Aloha Airlines Magazine
Like most writers, I fashion theories about an assignment before ever making a phone call or stepping away from my desk. So it follows that I thought I understood everything there was to know about custom spa vacations before I ventured into the realm of multimillion-dollar homes, personal chefs and trainers, massage therapists, yoga instructors and gorgeous surf instructors who vaporize concerns about war, natural disasters and personal crises, and make you feel that the entire planet is focused on one worthy goal: Pleasing you.
In-flight magazines are notoriously tough when it comes to investigative reporting. The editor of this one told me my job was to uncover the truth about what really happened on these luxurious excursions. Just who could participate in this sort of indulgence? Did people with obscene amounts of disposable income really prefer private, outdoor-oriented vacations over the thrill of massive quantities of mediocre food and a slot machine covered in layers of recycled cigarette smoke? How could you possibly go home feeling like you’d accomplished anything without a series of sordid tales related to a) loss of faculties; b) loss of money; c) loss of clothing; or d) loss of dignity to recite at the office water cooler? And whatever happened to a pedicure and a greasy hamburger by a pool filled with other people’s poorly behaved children? Didn’t that qualify as a spa vacation?
To find out, I arranged a trip with Pure Kaua‘i, a five-year-old company that caters to celebrities and CEOs in need of a “high-end vacation with a twist of fitness,” according to Pure Kaua‘i host Bryce Toney, who greeted me at the airport with an orchid lei. His easy manner and the chilled washcloth scented with lavender might have been enough to throw me off my mission. But I would not be deterred.
Scribbling notes on my reporter’s pad, I listened as he told me that their custom trips, which attract small corporate groups, couples, or people who could spend $100,000 on a family reunion (note to self: Who drops that kind of money to hang out with his in-laws?) were also proving popular with single women who wanted to eat well, get fit, and reflect on their lives.
Wait a minute. Single women? Going someplace not to gather in tight groups and bitch about men or hook up with them—depending on their mood—but to relish solitude? Doubt furrowed my brow.
Until I talked with Valerie Waters. She’s a personal trainer to movie stars in Los Angeles who was preparing for her fourth visit to Princeville with Pure Kaua‘i. “There’s a time when I really need to be replenished,” says Waters, “and what I like about this is the level of care. They just take all the thinking out of it.” On a more limited budget than her celebrity clients, Waters stays in a condo on the beach rather than one of the exclusive homes. Instead of requesting a private chef, she has custom-prepared meals delivered daily, which is cheaper. “There’s no nightlife, so it’s really all about the day,” the 42-year-old says. “Even in four days, you can totally recharge.”
Using a vacation to recharge? Whatever happened to complaining about the late nights, ensuing weariness, and eight pounds you packed on because you ate like royalty every day? That, above all, indicated success.
But I lost my train of thought when I entered the cliff-top home that Pure Kaua‘i recommended for me. I set my notebook and tape recorder in a corner, unable to close my mouth or lower my eyebrows. It was exquisitely appointed, with elegant, Island-style furniture in soothing earth tones, a gourmet kitchen and a länai with a sprawling view of the ocean. Below sat Secrets Beach, where people were rumored to lose their bathing suits. Oh, yes, I also had my own pool. And Jacuzzi. And 1-acre yard with energetic chickens lurching around. I couldn’t see another person anywhere. And there were goodies!
Placed near a bouquet of fresh flowers was a basket full of macadamia nuts, apple bananas, fresh pineapple and papaya, playing cards decorated with vintage hula dancers, pre-stamped greeting cards and a new backpack for hiking. Capping the selection were Bryce’s own creations: green tea and lavender lotion, shea butter and lavender conditioner, and cucumber shampoo in hand-labeled bottles.
I jolted myself out of my reverie and made a note: There was a striking omission. What about alcohol? How could you have fun without passing out and waking up with a freight train plowing through your skull? I sniffed. The air also felt too clean. And it was so quiet. What did people do here?
Phil Jones, Pure Kaua‘i’s amiable and good-looking (certainly enough to divert most female reporters) owner and CEO, escorted me to a few of the 10 to 15 private homes available to guests—each impossibly magnificent, filled with eclectic art and furnishings from around the world. Family reunion? Book the 12-bedroom estate Jennifer Garner favors. It even has its own weight room, with or without a personal trainer. More industrious guests could probably arrange for a financial advisor and a plastic surgeon to stop by if they wanted.
By the time we returned from our tour of beach-front and cliff-top residences, chef Dani Felix had prepared an Asian chicken salad for lunch in my kitchen (it already felt like mine—a sentiment I never have in a hotel). Kilauea greens hosted bean sprouts, celery, English cucumber, red peppers, snow peas, cilantro, mint, and locally grown avocado. A former private chef for a couple on Martha’s Vineyard, Dani uses organic ingredients and fresh vegetables to create low-fat, high protein meals with an Asian flair.
Afterward, Mike Rodger, the 25-year-old surf instructor with a body well-suited for bronzing, asked if I wanted to enjoy some waves. I glanced outside. It was raining. I turned back to Mike and nodded vigorously.
We amused ourselves with rides in Hanelei Bay, so wind-chopped that the regulars stayed away and left what felt like the entire Pacific to us. An expert big-wave rider, Mike balanced on his head, spun 360-degrees, assured me that he could get anyone to stand up, and that all customers left his good-natured lessons satisfied. Even the men! Families also fared well. Mike is great with kids and keeps them busy while mom and dad enjoy simultaneous massages or do whatever it takes to stay married. It helps that he’s also a certified scuba diver and lifeguard. Could he also be a therapist, I wondered? A temporary husband if yours had left you recently? Didn’t the word custom imply that all of my needs could be met?
Unremittingly friendly, professional and modest, Mike said he hoped I enjoyed the choices available to me (which, sadly, did not include confiscating him), and delivered me back to my estate. But I could choose where to shower. Outdoors? Hmmm. The breeze coming up from the ocean and flitting across my private pool might give me a slight chill. One of the guest bathrooms? Only four or five people could fit in those tiled stalls! I ended up in the master bath, with Bryce’s fragrant shampoo. Then I hung my Levi’s in the closet just so I could walk into the giant space and marvel at the shopping it would take to fill it. Back in the kitchen, wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe, I picked through my goody basket. Bingo! A bag of Island-made chocolate chip cookies. Exactly what I needed after all of that low-fat fare.
A few moments later, Ashley, the massage therapist, arrived on my doorstep with her traveling spa. She is married to Pure Kaua‘i owner Jones, and also happens to massage U2’s Bono and other celebrities, whose names she rudely kept secret. Blonde, stunning and a towering six feet plus, Ashley delivers her own unique blend of stretching, Rolfing, and Hawaiian lomi lomi. And her enormous wingspan allows her to massage your shoulders and feet simultaneously—something everyone should experience before dying.
“You have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” she said, as she removed the heaviness, pound by pound.
Afterward, I offered to help her carry her belongings to her car. But it was a lie. I couldn’t help her do anything. I smiled and waved goodbye, wishing she could be my best friend and never leave. Then I stretched out in my fluffy bed and stared out over the pool and ocean cliffs to the sky, turning a pale, burned orange.
Mike was right. I had so many choices. I could have gone horseback riding. Or snorkeling. Or bicycling. Or zip-lining across a ravine. Or I could curl up and read my book. Not that it mattered. I had already overbooked the afternoon: I couldn’t take a nap, because next on the list was a facial!
My rumbling stomach motivated me to glide back to the kitchen. Had I really eaten all of the cookies? Too bad I hadn’t asked the staff to stock my refrigerator ahead of time, as they would for anyone who requested this service. A pint of Haagen Dazs would have been perfect right then. A thought flickered through my brain, which had a total of three neurons operating at this point: What would I cook for dinner? Then I giggled. I didn’t have to prepare dinner. My private chef was coming. Ha!
A bit of merciless reality almost penetrated when I spotted my notebook. The investigation! Hawai‘i’s $11 billion travel industry was waiting for my analysis! Worse yet, the demanding inflight magazine might never hire me again. And then someone else would get all of these free trips!
The doorbell interrupted what almost amounted to a coherent thought. Indeed, the chime was a sound I’d begun to associate with limitless pleasure. Someone was coming to wait on me, touch me, talk to me or not talk to me (as I wished), and make me feel special. How many times in life do you open the front door of a sumptuous home you’ll never have to clean, not care how you look, and still feel extraordinary?
This time, Michelle, who specializes in aromatherapy facials, brought her portable spa to my bedroom. She surprised me by starting with my scalp, which “is a universal stress point, because there are so many nerve endings,” she says. Rubbing the area with Aveda products “just sets the tone. If your scalp and your feet are relaxed, your whole body is relaxed.” Truly, if your head and feet have never been massaged, your spouse has failed you.
Eighty minutes passed like an instant, yet I felt as transformed as if she’d been working on me for days. My skin glowed. My brain now functioned on one neuron. And my hair? I didn’t care. Someone would tend to it later, with a pitchfork.
Meanwhile, Dani slipped in and silently began preparing dinner. She was unobtrusive; I never heard a sound.“I prepared a vegetable curry with fresh opah, lemongrass, locally grown green beans, zucchini, carrots, celery, and Maui onions,” she told me.
“Huh?”
“Is that okay?”
“Mmmm.” I nodded. Actually, it was wonderful, but my ability to converse had disappeared. Every meal Dani cooked was inordinately fresh, low fat, delicious, and perfectly portioned so that I felt neither hungry nor full at the end. What was that about? Did I really get my money’s worth if I didn’t moan that I couldn’t move for two hours after eating and declare to anyone listening that I felt bloated and inert?
Phil and Bryce had called and e-mailed before my trip to inquire about dietary needs, physical restrictions, and special requests. I asked to be surprised, thinking they might throw in a package of Oreos or a liter of Grey Goose to balance the “health and wellness.” The surprise was that everything they provided seemed like enough.
A restful night and glorious sunrise led to the arrival of Tara Mala, my preternaturally enthusiastic yoga instructor with the perfect derrierre. The beauty of individual attention in yoga is that novices like myself might actually perform the poses properly and can ask questions like, “How do I get a rear end like yours?” without impunity. A few gentle nudges from Tara helped me learn strengthening exercises to avoid specific problems related to thinking too much at the computer—a life I would soon abandon anyway to live in the hills and offer spiritual guidance to pilgrims who would remark on my ideal, round, firm backside, compliments of Tara’s lunges.
At the end of our class, Tara chanted, a verbal gesture that startled then enveloped me. Her comforting voice reminded me: “The more open you are, the more you will receive.” This might have sounded like a cliché elsewhere, but on my private länai, with Tara urging me to breathe deeply while dawn bathed us in first light, it felt like the most significant reflection ever.
A comfy chair on the länai welcomed me. There Dani served fresh-squeezed orange juice, organic coffee, a bowl of homemade granola topped with finely chopped apples and kiwi, and a frothy smoothie. How could anything in life be so perfect? Of course, I tried to ruin the moment with self-destructive thoughts about my physical flaws, my stalled career, my failures as a parent and wife.
But instead of dwelling on such negativity—always a successful pastime at home—I turned my attention to loading my new backpack for a morning hike. Trail guide Laura Prince drove me to the Nä Pali Coast, where she adjusts her pace to her clients’ trekking abilities. We strode up the winding trail amid cascading views of Kaua‘i’s North Shore to a remote beach. Dangerous currents prevail there, but on this day we were able to bodysurf until hunger drove us to a smooth rock on shore, where we devoured the fluffy spinach wraps Dani had prepared.
As I drip-dried in the 80-degree sunshine, I wondered what I would tell people back home. That the trip left me feeling lean and fabulous? That I’d slept through the night for the first time in months? That I’d made peace with whatever haunted me in life, including the devastating fact that Mike, the surf instructor, would not be my temporary love slave?
All too soon it was time to leave Kaua‘i—and my hypotheses about custom spa vacations. The attentive staff at Pure Kaua‘i had helped me balance plenty of physical activity with delicious meals, pampering, and quiet time that sparked insights about what was important in life.
And it wasn’t my theories. Or my notebook.
Fortunately, I don’t think the travel industry noticed that I never submitted an analysis of the custom spa vacation and the growing numbers of people in search of serenity, escape, and light adventure that make them feel good about themselves—physically and emotionally.
Undoubtedly, I will have to whip up something for that crusty inflight magazine and its demanding editor lest another writer get sent on the next indulgent—I mean, investigative—story. If I don’t get around to it, however, look for me in the hills. Either way, I have a feeling I’ll be happy.