The first time we went to Kona Village, a luxuriously rustic resort on the western side of the Big Island, Sophie, the oldest of what are now our four kids, was 18 months old. That year she was the smallest of the keiki (children) who donned their grass skirts to hula on stage during the luau. She stood in the front row, shaking her diapered behind and singing her heart out. She could barely pronounce her own name, but she worked out every syllable of the hukilau song. She's 14 years old now, and this time they let her stand on one of the big drums. There was a little more shimmy to her shake, but the lyrics were the same. She's still "a goin' to a huki huki huki hukilau."
The reason we've gone back to Kona 12 years running is not the food, although it's delicious—buffets of heaping platters of blood-red ahi sashimi, cracked crab, coconut cake, and banana cream pie. (Is it any wonder I always gain five pounds?) It's not the lack of television or phones, although that's a huge relief. It's not even the bucolic pathways, thick with orchids and redolent of hibiscus. What brings us back year after year is the resort's remarkably safe and quite nearly isolated location on a secluded black-sand beach, far from other hotels. What brings us back is the fact that Kona is the one place in the lives of our children (Sophie, 14; Zeke, 11; Rosie, 7; and Abraham, 6) where they can run wild.
Immediately after breakfast, the kids are sucked up into a feral pack. They proceed to roam free, spending hours fishing in the lagoon, soaking in the pools and the hot tubs, and riding the waves. Every once in a while, you hear a multivoice shriek as the pack blows by you. You catch a glimpse of your 7-year-old swinging her pucca shells over her head, of your 14-year-old holding the hand of the boy she doesn't want you to know she likes, of your baby riding on his brother's back. Then you return to your sunbathing or the New York Times crossword puzzle until it's time to order a mai tai or take out one of the kayaks with the kids.
While there's comfort in the predictability of our routine at Kona Village, there are also experiences we have every year that allow us to witness our children's growth in ways we just don't at home. I'll never forget the time we found Zeke, then 5, in the hot tub with a couple of teenage girls. He'd gone surfing for the first time that afternoon, but the way he was describing it to his fawning beach bunnies, he'd been riding the barrel since he was in diapers. Equally memorable was Zeke's first swim out to the diving platform, about 50 yards from the shore. For years my husband had been floating him out on a boogie board—then one year, Zeke simply set off on his own, as if he'd never needed anyone else's help. He wasn't a little kid anymore. And this year marked yet another milestone. Our youngest, Abe, was finally old enough, at age 6, to go to the keiki evening games without a babysitter. Off he went, holding his sisters' hands, proud to show us that he's all grown up. It'll only be a couple of years before he, too, makes it to the diving platform without anyone's help.
After visiting for a mere dozen years, we are still Kona Village newbies. Most of the guests have been coming forever, many since they were themselves children, and people tend to book the same week every year. (Indeed, Sophie panics at the thought that her high school break might not coincide with those of the myriad friends she's made over the years.) As a result, the place functions in some ways as a very high-end kibbutz. The whole village raises your child. Someone you've known for a decade but only see on President's Day weekend teaches your children to surf; another pulls them from the waves when they go under; another organizes the family fishing contest. It is a community—albeit one that disbands at lunchtime on Saturday, when it's time to take the 1:49 p.m. flight back to the mainland.
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