Raising Kids On Our Kona Coffee Farm On The Big Island
Hawai’i (Big Island), Hawai’i.
There are places in our lives that transcend geography — places that stop being coordinates on a map and turn into the chapters that define our hearts. For our family, Captain Cook, on the Big Island of Hawai‘i, was that magical place.
We didn’t just move there. We rooted there.
Our days wove into the hillsides of Hōnaunau — mornings perfumed with the faint jasmine-honey scent of coffee blossoms, afternoons wrapped in the soft warmth of the Kona sun, and evenings rich with the lullaby of coqui frogs.
When we look back now, that time feels like a series of hand‑painted postcards: Ace’s bare feet kicking up red dirt as he sprinted after his brother; Kingston’s determined little hands helping us plant seedlings; the two of them climbing the guava tree near the stream, their laughter spilling into the air like music.
Hōnaunau didn’t just hold us. It taught us.
The aloha spirit didn’t feel like something we adopted—it wrapped itself around us from day one and became part of our family’s rhythm.
The Land That Welcomes You
The very first morning we woke up on the farm, the island seemed to greet us, as if to say, E komo mai—welcome.
The sun rose over Mauna Loa, spilling golden light across the hills before it reached our little plot. Mist hugged the valleys below, and the air smelled faintly of salt from Kealakekua Bay mixed with the fresh greenness of the coffee trees still beaded with dew.
The farm itself was alive — not just with plants and soil, but with generations of stories. The land had been cultivated long before we arrived, and we felt that history in every furrow. We began our mornings by walking the rows, absorbing the gentle rustle of leaves, the dart of mynah birds overhead, and the quiet industry of honeybees moving from blossom to blossom.
A Childhood Rooted in the Land
For Ace and Kingston, the farm was the greatest playground imaginable.
They learned to run barefoot, not because shoes were absent, but because the earth beneath them was a trusted friend. They felt the warm volcanic soil yield slightly under their steps, learned the pleasing snap of a ripe guava pulled from its branch, and found joy in the search for the sweetest lilikoi (passion fruit) hidden among curling vines.
Some days their adventures looked like work to an adult eye — hauling baskets of coffee cherries, helping pulp beans at the old wooden hand-crank — but to them, it was play. Work and joy weren’t separate things here; they flowed together like the tide.
They began to develop an intuitive sense of season: the sweet-scented kona snow of coffee blossoms promised the red cherries to come months later; cooler winter nights told them the breadfruit and kalo would be ready soon.
The Aloha Spirit in Action
That was the aloha spirit in its unspoken form — generosity without keeping tally marks. Over time, we came to understand that in Hawai‘i, kindness isn’t performed, it’s simply lived.
For the boys, this meant growing up in a place where strangers could quickly become uncle and aunty, where sharing mangoes from your tree was just as natural as saying hello.
Beach bonfires with friends became lessons in music and stories; fishing trips turned into language lessons sprinkled with ʻōlelo Hawai‘i; work days in the coffee rows were punctuated by shared laughter and spontaneous potlucks.
Rhythm and Resilience
Farming can be unforgiving. Kona’s idyllic climate could shift with little warning — sudden afternoon rains during harvest time meant long hours covered in mud, racing to protect the drying beans. We learned to be patient with the volcanic soil, to read the wind before a storm, to accept that pests and rot are part of the bargain.
But each challenge shaped us. We became a family that didn’t panic when things went sideways. The boys learned early that a problem is best met with calm thinking and a willingness to work together.
And after the hardest days, we would sit on the lanai with mugs of fresh‑roasted coffee, watching the sun sink behind the horizon, painting the sky in impossible colors. Even in exhaustion, gratitude was the closing note to every day.
Lessons We Carry
Hawai‘i gave us more than memories — it rewired our understanding of wealth and success. It reminded us that the truest riches are found in connection: to place, to people, to purpose.
That’s the spirit of Holiday Rising. It’s not a vacation you take once a year — it’s a way of greeting the morning. It’s living so that even your work feels like part of a beautiful day.
Wherever we go now, the island walks with us. Its warm breezes seem to find us even on the mainland. Ace and Kingston, now older, still carry the sound of the ocean inside them, and when life gets too loud, we remind each other: Breathe like the Big Island taught us.
