KAUAI, HAWAII: Spring, 2005

Travel versus vacation. Here's how I see the difference:

Travel = in motion.

Vacation = stationary.

William was raised in a household where true vacations didn't happen. His family trips always included an obligatory visit to some relatives or some other function. The idea of just tanning on a beach or lolling in a hammock didn't exist for him.

I grew up in a home where vacations were barely affordable, but made to happen because of my father's determination that we abandon the city and explore "God's country." Dad folded up our gigantic orange tent and packed it along with sleeping bags and cooking utensils. He stuffed everything into, and on top of, our small car.

Mom gathered up stray pots, Melmac dishes and a Coleman stove. To this day, the scent of summer pine evokes memories of dawn in a forest camp and waking up to the smell of that hot canvas tent beginning to bake in the morning sun. Of my mother, frustrated to the point of tears at having to whip up one more meal in the midst of dirt and cigarette butts while Dad trucked the kids off for a day of trout fishing.

Travel set William on edge. He didn't want to get the money wrong, or make language errors, or offend another culture. Because travel didn't particularly interest him, I assumed he felt the same about vacationing. But I also thought he might actually get a kick out of a few weeks in paradise. In a place where "What do you want to do?" is answered with "Doin' it."

Nothing but sleep, sun, food, drink, books, Scrabble and, even for a couple of weak swimmers, a little snorkeling.

I did some research and found a house to rent for two weeks in Kauai. William wouldn't have to worry about currency or language. But as we packed I could see his edginess start. What to bring? What would we need? At LAX he barely spoke to me and on the plane my mood cranked up to pissiness.

I'd arranged this trip and he was being a bear. Couldn't he at least try to have fun? As we shuffled off the plane, we were enveloped in warm, breezy air. He remained silent. We lined up for our rental car where it was decided that I'd drive and he'd navigate. These decisions were made using maybe eight words.

I wanted to scream. We pulled on to a two-lane highway edged in red earth, rolled down the windows and sped past green hills on one side and a crystalline blue sea on the other.

The ocean crashed white foam on long beaches. Tropical air filled our car. William's arm dropped out the window and I could see him nearly liquefy.

I could live here, he said.

Like that the tension was gone.

We launched ourselves into a vacation of oceanic discovery, long, languid days of relaxation, and a commitment to vacate forever, whenever we could. William, never an early riser, was suddenly up at 6:30 every morning. He mapped out snorkeling excursions for us while I packed our lunches.

We hiked through forests and over cliffs to sandy paradises, where we would often be entirely alone. We read, snorkeled, napped, played Scrabble, ate our lunches and soaked up sunshine. In the evenings we sipped wine while I made fresh fish and salads for dinner. We went to bed early and slept deep.

Vacation became a new word in William's lexicon. It sat right next to dream.