My Millennium Night, Dec 31st, 1999 

The national newspaper in Wales just asked (October 2019) for stories of Millennium Night, December 31st 1999, from Welsh people around the world, since the 20 year anniversary is upon us in a couple of months time. 

This is an expanded version of what I sent them, plus an epilogue describing another quite remarkable experience from two days later. 

December 31st, 1999

New Year’s Eve 1999 found me living on the island of Kauai, Hawaii.

I’d moved there the previous April, ostensibly to pursue my crystal healing therapy work but I was also working as a musician. Late that summer I’d found my way into an Americana 5-piece, soon a 6-piece, called 'The Lost Pelican Band', playing mandolin. 

That night the Pelicans had a tasty New Year’s Eve gala gig to play at an open-air garden restaurant, Caffe Coco in east side Wailua. The band already had a Saturday night residency there, one that would eventually run every week for 14 years - has to be some kind of record, that. However, despite a vibrant early evening all-reservation full house that threatened to develop into a cracking night, by 10 o’clock, as is all too often the case on Kauai, just about everyone had gone home to bed and the owners reluctantly decided they were going to close up.

So, undeterred, I jumped in the truck and headed up to the North Shore, to beautiful Hanalei Bay, where I knew there was something going on that would almost certainly go through till midnight. This the beach featured in the 2012 George Clooney/Beau Bridges movie ‘The Descendants’.

I remember the drive up all too well. One of the most confounding things for me living on Kauai was how the usual peace and serenity, not to mention the clear air, of the island was unceremoniously decimated twice a year, July 4th and New Year’s Eve, when the local communities went way over the top with private home firework parties. These would typically start around dusk and go on all night, sometimes well after midnight. It got to where I came to dread and detest these nights for their incessant noise and smoke, me and all the animals and asthmatics, and probably a host of other people too.

I’d been in the UK the previous July so this was my first taste of it. Driving north round 11pm through the small community of Anahola on the north east coast (where I was living at the time) I suddenly hit a wall of unbelievably thick smoke-laden air from six or seven hours of incessant firework use. It was like pea-souper fog, my high beam lights were absolutely useless, and at times I had trouble seeing any more than about 20 yards ahead. I was ineluctably down to around 30 mph, an unsafe speed on the island's main highway for fear of being rear-ended, and trucks coming the other way would suddenly come barreling freakily out of the gloom at speeds I considered way too fast. There was no way I could keep the windows down - my habitual air conditioning system of choice - though the smoke inevitably found its way in through all the vents. Fortunately this ordeal lasted only a couple miles, probably less than ten minutes or so, though it seemed much longer. 

When I got to The Bay it resembled a refugee camp, with a sea of people covering much of the beach. I’d never seen it like that before, or indeed since.

Hanalei Bay is a jewel in the crown of many jewels the island boasts and has upon it some of the most exclusive property in the whole US. Right in the middle can be found a house owned by musician Graham Nash, of The Hollies and CSN (& sometimes Y) fame. There are no high walls protecting it from a gawping public as you might expect, quite the opposite in fact, just a small garden hedge on the ocean side with an open gap near the middle for easy beach access. From the beach you could see across the front yard and indeed right into the living room, where several ukuleles were hanging on the wall. 

I’d always wanted to meet Mr Nash. This wasn’t just because he was such an influential and respected musician and that I was a longtime fan, but also since he was from the UK, and there weren’t very many of us on the island. I knew he spent a lot of time there, but despite many days sunbathing with intent on the beach right in front of the house, I never caught even one glimpse of him, there anyway. Indeed, only once did I ever, from across the road in Hanalei town center at a time when he was on crutches after a serious boating accident. That spot on the Bay though was always known amongst me and my friends as ‘Graham’s house’ and still is to this day. I ensconced myself on the sand there now, amidst the assembled masses. In true island style, a family group saw me looking for a patch to plonk myself down and immediately squished up. Not only that, with minimal introductions next there came in my direction a nice cold beer. 

Within a minute or two, on the stroke of midnight, a firework display began, directly in front of the Nash house. It was quite amazing to watch fireworks shoot upwards from directly underneath, then experience the scatter of their debris, some of it hot, as it fell back to earth. Over at the Princeville Hotel on the far end of the eastern outcrop of the Bay, another one had kicked off too and it all made for a spectacular vista. 

Within twenty minutes though it was all over. Perhaps because New Years Eve in the UK is traditionally a bit of an all-night knees-up affair with the pubs (that customarily shut at 10.30pm) open till dawn, I expected this to be the cue for some kind of wild, Woodstock-style all night party to kick in. However, to my dismay it was merely, once more in true Kauai style, one for most people to go home to bed. Their number quickly dwindled and within 15 or 20 minutes the beach was practically deserted. 

From where I was sitting though I could now clearly see the Nash house. I noticed there was a tarp set up in the garden and upon closer scrutiny, I saw there was a stage in there and some cool acoustic music was going on. I walked up and stood at the front hedge to get a better look. There didn’t seem to be many people there either, though obviously there had been a bit of a party. 

The next second I heard from within the gloom on the other side of the garden the call of a familiar voice. I play football (‘soccer’ in American), and over the years this has proved wonderful in paving a way for me into communities in which I’ve lived. Kauai was no exception and there manning the soundboard was Christian, a local Hawaiian/Tahitian guy, one of the leaders of the football community on the island and owner of the oldest (and still coolest) bar in town, the Tahiti Nui. (This bar also featured in ‘The Descendants’ movie, Christian even got a cameo role, and can be seen in casual conversation with Beau Bridges’ character when his cousin, George Clooney’s character, arrives to meet him). 

“Pauly!” he shouted. 

Though it's not a variation of my name I care to go by, I quite liked that the Kauai football lads spontaneously called me Pauly. It’s the only time in my life that’s ever happened, apart from with my family, and then only in certain situations. 

He seemed really happy to see me.

“Hey, Happy New Year, brah!! 

Come on in!!”

My heart leapt! 

I didn’t need any more encouragement and at once set foot inside.

Christian strode out to meet me and greeted me warmly, but almost at once a smaller man appeared out of the shadows to the side and placed himself right in my way. He was a white guy, stern face, and he began asking me questions, who I was, where I was going etc. Christian is a very well-known and respected figure in the Hanalei community though and his interjection on my behalf placated him pretty quickly. 

“Hey man, he’s cool, this is Pauly. He’s a good man, from Britain. He’s a soccer player with us”. 

The guy’s demeanour didn’t change much but he did step slightly aside, enough to let me pass. He didn’t look like it from his dress - smart white shorts, obviously high-end silk Aloha shirt and something shiny and gold around his neck - but I assumed he was security, the kind rockstars would probably have.

He didn’t wish me Happy New Year but did seem a touch interested that I was from the UK. He informed me that one of my ‘fellow countrymen’ was inside, if I’d care to meet her. 

‘HER’?

Christian sat me down at a little table in the garden and disappeared into the house. The mellow Hawaiian slack-key and steel guitar sounds emanating from the stage and floating away on the cool night air under the trillions of stars were a total balm. I had, of course, more than an eye out for the owner himself. From here I could see more or less clear right inside the house and I was craning my neck for all l was worth. It seemed there were indeed very few people in there. 

Christian soon came back with a bottle. He opened it up, poured us both a glass, and we toasted the dawn of the New Millennium. What had just hit my lips tasted like tequila, straight and nicely chilled, but much smoother than I’d ever experienced it before.

“So uh, where’s Graham?” I asked expectantly.

“Oh, he gone home already”, he said.

“Gone home??" I stammered. "But isn’t this his house?”

“No, not no more. He sold it”.

“When?”

“About three months ago”.

Dammmmn.. I thought.

“Dat guy, him you met comin’ in? He’s the new owner. You know him?”

“No”

“John Wells, producer of ER”.

I knew the guy lived on the island. He had a very ostentatiously large property fronting onto the highway down the road in Kilauea, but I had no idea what the dude looked like.

I was disappointed and it was difficult to hide at first. But it was a truly beautiful night and we sat there enjoying it, the tequila too, for that’s what it was. Christian was a couple months later to tell me that it goes for $500 a bottle.

After an hour so, during which I did meet my ‘fellow countryman’ - a lovely lady from London who among others came out and shared our table (Mr Wells himself didn’t re-emerge however and I was never invited inside, though I daresay I could’ve wandered in if I’d had a mind) - the music stopped and Christian was back to work. I soon offered my thanks and bid my farewells and went and sat under the stars on the beach to sober up a little before the drive back down to Anahola. 

I say 'sober' up, though I didn't feel drunk at all, more 'high' - a very pure, clear kind of high. I figured any Kauai PD administered breath test probably wouldn't concur though, so I decided to chill for a while, and see what else might be going on. 

It was now near to 2am, and along the considerable length of the beach there remained strewn at intervals huddles of people having their own parties, each around a beach fire. The guys who’d done the firework display outside Graham’s house were one such huddle now, burning on their fire the large cardboard boxes that the fireworks had come in. Cradling my bottle of sparkling mineral water and feasting on the breathtaking beauty of the warm Hanalei night, I sat about 20 yards away musing about the night I’d had.

All of a sudden a strange hissing sound launched itself upon the still night air. It was coming from their fire. Soon it became apparent that one box must have a firework still left in it and it was firing up. This sent the guys yelling and frantically scattering every which way, throwing themselves low onto the sand. Then, the calm was rudely shattered as off it went, sideways, roaring missile-like fully a couple of hundred yards horizontally down the beach. It brought a kind of sonic Mexican wave of yells and screams from each huddle in turn as it whooshed through no more than ten feet over their heads, before finally smashing into a bunch of ironwood trees around Black Pot Park at the rivermouth end and exploding in a burst of muffled flashes.

So that was my December 31,1999. 

I managed to gatecrash Graham Nash’s New Year party, only to find John Wells. 

Cheers for the tequila, John.

Epilogue:

The next afternoon I was at a New Year's party at a nearby friends' house. Shahina and her then partner Tim always did good small gatherings and we were having fun. It was whale season, the big guys and gals are in Hawaiian waters December through March, and I happened to mention that I'd never yet seen one. As an 18-year veteran ex-tourist tour boat captain, Tim was someone who knew all the best spots and he at once insisted he take me out in his little boat, the very next day no less. I was delighted to accept.

And go out we did. The boat really was tiny, kind of like a jet ski with a boat of sorts made of what seemed to be inflated heavy rubber wrapped around it, with just room enough for him at back steering and one other in the front. He called it 'potato chip'.

It was a glorious day, as days in early January often are before the rain fronts of winter really start to roll in, and after launching out of the tiny boat harbour in Kapaa town we were soon skipping merrily across the top of the flattish ocean. I was sitting right up front, the throbbing of the engine right at my back, with barely enough space to squeeze myself into. To stretch my legs I had to drop them over the side but I was comfortable like that. 

Suddenly Tim let out a yell.

"Whales?!" I asked?

"Man!" he exclaimed, "No, dolphins! Freaking loads of them!!"

Coming towards us was the largest pod of dolphins! The surface of the ocean suddenly began to ripple in a different way, and soon there were dolphins everywhere, jumping in and out of the water, in every direction as far as the eye could see. They were moving swiftly eastwards from the north, obviously heading somewhere, like they had quite the new year's party to get to. 

Tim swung a swift one-eighty to follow along with them. They weren't intimidated by us hanging in there in any way, absolutely not. In fact quite a few came by just to check us out and were deliberately swimming closely alongside. Some even bounced themselves off the rubber hull of the boat trampoline-style and appeared to be getting a huge kick out of doing so. 

I soon noticed a baby one right to my left, no more than two feet long. Instinctively I put my arm out and the little fella started vaulting over it! I looked back at Tim at one point and his grinning expression said everything. We were in dreamland. The pair of us were laughing, totally in the moment, totally aware of the magical instant we’d found our way into.

After a while the pod were heading too far offshore for Tim to be comfortable that Potato Chip could handle the swells. The channel between Kauai and Oahu is after all notorious for its unpredictability, one major reason why Kamehameha never added Kauai to his kingdom, so we hauled up and saluted them as they gracefully and playfully forged on into open ocean.

Well, well. Quite an auspicious start to the new millennium, I figured. Tim said afterwards that in all his 18 years as a North Shore tour boat captain, plus a further ten in Hawaii, he'd never seen anything quite like that.

Morgan Paul Williams

2/10/19