Lucus Landers

Rings and Raindrops

Jungle Cabin

The jungle awakens with a languid stretch, sunlight piercing the dense canopy to gently prod our tiny jungle home. Despite our bodies crying out for more rest, the adventure of ordinary tasks calls us to rise. The symphony of Hawaiian frogs from the night before fades, giving way to the day's chorus of goats and chickens. With some coaxing, April emerges from her slumber and we climb into our rented convertible. The top goes down, and we set off for Hilo, ready to navigate a day of bureaucratic necessities, a stark contrast to our recent wild escapades.

As we drive, the skies above Hilo burst open, a torrential downpour unleashing itself as if to mirror our whirlwind of emotions—excitement tinged with the subtle nerves of what the day holds. We weave through the city, ducking under cascading waterfalls to drop off laundry, hopping over puddles to secure our marriage license. Despite the toll of our adventures on our bodies, there's an undercurrent of exhilaration. While grabbing an umbrella from Target, I realize this is the first ‘normal’ store I had been in for weeks. A sudden reminder of my fast-food and Walmart-laden childhood in Oklahoma. A life that, partially thanks to April, is now very far in the past.

Later that evening, sheltered within the cozy din of a popular bar, April's stories transport me back to her first journey here—her younger, more innocent self roaming these same spaces. As she recounts her adventures, I find myself envious of those who might have met her then, wondering if I would have had the courage to approach her. As the bar fills and a band sets up, the evening stretches out before us. While I'm ready to retire early, around us the night is just coming to life. Yet, none here have traversed the paths we've taken these past weeks. With this thought, a serene contentment settles over me, easing the day's weariness.

That night, we retreat to our bed unusually early, the outside world alive with the serenade of countless tiny frogs. As we drift off to an episode of Lego Masters, a curious lizard makes its presence known—not with a chirp, but with a mischievous gesture aimed at April. The initial shock quickly gives way to laughter, a perfect, unscripted moment that encapsulates the essence of our journey. It's these spontaneous, shared laughs—light and freeing—that stitch the fabric of our memories, each one a cherished entry in the narrative of our life together.

I wake to the familiar caress of dawn, yet today, I let April enjoy the rare luxury of sleeping in while I embrace the early morning solitude. The convertible's top is down as I navigate the roads less traveled, my camera at the ready. The landscape is a visual feast—recent lava flows have sculpted the earth into a testament of nature's raw power. Steam rises from the rocks in ghostly wisps as the early rain dissipates, and I hover my hands above the still-warm surface, awed by the enduring heat.

My solo journey allows me a moment of reflection. Here, on this island sculpted by fire, our lives are melding into a new form, tempered by love and the adventures we share. It's in these quiet moments, surrounded by nature’s stark beauty, that I feel the pulse of our future, vibrant and unstoppable.

Returning to our jungle retreat, I find April already up, her spirit as bright as the clearing skies. Our hosts, Fire and Emily, introduce us to the lush homestead that will witness our vows. The land is a patchwork of life—goats, chickens, and an abundance of fruit trees—a vibrant backdrop for our new beginning. April, ever the dreamer and doer, negotiates a harvest of flowers and fruits, her enthusiasm infectious.

As Fire and I wander the property, collecting produce and stories in equal measure, I learn of his life's journeys from Oregon to this island paradise. His tales add depth to our experience, and I store away his local recommendations, eager to explore them with April.

The skies, perhaps sensing the gravity of our upcoming ceremony, part to reveal the sun, casting an auspicious light over our preparations. Returning to our cabin, I am struck by the sight of April crafting her bouquet, each bloom a delicate promise in her hands. The scene is a vivid tableau of our life together—creative, vibrant, and utterly ours.

Our cabin transforms into a hive of joyful activity as we ready ourselves. April, ever resourceful, uses a pot of steaming water to dual purposes—steaming my shirt and curling her hair, her ingenuity a trait I’ve come to adore. I capture these moments, our makeshift life brimming with laughter and love, my camera preserving the quiet majesty of our preparations.

As the ceremony time approaches, my nerves surface, a tempest in the tranquility of our day. Yet the sight of April, so composed and beautiful, grounds me. We move around each other with an ease born of deep familiarity, our movements a dance of love and anticipation.

In this small corner of the world, our hearts bound by the simple yet profound act of marrying, we step into the future. It is a future we craft with each shared smile, each challenge met together, and every quiet night filled with the music of the jungle. Here, in the embrace of the island’s wild beauty, we are home.

I've often listened to other men describe their weddings with a cascade of words, yet for me, finding the right ones is a challenge. Any words from my vocabulary seem entirely insufficient to express the depth and beauty of that day. As a photographer, my instinct is to convey those emotions through images, to let photographs reveal the perfection we felt.

But even through my lens, the pure beauty of that day is elusive. The art of photography, while powerful, couldn't fully capture the radiant joy of seeing April in her dress or the quiet moments before our ceremony. The true perfection of the day surpasses what any single frame could hold—a memory that exists in full only in our hearts.

Waking up as a married man felt fundamentally different. The stress and burdens that had accumulated over the years dissipated overnight, leaving a profound sense of relaxation in their wake. The days that followed were blissfully aimless—a rare state for any vacation but one that was entirely welcome. We indulged in the quintessence of relaxation: sleeping in late, lounging in geothermal pools, cooking in our tiny one-burner kitchen, driving aimlessly along back roads, and soaking in the outdoor tub. It was the epitome of laziness, and for possibly the first time in my life, I was completely at peace with it. My usual high-stress personality was replaced by an easy-going island demeanor—shirts unbuttoned, lace-up shoes swapped for sandals, and my typically tight schedule transformed into an open book.

We had fallen deeply in love with our jungle cabin, but for safety reasons, we had decided to split our booking between two places, just in case the first was a disappointment—a more frequent occurrence with Airbnb nowadays. Regrettably, on our fourth day on the Big Island, we had to pack up and say our goodbyes. Our hosts were incredibly generous, loading us up with fruit and supplies, offering us anything we needed and assuring us we were welcome back anytime—a sentiment we genuinely believed.

While our first accommodation was a dream come true, our second stay proved to be quite the opposite. Managed by a celebrity chef, it was not only more expensive but also far less accommodating. Every little amenity had a price tag; the homey feel of our previous spot was replaced by a sterile, corporate atmosphere that nickel-and-dimed at every turn. Our host even required a $5 daily fee to plug in the fridge.

At that moment, our relaxation came to an abrupt end. April and I exchanged a knowing look and reached an unspoken agreement: it was time to escape. Determined to make the most of our remaining time, we decided to explore the island extensively, steering clear of our disappointing Airbnb. It was time to immerse ourselves in the beauty of the Big Island, leaving the sour taste of commercial exploitation behind.

Hawaii offers a wealth of life-changing adventures, and some you must seek out with intent. Years ago, I went deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico, and I've been yearning for that thrill ever since. Despite the expense, April insisted we book a private charter, calling it a wedding present from her to me. The real gift, however, was not the cost but her willingness to spend eight hours on that boat by my side.

The adventure began at 3 a.m. as we drove across the island before sunrise to meet our early-morning boat. After a brief struggle finding it, we set off just as dawn began painting the sky in blues, purples, and reds. The water was mesmerizing, and I couldn't resist snapping photos as we sailed.

The deckhand showed me how to use the fighting chair and introduced me to the custom reels and lures, each an intricate work of art. I was drawn to their beauty and complexity, as well as the precision mechanics of the rods and reels. This world of fishing was vastly different from what I grew up with, everything bigger and grander.

Within 45 minutes of setting out, we had a hit. The captain and deckhand sprang into action, and I followed their instructions, still in shock. April stood ready with the camera, poised to capture my excitement and the mystery of whatever might emerge from the depths. The line anchored into my harness and became an extension of my body. The deckhand gave me straps and instructions while the captain guided the boat, using its engine to help me fight the fish.

Minutes felt like seconds as I wrestled with the marlin, its power coursing through the line. But I had leverage on my side, and the reel slowly pulled the fish closer. Finally, the marlin shot out of the water—a six-foot-long display of pure strength and grace—before settling alongside the boat. After ensuring it was healthy, we released it back into the ocean, where it belonged.

Shaking and exhilarated, I sat in a daze, thinking of what had just happened. It was only the first hour of an eight-hour charter, but no other fish bit that day. Such is the nature of fishing. I wished April could have landed one herself, though she insisted she didn't want to. But as we sat in a Kona bar later, savoring poke and sharing smiles, I knew she'd made this adventure possible. Her understanding of what this day meant to me filled me with gratitude and joy. My smile couldn’t have been bigger.

Christmas Day has a special resonance for April and me. It was on Christmas Eve that we started dating, and although we no longer mark it as our anniversary since getting married, the holiday still brings a nostalgic glow. Over the years, we’ve found ourselves creating traditions on the fly, each December 25th a snapshot of adventure in a different setting. Last year, it was Utah’s snowy expanses, huddled in a tent with bowls of ramen. The year before, we were in Kauai, assembling spam musubi on a sunlit beach.

This Christmas, our first as a married couple, we decided to embrace the island’s charm with a spontaneous road trip around the Big Island, with no destination in mind—just the journey and each other. Most places, we assumed, would be closed, but the thrill of discovery was all the entertainment we needed.

Our route took us along the northern ring road, a path that meandered through lush landscapes dotted with waterfalls, exotic fruit stands, quaint jewelry stores, and, to my amusement, a model train museum that was closed for the day. As we drove, the destination seemed inconsequential. What mattered was the journey—April and I, newlyweds, exploring this magnificent island in a cool car, reveling in our newfound life together.

As the day waned, the need for dinner nudged us towards a Chinese restaurant teetering on the brink of closing. We nearly missed it, captivated by a stunning sunset that we just couldn’t pass up photographing. Our dinner choice—a pick-three combo—turned out to be a feast fit for eight. With a laugh at our overestimation, we drove to a nearby hilltop to finish the day with the remnants of the sunset, sharing our oversized meal under the fading light. Above us, a spectacular full moon dominated the sky, its brilliance outshining our plans to visit the observatory for stargazing. Disappointed yet philosophical, we acknowledged the whims of travel—sometimes, despite best-laid plans, the universe has other ideas.

With April feeling a poignant mix of disappointment and wonder—worried this might be her last chance to see the Big Island’s stars—we drove home, the day’s adventures winding down. I took the wheel, April dozing beside me, her earlier excitement giving way to fatigue. Just when the night seemed to be drawing to a close, a flicker on the periphery caught my eye. Turning back, we stumbled upon an extravagant Christmas light display, an entire street transformed into a dazzling spectacle of lights, lasers, and music. Movies projected on the sides of houses brought scenes to life in a dance of color and shadow.

Despite our tiredness, this unexpected magic rekindled our energy. We joined the small crowd of night revelers, our spirits lifted by the sheer joy and community of the moment. There, amidst the unexpected spectacle, April and I found ourselves not just spectators but participants in a celebration that capped our Christmas with laughter and light.

As we finally headed home, the car filled with the echoes of our laughter, I realized that these spontaneous, serendipitous moments are what truly define our adventures together—not just the sights we see, but the shared experiences that continue to draw us closer, crafting a tapestry of memories that enrich our journey through life.

As my visual journey came to an end in the most disappointing way possible, my prized possession simply stopped working. My Mamiya 645 AF, which had been by my side throughout the past four weeks, suddenly refused to capture another frame. Perhaps the bright sun had overheated some delicate component, or maybe it was just its time. I felt a pang of loss, realizing that the last few days would remain only in memory.

Yet, in this moment of frustration, April was there to comfort me. Her presence filled the void left by my camera, reminding me that while it had been a near-constant companion, the real essence of our journey couldn't be encapsulated in film alone. Without my lens to frame each scene, the last few days felt strangely empty but also gave way to a deeper appreciation for the moments shared together.

Some stories are best told in full, and others remain half-remembered, but this one leaves me with a full heart and a broken camera. And in the end, that’s enough.