Maui (owie)

Red Mustang convertible? Check. A villa at Kapalua? Check. First-time surfing lesson with twin brothers Tide and Kiva Rivers, "Maui’s best surf instructors," according to the New York Times? Check and check. My week-long getaway to the romantic island of Maui is shaping up to be the perfect over-40 female fantasy.
Or rather, was shaping up. The problem is, in a turn of events I might have bragged about had I not been heading for the twins, I crash spectacularly while mountain biking in Whistler the week before I’m scheduled to fly. My swollen knee only bends a few degrees, and my shoulder hurts (though only when I breathe). I call Tide a couple of days before my flight to see if I can reschedule my lesson for a few days into the trip (making sure my street cred stays in check with an excessively vivid description of my crash). His answer is typically surfer: "Hey, no problem."

Fortunately the convertible picks up my spirits, though I’m a little deflated as the post-airport drive runs a gauntlet of strip malls, big box stores and fast food joints-more Paradise Lost than island heaven. But the highway curves west, then north, and bleak scenery transforms into ocean on one side and gentle mountain slopes on the other. Past Lahaina, past the resorts of Kaanapali and, finally, to Kapalua. It’s just the picturesque kind of retreat I had in mind: private villas, meandering golf courses and the neighbouring Ritz-Carlton, all sitting on 24,000 acres of the family-owned Maui Land and Pineapple Company. In 1992, 9,000 acres were donated to the Nature Conservancy of Hawaii, and the golf courses are bird-filled Audubon sanctuaries.

After settling in to my villa-at over 1,600 square feet, a tempting place to spend some quality time-I hobble off to explore. I have access to the massive, airy and Zen-inspired spa (as well as to the Ritz-Carlton facilities next door), so I book a massage, hoping to hasten the knee recovery and narrow the wait time between the twins and me. My therapist, Dianna, leads me down to a garden dotted with hales-private outdoor massage huts where the scented breeze carries the sound of waterfalls through slatted mahogany doors. She listens to my tale of woe and assures me she can work around my knee and shoulder. She invites me to join her in an energy-balancing ritual and we sip ’awa and fresh pineapple juice from a coconut shell. She then gently works my knee, stretching and flexing and showing me how to massage myself to ease the swelling. Blissed out and relaxed, I spend the rest of the day enjoying the view of Molokai from a lounge chair, fantasizing about the twins and their long boards.

Nourishment is surely part of my healing process, so after sunset I limp down to Merriman’s, overlooking Kapalua beach. The dining room is an open-air, torch-lit affair full of holidaying couples and celebrating families. Taking a spot at the bar, I soon feel like a regular, listening to off-duty staff swap surfing stories while the weathered sax player, on his break, reminisces about touring with the Doobie Brothers.

The bartender tips me off that mains are available in smaller (but still-generous) portions at a reduced price. Chef Peter Merriman was a pioneer of Hawaiian regional cuisine, and his eat-local philosophy is evident in the steamed opakapaka with pineapple-cinnamon reduction, served with swiss chard and macadamia-nut spaetzle. The fish is light, flaky and delicate enough to convince me I have room for pineapple upside-down cake. I leave with a pleasant wine buzz and a knee I’m certain will be ready for surfing in a couple of days.

Next morning, though, the knee throbs. Another day of surfing lost, I head down to Kapalua beach, one of Maui’s best for its soft white sand, protected waters and excellent snorkelling. I don mask and fins and discover, close to shore, a magical world of dazzling fish and a yellow-and-brown moray eel who pokes his head from between rocks to bare his teeth at me.

The days fall into a lovely pattern, spent making the difficult choice between the pools at Kapalua or the Ritz. At the latter, three tiers of free-form pools, ringed with palm trees, cabanas and comfy lounge chairs, allow you to be pampered by poolside servers with signature cocktails so full of fresh grapefruit and mint I can convince myself they’re healthy. Crispy rock shrimp and roasted Maui onion dip served with fresh salsa and chips mean I don’t have to leave my lounger until the sun disappears.

Alas, by Wednesday my knee makes it clear that I won’t be surfing in the morning. When I text Tide to tell him so, he texts back, "Sorry to hear the news. Get better soon!! Aloha!" I read this as a license to drown my sorrows at the Pineapple Grill, overlooking the tennis courts and Bay Course. Happily, it’s Wine Wednesday-almost every bottle on the lengthy, well-chosen list is half-price. $42 U.S. for Veuve Clicquot? Done. Again choosing a bar stool over the comfortable dining room, I order enough food to keep me happy and in love with island fare: ahi poke tacos, Kobe beef burger with truffle fries and a Maui-farm-fresh chop salad with papaya seed vinaigrette.

On Thursday, I text Tide to tell him how disappointed I am: Next year, I promise. Within a minute (just how does a surfing instructor respond so quickly?), he replies, "He-he ;) Take care…I’ll see u then;)." Really, though, it’s hard to complain about the week I’ve had-and Friday brings more blissful indolence in the sun. On Saturday, as I head back to the airport, I resolve not to mountain bike before my next vacation here-unless, of course, I can locate a pair of handsome cycling coaches. wl