(Part 2 of a multi-part look at the Hawaii leg of the trip. Start at the beginning.)

Hawaii itself was as beautiful as the photos have always shown it to be.

I rented a Toyota Corolla for the five days I was there, and while Lola didn’t have the refinement or power of Sam, she dutifully transported me all around the perimeter of Oahu.

I experienced the surprisingly hectic “relaxation” of Waikiki.  I lounged on deserted beaches on the windward (east) shore.  I watched surfers on the north shore.  I drank 100% Kona coffee, the water from a fresh coconut, and a mai tai with a festive pineapple slice.  I saw the decadent luxury of the rich in the south and the abject squalor of the poor squatters in the west.

Looking out to sea on the north shore of Oahu

I also picked up some Hawaiian during my stay:

• Aloha — Traditionally, means something like “love,” but more recently has become a salutation or, to a lesser extent, a farewell.
• Mahalo — “Thank you”
• APEC — “Traffic jam”

The ramifications of APEC hadn’t been clear when I booked my condo in Waikiki.  It turned out that the conference was a major draw for political leaders and business executives from all around the Pacific rim.  It also brought President Obama to town.  The presence of those VIPs led to security checkpoints and slow going throughout the weekend.  It took me two and a half hours to reach my condo the first time I drove from the airport. Yuck.

I wasn’t sure what the Hawaiian word for “ice” might have been.  I wasn’t even sure if there was a Hawaiian word at all for “hockey,” but I did know that Hawaii’s single ice sheet was located in a strip mall northwest of Honolulu.  And so, I got in Lola and set out for the rink.

(to be continued)

(Part 1 of a multi-part look at the Hawaii leg of the trip.  Broken into bite-sized chunks because, let’s face it, you’d probably just skim a 2000-word monolith.)

Hello, Hawaii.  Land of sandy beaches, verdant forests, and ice hockey.  Yes, hockey.

Hawaii has always been a pivotal role in the Pacific [sic]. It is in the Pacific.  It is a part of the United States that is an island that is right here.

— Dan Quayle, former US Vice President

I hadn’t always planned to include Hawaii on this trip.  Up until September or so, my route included every Canadian province and every American state, except Hawaii.

Fortunately, I came to my senses. It would have been a tragedy for the story of the trip to be marred by an “except Hawaii” qualifier.  That, and Hawaii is a great place to visit even without hockey.  What had I been thinking?

Hawaii! Beautiful even without hockey. A hill on the windward shore of Oahu.

The Logistics

Well, the logistics and cost were two big problems.  The single ice arena in Hawaii was in Honolulu, and for some reason it hosted no hockey in the month of December.  Since I wanted to complete the trip by Christmas, and since most of October would be spent in Canada, that meant that Hawaii would have to happen in November — but not over Thanksgiving weekend, when, again, there was no hockey.

Lake Superior coast in northern Minnesota in November. (Edit: This is a joke, people! Minnesota is actually much more beautiful.)

In order to keep costs reasonable, the flight needed to originate at an airline hub, and given that I’d be on the East Coast, that effectively limited my choices to Dulles (a United hub) or Atlanta (a Delta hub).  Fortunately, my planned arrival in Washington, D.C. coincided with a flight to Hawaii that was 20% cheaper than on neighboring dates. (Thank you, Hipmunk!)  I booked the ticket and only then realized that my savings would be short-lived: United Airlines hates hockey goalies.

The Fact that United Airlines Hates Hockey Goalies

Why does United hate goalies?  Quite simply, the luggage restrictions are incompatible with hockey goalie gear.  While it might (might!) be possible to fit a skater’s gear within the 50 pound and 62 linear inch restrictions, there’s no way that a goalie could pull that off with a single bag.  The leg pads packed alone would be about at the size limit, to say nothing of the rest of the pads.

There’s a simple solution, you say?  Wear my gear onto the plane?  Well, that would be hilarious and solve my checked-luggage issues.

Assume that I could somehow get through security with 12-inch steel blades on my feet.  Let’s also say that high-density foam wouldn’t look like explosives on those new-fangled body scanners.  Furthermore, accept that the TSA wouldn’t go ballistic over my sticks, since though they might appear club-like, using them in that manner is something that I’ve never been caught doing in a game.

Sadly, I can't really draw, not least of a goalie going through security, so here's one of my old comics of a penguin trying to fly. Ha-ha, ha-ha.

Once on the plane, my woes would be multiple.  For starters, I wouldn’t fit in a seat: the width of each leg pad is 11 inches, and the width of an economy seat on a United 767 is only 18 inches — 4 inches shy, at the least, and that’s completely ignoring the extra bulk of the goalie pants.  And if you thought that leg room was bad to begin with, just image how it would be with huge pillows on your legs.  My seat neighbors would be thrilled, too: it would be like sitting next to that really, really, really obese guy, but much worse.

Also, can you imagine the smell?  By the end of the many hours in the air, it would be good that I’d have so much padding on, because everybody around me would be looking to beat the hockey out of me.

On the plus side, I don’t think I’d need the extra flotation provided by a life vest in the event of a water landing.

Clearly, checking the gear was the way to go.  I just wish I didn’t get docked an extra $100 each way for being a goalie.

Here are a few airlines that would have let me flown with my goalie gear without charging me oversize or overweight fees:

• Delta
• US Airways
• Alaska Airlines
• Air Canada (duh)

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

(to be continued)

Six weeks in Canada over the course of four months came to a close with my final province: Nova Scotia.  It was fitting that the trip should spend its final days north of the border in such a hockey-mad place.

It’s relatively common knowledge that hockey was born somewhere in Canada, but did you know that it was Nova Scotia where students first moved the field game of hurly onto a frozen pond?  In the 200 years since, hockey has flourished there, and indeed one of the modern day stars of the game, Sidney Crosby, hails from that same land.

I was fortunate to have strong allies for my 48 hours in New Scotland.  David of Hockey Family Advisor put me in touch with Todd and Sandy, who organized skates, as well as the Stardust Motel, which (sketchy name notwithstanding) provided me comfortable accommodations for two nights, gratis.

Todd happened to have connections to multiple hockey games.  Early on, he invited me to tend goal in his main event, a long-running private pickup game near Halifax.  Upon learning that I would be arriving earlier that afternoon, he floated an even more interesting opportunity.

The older of his two sons had a hockey practice that afternoon, and his team had only one goalie.  Todd was an assistant coach, and he thought it could be fun if I were around to fill the other net. Would I be interested, he wondered? Of course!  I mean, I expected the 12-year-olds to skate circles around me, but at least I’d be a more challenging target than a piece of plywood.

And so, after taking the overnight ferry from Newfoundland, I drove directly to Sackville, near Halifax, and met the Harold T. Barrett Junior High hockey team.

At the HTB Jr High hockey team's practice. I'm the taller goalie. (Credit: Todd)

It was indeed fun skating with the kids.  I think they had me beat in the skill department, but the fact that I filled so much more of the net than they were used to gave me something of an advantage.

Later that night, I went over to the Halifax suburb of Bedford and skated with the kids-at-heart.  It was a decidedly upbeat, relaxed group.  Even the added pressure of a TV cameraman gathering B-roll (which I’ll get to later) didn’t put them off their game.

In a nice touch, the group wore the jerseys of the Sackville Flyers, a local minor hockey team, and they gave me one as a souvenir.

It was a fun skate, and I spent a long time talking with a bunch of the guys in the parking lot after the game about life, travel, and hockey.

Skating with Todd's group in the sweaters of the Sackville Flyers. Todd is in between the other goalie and me. (Credit: Rodney)

One of the guys at the game, Pete, was generous enough to put together a logo for the trip. I think it looks really neat. Not only is my mask the right color (red), Nova Scotia is visible, and the right side of the American flag looks vaguely like the East Coast:

One of the guys at Todd's skate, Pete, drew this logo for the trip. I think it's awesome. Notice how my mask is the right color (red) and Nova Scotia is visible. (Credit: Pete)

The next day brought even more hockey-related excitement.  A producer named Leo at a major regional TV station, CTV Atlantic, had been in touch with me about doing a segment for their “Live at 5” news magazine show.  Even though I wasn’t exactly sure what that would entail, it seemed like it would be fun, and so the afternoon of my second day in Halifax, I met Jim the cameraman and Felicia the reporter at the Nova Scotia Sports Hall of Fame.

I expected that Crosby, as the current hometown hero, would be mentioned in the Hall, but I was a bit surprised to find that about a quarter of the total display area was dedicated to him.  Notably, they had the dryer that Sid the Kid used for shooting practice at his parents’ house.

The filming and interview took about an hour, and although I haven’t seen the finished product, I’m told that it turned out well.  Not only did it get aired on TV, it was also played at an intermission for the Halifax Mooseheads, the most popular hockey team in Halifax.

The CTV Atlantic Live at 5 clip about my trip playing at a Mooseheads game (Credit: Todd)

But wait, there was more!  One more hockey game, to be precise.

Sandy (who, as you recall from above, was introduced to me by David) let me join his skate in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, across the bay from Halifax.  The group there had been skating together for about 20 years, and though the faces had changed a bit over the years, it was clear that they were close-knit.  In fact, one of the skaters was an orthopedic surgeon and had done knee replacements for several of the guys.  (Kind of reminds me of when my teammate Marc, an attorney, helped me out with a speeding ticket back when I first started playing.)

The guys in Dartmouth gave me a souvenir, too: a sweater for the Dartmouth Whalers.  Once again, a great group of guys.

The next morning came, and I departed Canada for the final time on the trip, better for the experience.

“You’re a hell of a goalie,” the skater told me.

We had just finished playing at the lunchtime drop-in session at The Pond in Newark, Delaware.  His accolade was deserved, at least when judged by my performance during the skate: I had stopped pretty much everything that came my way.  However, he did not have the necessary data to determine if my puck stopping prowess was true talent or merely luck.

It can be hard to separate the two.  Were all of the shots that were hitting me center-of-mass (i.e., in my chest) the result of my good positioning, or were they the result of poor shooting by the skaters?  Did the skaters on the breakaways miss the net because my aggression rushed them into poor aim, or were they just having off days?  Did I really intend to make that glove save, or did my glove just happen to be in the right spot?

Perhaps it wasn’t so much that the skaters were having off days as it was that I was having an on day.  I was feeling really good going into the skate, and once I found some pegs for the net, that feeling continued on the ice.  I was watching the puck all the way in, reacting quickly and decisively, and staying solid on my angles.  I was in the zone.

It’s a magical thing being in the zone as a goalie.  It’s like being on some sort of crazy puck-stopping drug.  The biscuit stands out sharp and crisp, high in contrast against the ice.  Everything else becomes blurred.  The noisy clamor of the game gets muted.  It’s sublime: goaltending flow.

You see the puck, you see the play, you see all of this in the sense that you feel it. You instinctively know what must happen, and it does.  The angle of the shooter’s stick, his legs, his arms, his eyes; everything telegraphs where the puck is going like it’s in neon lights.  The pace slows down until it’s almost comically slow.  The moment of release becomes a foregone conclusion, not a surprise.

It’s concentration on an entirely different level, something that makes you wonder — later, after the moment, when there’s time for reflection — just what might still be possible for humans to accomplish.

Me in net at the University of Waterloo, a night in which I was "near-zone" but not quite fully there (Credit: Sarah)

Like any drug, once you’ve had a taste of the zone in its purest form, you’ll do anything to experience that bliss again.  I’ve experienced it doing only four activities: writing, hacking code, playing hockey, and taking photos. When I leave the zone and look back on what I did while in it, the product is sometimes beyond that which I consider within my skill, an observation which then occasionally leads to a flare-up of impostor syndrome.

Then there are times, dreadful times, when it seems like I have a total inability to stop the puck.  I’m a few degrees off my angle, a few tenths of a second too late on the reaction, a few inches too low on my glove position.  I let in goals like it’s going out of style.  The puck seems practically invisible; I’m not following it into my pads, I have no idea where the play is headed, and I seal up about as well as a door on a 1970s Chevy.  I’m embarrassed and an embarrassment.

That’s what separates me from the professionals (a label I’m applying in a broad sense).  I am either really good or downright terrible.  I am wildly inconsistent.

The mark of a professional is to turn out decent work even when not in the zone: sometimes spectacular, but always at least decent.  Not every session will be the best of the best, but even the mediocre ones are still pretty good. Anybody can be hot one night or a couple of nights, but turning in decent performances day after day, game after game, is very, very difficult.

I can do that in some disciplines, but hockey is not one of them.

Still, I don’t lose hope that I will one day enjoy, if not higher peaks, then at least shallower lows.  Practice, practice.

The sun had set, and I had 100 miles to go.  Sam’s wipers were on high, but the rain was so intense that they did little to keep the world from looking like a million tiny dots.  My complete focus was on driving.  I knew from the numerous signs along the road that moose, thousands of them, lurked in the shadows.   I should have waited it out, but doing so would have made me miss the overnight ferry back to Nova Scotia.

Three days earlier, I had arrived on Newfoundland, the penultimate province in my trip.  I was giddy with excitement.  Newfoundland had a certain mystique in my mind that had only been intensified during my time in the other provinces.

Port aux Basques, NL at dusk, eh b'y?

All across Canada, people had told me about how wonderful everybody was in Newfoundland.  Sure, they might have teased the “Newfies” a bit, much as some Americans characterize certain people who live in Appalachia as “hillbillies,” but any such mockery seemed always to be followed by notes of admiration.  Newfoundlanders, they said, were some of the nicest people on the planet.  So went my experience.

While I did not have the legendary adventure of being invited into a home for a cup’a tea, many little encounters combined to give the flavor of the culture.  There was Gerard, a kind old man in his 70s who I found admiring Sam in the parking lot of a grocery store in Deer Lake.  Then there was Tom, a retired teacher with a red convertible in Gros Morne National Park who chatted me up about many things, including the virtues of high-yield American REITs.  And of course there was Pete, who chatted me up about photography for the better part of an hour in Corner Brook’s Brewed Awakening coffee shop.

It's a 5+ hour ferry ride between Port aux Basques, NL and North Sydney, NS. Plenty of time to engage in some self photography, eh b'y?

Was there hockey?  Well, there was certainly interest in hockey.  The local paper, the Western Star, wrote up a piece about my trip, and the local CBC station interviewed me at the rink in Corner Brook, where I would go on to play at the lunchtime skate.

People were as nice at the arena as everywhere else I went on the island.  Turn-out was a bit light, just five skaters and myself, but we made the most of the situation.

The arena itself was slightly annoying, in that they were the second arena on the trip (the first being in Montreal) to charge me, a goalie, for playing in a drop-in skate.

I felt a bit guilty about my irritation when one of the skaters, a man named Tyrone, came up to me after the skate, wished me luck, and told me that he had a son of his own.  He then pushed $20 into my hand, which I attempted to decline, but he insisted I take it.  “I know it gets expensive, being on the road,” he said.  I was touched by his generosity — for he did not seem to be a wealthy man — and I thanked him profusely.

A rainbow near the road near Stephenville, NL, eh b'y?

The only problem I ran into on Newfoundland was the dialect.  Most of the people on Newfoundland seemed to speak standard Canadian English without much of an accent, but a few of the guys sounded like they had just gotten off the boat from Ireland.

One man in particular tried to talk with me in the parking lot of a Tim Hortons while I was tending to the air in one of Sam’s tires.  It took considerable effort to figure out that his name was Russ and that he worked as a hunting guide.  I think he was trying to convince me to go on a moose hunting trip, but I’m not certain.

Small building seen near Rocky Harbor, NL. This was as far from Port aux Basques that I ventured. St. John's will have to wait for another trip, eh b'y?

Fall colors in Corner Brook, NL, eh b'y?

Waterfront view near Norris Point, NL. The hills in the background are part of Gros Morne National Park, eh b'y?

Back on the road, several hours slowly passed,  and still Sam and I were plodding along through the inky black. Unknown danger continued to lurk just beyond the white boundaries of the road.  It was a lonely pursuit, but then a large number of trucks began to appear going opposite my direction.  I looked at the clock; the 7:00 p.m. ferry from the mainland must have arrived not long before.

An orange sodium glow appeared on the horizon and gradually grew to surround me.  I pulled into the ferry dock.  Sam and I had made it safely.

As for the moose?  Well, there were supposed to be 150,000 of them there, but I saw exactly zero during my time on the island.