, Ramesh reached out to a helicopter operator, a potential savior who could airlift us from the clutches of Maui to the relative safety of Honolulu. Cost was the last thing on Ramesh’s mind. The staggering $6,000 price tag was just a number in front of the safety and well-being of his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. His determination reflected a singular goal: to bring his family out of this harrowing survival game.
In the unfolding drama that was our escape from Maui, Ramesh emerged as an unexpected hero, a testament to a father’s undying love and the lengths he’d go to protect his family.
The dawn of the new day broke not with hope, but with an announcement that made the very air in the hotel feel heavier. The words echoed grimly through the corridors, chilling the very marrow in our bones. “The power won’t be restored for the next 4–6 weeks,” the hotel manager declared, his tone a mix of urgency and despair. The consequences of that were immediate and devastating — dwindling food supplies, a town running out of gas, and a resort full of trapped, panicking guests.
Anxiety coursed through the hotel as people rushed to their rooms, desperate to pack and leave. A palpable sense of urgency filled the air; everyone was in a race against time, to escape an island that now felt like a beautiful prison.
Amid this chaos, I found myself walking along the beach, a desperate quest for the one bar of signal, our tenuous link to the outside world. The ocean waves, usually a source of calm, now seemed to mirror the turbulence of our hearts. After what felt like an eternity, a connection was made. On the other end were Ramesh and the helicopter operator, two voices that represented a lifeline. The decision was swift and unanimous: a 3:30 pm flight would be our escape from this unforeseen nightmare.
As the time neared, every tick of the clock became an echoing reminder of our impending journey — a flight to safety, away from the unpredictable whims of nature and towards the embrace of loved ones waiting anxiously miles away.
As we navigated our way to the airport, the path took us through the heart of Lahaina. What we witnessed was a stark contrast to the paradise we’d envisioned. The town was devastated, with traces of the havoc nature had wreaked evident everywhere. As we drove through the ghostly remnants of the once bustling town, the melancholic strains of “Careless Whisper” played on the radio. The poignant lyrics resonated with the somber mood inside our vehicle, leading Aditi to tears. The sheer magnitude of the devastation was overwhelming, and we couldn’t help but mourn for those who had lost everything.
Upon reaching the helipad, another obstacle awaited us. The helicopter crew informed us that due to weight constraints, they couldn’t accommodate our luggage. This was our family’s entire collection of necessities and memories from the trip. Desperate to find a solution, I scoured Google flights and to our fortune, found that Hawaiian Airlines had added multiple additional flights to Honolulu at a discounted rate of $19 one way, in an effort to assist tourists in their escape. Gratefully, I booked seats for our family.
I approached the helicopter operator with trepidation, expecting resistance regarding our cancellation. However, they displayed unexpected empathy and compassion, waiving the cancellation fees. In a journey marked by unpredictability and hardships, their gesture was a beacon of hope, a testament to humanity’s inherent kindness even in trying times.
Arriving in Honolulu was like entering a safe haven. The warm embrace of the city felt more welcoming than ever before. Ramesh’s relief was palpable, even through the phone, and knowing that our family back in New Jersey and Virginia was no longer fraught with worry brought immense comfort.
We checked into a local hotel, and for the first time in what felt like ages, we were able to unwind without the constant underlying tension. Over the next two days, we indulged in local delicacies, felt the sun on our faces, and listened to the gentle lull of the ocean waves. It was therapeutic, giving us the breather we desperately needed.
Yet, amid these moments of serenity, our thoughts often drifted back to Maui and the devastated town of Lahaina. We pondered upon the fragility of life and the unpredictable wrath of nature. Every meal we savored, every laughter we shared, was tinged with a gratitude that ran deep, knowing how fortunate we were. It also came with an ache for those less fortunate, for the souls lost, and for the families forever changed by the tragic events. The juxtaposition of our relief and the ongoing despair in Maui was a poignant reminder of the unpredictable dance of fate.
