Destination: Hawaii : Far From Oahu’s Madding Crowd

“I found a coconut,” Henri yells as he runs through the campground to our tents at Malaekahana State Recreation Area, near the northern tip of Oahu.

The exotic discovery is a big thrill for an adventurous 7-year-old. He marches proudly to the next campsite to show off the heavy prize.

About a dozen boys, camping with a youth group, are shouting for their camp leader: “Get Le. Get Le.”

Leuma Leatamauga is a big Hawaiian dude. He grabs his machete in one hand and the pale green coconut, the size of a football, in the other.

“It’s a big bugger, Henri,” Le says, hacking away at the outer husk like a pro. As a boy, Le climbed coconut trees for fun. Now, surrounded by youngsters, he cracks the top off the coconut with a single swipe of the big knife and hands it over. Clear juice spills to the ground. Henri takes a sip right out of the shell. “It’s sweet, it’s good,” he says, passing it on. Over fresh coconut juice, the kids toast new buddies.

“ Mahalo, Le,” we say. It’s Hawaiian for thank you .

The coconut toast is a special moment in our second week on Oahu that began when we left the hordes of sun worshipers behind in Waikiki and headed for “the country”--the island’s famous North Shore.

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We haggle a $150-per-week deal--a pretty good price--on a bright-blue convertible. With the top down, music on full blast and our baby daughter, Presley, 1, rocking out in her rented car seat, we cruise east, past Diamond Head, out of the suburbs and into a political struggle. More than 100 native Hawaiians have taken over Makapuu Beach Park and are spilling onto the highway in front of us, waving placards calling for a sovereign Hawaiian nation.

Busy Hawaii 83 (Kamehameha Highway, on some maps) hugs the windward coast, past rich taro patches, banana trees and coconut palms. To our left, near-vertical mountains draped in rain forest shoot straight into the clouds.

Our free state campground near Laie is clean, full of families and perfectly located as a base to discover the treasures of the North Shore. The only downside is the relentless trade winds that blow 24 hours a day. It’s great incentive to hop in the convertible and go exploring.

Hawaii 83 passes right by the famous surf spots of Waimea Bay and Sunset Beach. In summer the waves are small but still pack a punch. The color of the sea at these beaches is the bluest we’ve ever seen, and snorkeling is a treat. Even though we’re less than an hour’s drive from Waikiki, only a fraction of the tourists seems to make the journey here to the other side of the island.

The biggest crowd of tourists we find is lined up outside Matsumoto’s Shave Ice store in the quaint artist town of Haleiwa, south of Waimea Bay. Hawaii’s answer to the snow cone is cheap and refreshing. Smalls--the size of a cantaloupe--cost $1 here. The large size is $1.20. We get adventurous by ordering one shave ice the local way--with sweet, red adzuki beans on the bottom. “I don’t like it,” our finicky 5-year-old, Matilda, quickly concludes.

But Matty has adopted one Hawaiian tradition with a passion. She loves the fragrant flower necklaces. Leis aren’t just a gimmick handed out to tourists at the airport. Strands hang on statues, from roadside trees as memorials and around the necks of locals. We see people wearing leis made of plumeria, ti leaves, candy and even wrapped-up quarters.

Between hiking rain forest trails, bodysurfing baby waves and telling ghost stories around campfires, our excursion to the north passes much too quickly.

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The road back to Honolulu is through the red-dirt heartland of Oahu. The scent of pineapple rises from the fields. Crop workers are handpicking the fruit.

We’re at the airport two hours early and all is running smoothly as we hand over our tickets to get on board our island hopper to the Big Island of Hawaii.

“Excuse me, you’re missing a boarding pass,” the Hawaiian Airlines ticket agent tells us. Henri and Matilda are halfway down the busy corridor leading to the plane. Presley is hanging precariously from a baby sling.

“You’ll have to bring the children back. We need the pass before you can fly,” the man says firmly. There must be some mistake. We frantically search through our carry-on luggage and papers for the missing ticket. Nada! We backtrack our steps through the airport. Zip!

There’s a final boarding call for our flight and we’re still in limbo. The doorway is about to close when a supervisor with a computer printout of our names on a passenger list rushes to our rescue.

He makes a scrawl with a green marker and smiles. “Everything’s OK. Have a nice trip.”

“Mahalo,” we say. Grabbing our gear and the keikis (children) , we run to catch our plane.