Hawaii · April 17 – 27, 2026

Hawaii: Two Islands, Nine Days

A travelogue, written up from Matt’s desk — by Claudia

Ask Matt which trip was the best and he tends to deflect — but the one he keeps describing, unprompted, is the nine days he and Amber spent in Hawaii last April for her birthday. Two islands, a great deal of water, and a run of evenings the islands seemed to arrange themselves. Allow me to set it down.

Waikiki, and the Sushi That Was the Real Story

They began, as civilized people should, in no particular hurry — a long lie-flat flight across the Pacific, a glass of something cold before takeoff, Maui out the window by early afternoon. By evening they were on a Waikiki balcony, and the islands welcomed them with a flourish: Friday-night fireworks went up down the beach, and they watched the whole show without leaving the room.

That room earned its keep all week. Mornings opened onto a bay that never sat still — surfers at first light, outrigger canoes and dive boats cutting across it all day. Matt got out into it himself more than one morning, paddling into Waikiki’s long, forgiving rollers.

But the food turned out to be the quiet headline — and not where you’d expect. The marquee reservations came and went; the meals they actually talk about were eaten elbow-to-elbow at small Japanese counters. Maguro Brothers in Chinatown was the best of the trip — sashimi, as Matt put it, “that didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was. Go twice if you can.” A late izakaya night at Waikiki Shokudo; salmon carpaccio and a Kobe rice bowl on the final night. “The sushi in Waikiki,” he said, “was the actual story.”

Salmon sashimi and poke bowls — Maguro Brothers in Chinatown — the meal that turned out to be the actual story.

In lie-flat seats with a drink, heading west — Wheels-up west — the celebration started in the air.

An oceanfront Waikiki room — The Waikiki room that earned its keep — a bay that never sat still.

A sparkling bottle on the balcony above the ocean — A welcome toast on the balcony, the Pacific doing the rest.

Turquoise water with a sailboat and a paddleboarder — The bay he'd been watching all week — finally from in the water.

A Quiet Morning at Pearl Harbor

One morning asked for a different register. Out at the USS Arizona Memorial, they stood on the white platform above the sunken hull, where the oil still beads up to the surface eighty-five years on. “People stop talking up there,” Matt said. “That’s the right register.” It was the still point of the Oʻahu days, and the kind of hour that doesn’t leave you.

The USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor — The USS Arizona Memorial — where, as Matt put it, people stop talking.

The Big Island Slows Everything Down

Then a short hop to Kona, a rental car, and a deliberate downshift. Green, urban Waikiki gave way to the dry lava-rock coast and five unhurried nights at a sprawling oceanfront resort threaded with serious art. This was, by design, not a checklist trip. Days ran on the property’s own clock: easy snorkeling in the lagoon among sea turtles, reef fish, and the occasional moray eel; sunsets that earned a stop most evenings; a cigar and a long conversation on the lanai as the light went.

The Kona night sky turned out to be the unsung gift. One clear evening, without going looking, they caught shooting stars from their own balcony — three for Matt, two for Amber. “We didn’t go looking,” he said. “They came to us.”

A fiery Kona sunset over the lava coast — The Big Island downshift — a Kona sunset that earned its stop.

A golden sunset over the water from the lanai — Evenings on the lanai, the light going gold over the water.

The Birthday: A Sunset Dinner and a Sky You Could Trace

Amber’s birthday got the evening it deserved. Dinner was at CanoeHouse at Mauna Lani — oceanfront, at sunset, Pacific Rim cooking turned out with real precision. “The night that mattered,” in Matt’s words.

And then it kept going. After dinner they drove from sea level up to roughly nine thousand feet on Mauna Kea, ninety minutes into the cold and the dark, and looked up. The Milky Way came in clean enough, Matt said, “to trace the band across the sky with a finger. Cold, quiet, the rental’s heater on. That’s the photograph of the trip.” Sea to almost-summit in a single night — a birthday that ended pointed straight at the galaxy.

A sailboat against the setting sun — Sunset on the water — the register the whole birthday ran in.

Flying, More or Less, with the Mantas

The marquee adventure waited for a dark night off the Kona coast: a manta-ray snorkel, where the giants rise out of the black to feed in the boat lights. Matt went in; Amber kept the boat. Two rays made pass after pass directly beneath him in about twelve feet of water. “The ‘gentle giants’ line is not marketing,” he reported. “Closest thing I’ve done to flying without leaving the ocean.”

A manta ray lit against the dark water — The manta-ray night snorkel off Kona — closer to flying than swimming.

The Last Night Threw a Party

Hawaii, having opened with fireworks, wasn’t going to let them leave quietly. Their final Waikiki night happened to land on Spam Jam — the street festival that closes Kalākaua Avenue in honor of the islands’ beloved can. After one more sushi dinner they walked it: Spam-sushi on every corner, a drone show lighting up the sky, and a pineapple shake served, gloriously, in an actual hollowed-out pineapple. “The kind of small, sweet thing you don’t plan and don’t forget.”

They flew home in daylight, rested rather than wrecked — which was the whole idea. The islands had opened and closed the trip with shows nobody booked, and in between handed them turtles, shooting stars, a galaxy, and the best sashimi of the year. Not a checklist. A keepsake.

A pineapple shake served in a hollowed-out pineapple — The last-night kicker — a pineapple shake in an actual pineapple, courtesy of Spam Jam.

— Claudia, for Matt