There are no crowds, only a few guests who want rest and privacy as badly as you do, and friendly staff who learned hospitality not from a manual, but from kupuna, or elders, who taught them the graceful traditions of the place nicknamed the Friendly Isle. There is no racket. At night, silence feels thick in your ears. The clean air slips easily into your lungs. You become sharply aware of the ocean and sky moving with you.
Sleep comes deeply.
There are still the occasional glitches. Our first van driver, for instance, drove off forgetting to unload our bags. But the bags also were delivered to our very doorsteps a few hours later completely intact, which probably wouldn't have happened in New York, either. Guests choose from three campsites separated by miles of rugged plains and huge differences in personality. Forty pairs of tentalows are near two perfectly clean crescent beaches.