According to the New Road Map Foundation, the average American spends nine hours a week behind the wheel.  

I saw a Humpback whale fin the size of my Honda civic not 300 yards away in the turquoise ocean. It was 10:30 AM off the coast of Kawaihae on the big island of Hawaii--an air-clean sunny day. 

My friends Jim and Bernie pulled up their two-man outrigger canoe to the three-whale pod like stools to a counter and watched wordless. Our friend Rick gingerly paddled closer. Bob, my father-in-law, rocked Pacific waves behind Rick. My husband Rob and I stroked tandem in a banana-yellow two-man kayak and quickly abated. 

We collectively gaped in quiet respect. The fin waved politely a few times then slid below. Eyeballs rolled crazily over the ocean, searching for whale entry. The tranquil surface itched us and then--relief! Dorsal hump stern sighting. Most likely a mom with her two babies. She had burrowed underneath our waiting boats and teased us with a blow from behind. 

The whaley family moseyed out to sea, away from coastal shallows and nosy neighbors. The watery playground grew us three flaps of a whale tale before deep descent. The tail was three car lengths away and I sucked air in hard. My God that's close, I thought.  

The National Center for Policy Analysis sketched a profile of the average American workplace and found that workers toil an average of 39.2 hours a week.

Earlier that same morning, I woke to Kohala mountain outside my bedroom window. I dressed and readied for the two-mile stretch of running in front of my house. Matthew Sweet sang of divine intervention in my ears on my CD walkman and I paced uphill for the return lap home. 

It was windy on the dryside of Waimea and hard to catch my breath, but the air moved the volcano fog, vog, off island for a spectacular view. Three dormant volcanoes of Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa and Hualalai stretched across my world. Five round silver observatories on top of Mauna Kea winked at me in the sunlight from a slight bowl dusting of snow. I blinked back at Mauna Kea's world renown observatories and thought of the year waiting list to view from the summit. I finished my run in front of the house with wide eyes, knowing how few witnessed this on a regular basis.  

Only 24% of Americans engage in outdoor recreation several times a week, according to The Recreation Roundtable.  

After lifting the three kayaks out of the water and loading them back on the truck, Rob, Bob and I raced home from hot sea to windy desert, to change clothes and pick up my mother-in-law JoAnn. 

Bathing suits were exchanged for jeans, boots, a shirt and a sweatshirt. My beach hat magically transformed into riding gear as I pushed up the sides. We felt hot in our get-up but I assured everyone we needed extra covering at the 2,500 mile elevation we were about to encounter.  

Traversing the winding mountain road twenty minutes later, we arrived at Paniolo Riding Adventures on top of Kohala for our 1:00 PM ride. A grove of ironwoods lined the peak on both sides and sheltered roving cars from wind. Quiet padded the pine vacuum as we parked the car excitedly. I thought about the old paniolos, the Hawaiian cowboys, and fancied myself one. I walked like one, I talked like one. I was ready.  

They called my trusty mountain steed Queenie, and, boy, was she one. She wanted to do things her own way, and I got a feeling she usually won. But I was a cowgirl today, and I demanded respect from my horse. I pulled the reins hard until she responded accordingly. Rob got the half Belgian horse, half mule. My husband sat tall in the saddle and I grinned at my cowboy in his baseball hat. The day was alive and I was glad. I wanted to yell. Bob and JoAnn saddled up, along with two other women on a return trip. Our group was ripe for ride.  

Queenie knew the way and she followed in line third. Our group followed the leader down mountainside through cowfields of grass and lava. We stopped in front of King Kamehameha's ancient corral. I rode with Hawaiian royalty that day, convinced of my journey.  

We horsed by lava rock wall heiaus (temples) on top of whale mountain and talked about clouds. We were fascinated over our place in the day. Our backdrop could have been Colorado or Montana, and I exclaimed over Hawaii's secrets. She wore climates and geography like Joseph's technicolor dreamcoat.  

I felt my body sing with the breeze and sun over ocean decline, and we finally got to run. I waited my turn for a canter. The field was clear after Bob rode off. Queenie bounced me at first then I kicked her sides, and we flew. I melded with her back and we rhythmed an endemic canter across the open field. The wind untied and lifted my sweatshirt from my waist but I rode on, unwilling to stop. I wanted it to last for hours.  

I flew two more times on Queenie and thanked her each time for the ride. I hugged her neck and murmured in her left ear. Our loop around Kohala ended at red stables, and I mourned my dismount.  The trip was only an hour and a half, but our lower ground gait echoed old westerners with bowed legs. I felt a long butt bruise coming on with sore inner thigh accompaniment. I didn't care. I'd flown above Hawaii's earth face for a snapshot in time and still tingled from the high. We drove down the mountain.  

Percentage of Americans earning over $30,000 a year who said they would give up a day’s pay each week for a day of free time: 70%, New Road Map Foundation.  

Rob and I pulled our phone booth act back home, and modified our outfits yet again for casual dinner wear at a friend's house. It was 4:00 PM. We raced down the coast to Jean-Charles' spot in Kawaihae, due north of where we put in kayaks that morning.  

Jean-Charles, a premier scientist for Canada France Hawaii Telescope on top of Mauna Kea, CFHT, appeared in many noteworthy astronomy magazines the past year, due to an important discovery of dark matter with his team. They basically proved that dark matter dies exist, attempted since Einstein.  

The famous French scientist greeted us on his lanai overlooking the Kohala coast, exactly above our previous whale paddle. He brought out fresh ahi sashimi with shoyu/wasabi, chips and salsa. Our host uncorked wine, and he and I drank from tall slender wineglasses while Rob sipped a frosty Corona mug. Life was good. We three watched an unobstructed sunset. The fiery ball tucked our Hawaiian day in bed as his brothers popped out against the dark rich sky. Jean-Charles pointed out Saturn and Venus and Rob asked what's new in the heavens.  

At the end of a long day, Rob and I dragged our tired bodies to the car after a good-bye to Jean Charles. We stopped to look up. The yellow lights of the island left the night sky free of light pollution, and we ingested cosmos as an after dinner drink. On the ride home I gave thanks for my fourteen hours. I was full.  

69% of Americans would like to “slow down and live a more relaxed life,” NRMF.  

I am an American. I am a thirty-two year old waitress at one of the best restaurants in Hawaii. I have my Bachelor's degree in Broadcast News, am currently working on my Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction, and I choose to serve people food for a living. I was given every opportunity in life and I chose this. 

I live what some call an alternative lifestyle. I work for six months out of the year in Hawaii as one of the top wage earners on the island, anywhere from $100 to $250 a day depending on business. The other six months I travel with my husband across the mainland U.S. and internationally. My husband travels every other month on the mainland as a musician in a rock band.  

I grew up on the east coast, quintessential modern culture. My parents stressed all the right things: good grades, education, independence, strength of character, happiness. My father's motto growing up was work hard, play hard. I embodied the east coast for the first eighteen years of my life and looked around me. Happiness was not to be found. There was money, houses, cars, stuff. I wanted out. Pursuit moved me west.  

Four years in Boulder at the University of Colorado were among the best of my life, then my friend Happy led me to California. San Francisco cracked me open even more, and my world trip clinched it.  

Rob and I spent a year traveling. I saw people living in boxes under a bridge in Jakarta, Java. These people drank the same water they bathed in, shat in. The Javanese government offered them homes on land in the mountains outside Jakarta as a solution to the madness. The box people said no. They craved what I left behind, what I was offered as birthright. They had a sniff of the western world and their stomachs rumbled for more. This image will haunt me for life, remind me of a worldwide growing sickness. I knew then that no matter what rank I held in the U.S., I was better off than maybe 98% of the world. American birth alone set me up high. Our homeless live better than most of the world's lower class citizens. I knew it didn't matter what I did for a living. What car I drove. What furniture I possessed. How much money I made a year. American citizenship alone assured me life success.  

Hawaii was the first stop on my world tour, and now it's my last. I moved back to San Francisco after my trip and sent out cover letters, resumes. I figured it was time to get real now that I'd had my fun. But I hated it. Every visit to a job bank, every photocopy of my drummed up history made me sick. My friend Doug called me almost daily, promised me a job in Hawaii running his new juice business. Encompassed in city, I complied with the mantras of my culture and declined. He kept calling.  

Weeks later, I was free. I decided to chuck it all: San Francisco, job, furniture, car--and move here. The call of Hawaii was too strong.  

I've found people here judge me by the person I am, not by what I do for a living. A waiter bringing your dinner in Hawaii is just as likely to be a law school drop-out, your cook an interior designer. We live here by choice, and we are the luckiest people I know.  

What have I given up to live here? I've given up easy access. It takes me twenty-four hours to see my family. Time-wise, I am five or six hours behind the east coast, making communication difficult over the phone. I have to drive an hour if I want to see a movie, if I want to stop at Wal-Mart or Kmart. There is no cable TV where I live. 

I stayed in a house for two years with no city water, telephone or TV. There is one grocery store in town with limited selection. My gynecologist in Kona is forty-five minutes away. My big news on the island this year is that Road Runner cable access is coming for the TV/phone/internet combo. But not to my neighborhood for another year or two. My favorite ice cream flavor, Häagan Dazs vanilla chocolate chip, is never in any of the stores. Safeway is a full day trip. If I shop there, I have to bring a cooler for the long ride home, no other stops. 

In five words, I have given up instant gratification of questionable necessities. I've given up the job I'm supposed to have with my educational background. The house I should want, the car, the clothes I should be wearing. The sunless hours inside that I'm supposed to give my life for. The consummate debt that enslaves most of the world's high income earners (the typical American household carries $8,570 of non-mortgage debt).  

What have I gained? I've gained liberty from societal demands. I live my life as I see fit and disregard 'supposed to's'. I've gained gorgeous weather bathing me every day of the year. Space, lots of open space in my world. Endless ocean. Well-grounded people who know what's important. Mental and physical health. Every day to read, write, kayak, run, ride a horse, or go to the beach in exchange for five hours, four days a week. But here's the thing, the biggest gain: happiness. I knew all along it was hiding in some exotic place far away. I was right.  

Two turtles mated in the surf yesterday at my favorite beach while I read my schoolbooks in the sand. A longer look shot to sea rewarded me a whale puff. Surfers to the left rode big waves over reef. Five steps took me into the Pacific, and I swam out several body lengths to look at the shore, up at Mauna Kea. I strained to see if there was snow at the top from yesterday's weather in Waimea. Later that day I drove through rainbows on the way to work. 

I live in a place where moonbows exist. I never even knew there was such a thing. You know that bumper sticker, Magic Happens? Here, Hawaii Happens. She happens all around me in accordance with who I am and what I have to offer the world. Hawaii represents a solid manifestation of my dreams, and she is my reality.

Author's Biography

Amy Somers just completed her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Goucher in August. 

She and her husband Robert live in Hawaii half a year and travel the other half. 

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