Destination: Hawaii : Romancing the Volcano

Palm trees, balmy surf, the two of us strolling hand-in-hand, a kiss under a half moon.

Reality check!

“Where’s Presley?” “Henri, stop it!” “Matty, share with your sister!”

Taking a Hawaiian honeymoon with three kids . . . . What were we thinking?

We get to hold hands under palm trees, we even kiss on balmy beaches. But one eye is always on keiki (child) patrol.

Right now, on the flight to the Big Island, we are playing “Pass the Baby” to try to combat 1-year-old Presley’s wiggling, which is in serious danger of knocking over the other kids’ guava juice.

Out of the portholes of our plane, an alien terrain rises from the Pacific Ocean. A black tongue of hardened lava rock sticks out in front of us like a lunar welcome mat.

Hawaii, the “Volcano Island,” is the second stop on our epic summer family adventure. We touch down on the west coast on Keahole Airport’s hot Tarmac, jump in our “Hi, I’m a tourist” blue rental sedan and set the air-conditioning on max.

We hang a right and head south for the Manago Hotel on Hawaii 11. It’s a road with character. Lined in lava, people use the sides of the highway as a message board, arranging greetings in white coral. “Aloha Waterworld,” reads one, referring to the movie Kevin Costner will begin filming nearby this summer.

The highway scenery changes to a winding smorgasbord of mango trees, avocados, macadamia nuts and the region’s famous coffee plantations.

A light rain sprinkles us as we pull into the Manago Hotel--a mom-and-pop operation that has been in the family since the 1920s. For $45 a night we move into a small room with a double bed, two twins and a vintage radio. It’s basic, but really clean. No phones, no TV, no frills, but there’s an awesome view of the Kona coastline from the lanai.

Coffee farms, some of them small family operations, are scattered across the slopes above Kealakekua Bay. It’s all music to our java-addicted souls.

Our 7-year-old son, Henri, has been jittery for weeks about another Big Island attraction we’re heading out to in the next few days: visiting and camping on the world’s most active crater, Kilauea.

“Could the whole island erupt?” he asked earnestly, trying not to act too worried. “How would they warn us?”

On the windy edge of the Kilauea Caldera, at the peak of the volcano, Henri’s fears aren’t exactly laid to rest by National Park volunteer ranger, Dwight Hamilton.

Pointing at Halemaumau crater, the most likely spot for the next eruption, ranger Hamilton tells our son, “We are about due for another big one.”

But the ranger and just about every other islander we meet is looking forward to Kilauea or nearby Mauna Loa blowing their stacks.

“People in L.A. are a lot more worried about an earthquake than we are about an eruption,” he says. “They generally don’t hurt anyone, they are people friendly, drive-up eruptions.”

The Namakani Paio campground is a half-mile walk from the caldera. In blustery winds we set up our tents and then head off to the coast to find Kilauea’s sea of red hot lava.

A switchback road drops us 4,000 feet down the side of the volcano. In the distance, smoke billows from a rocky peninsula. An eruption that has lasted 12 years continues in a furious meeting of earth, wind and fire.

“Look. It’s making clouds,” Matilda, 5, says, pointing at the steam rising from the sea.

The hike ahead is across a mile of lava rock, shaped in incredible patterns that look like drips of black pudding and twiney rope. The ground glistens with jeweled hues of gold, green and blue. “It’s beautiful and sparkly,” Matilda says.

The temperature rises and the wind whips into a frenzy as the trail, made of traffic cones, ends. We almost stumble onto a ridge of hot pahoehoe lava that is dark gray with small chambers of red liquid rock that ooze toward us.

The lava inches very slowly to the sea in an astonishing display of nature. A shower of rain bursts above us as we watch the creation of the newest land on earth. “This is so cool,” Henri says, getting as close as the heat will allow.

The air temperature has risen to 140 degrees. “I’m too hot. I wanna go home,” Matilda wails.

We head north from the volcano along the windward and wet coast of Hawaii. In the rain forest city of Hilo, where hibiscus and orchids bloom like weeds, our campground is flooded by a powerful morning storm. At the height of the downpour, Henri and Matilda’s tent billows in the wind like a fun house. To our amazement the kids stay fast asleep.

We are chased by the heavy rain back to the dry Kona coast and a beachside campground at Spencer Beach Park, 30 miles north of Kailua-Kona.

Our children are immediately drawn to the kind blue eyes of Vince Portell, a pipe-smoking former merchant seaman we met at our campground, who says he’s “as old as the hills” and lives on the beaches of Hawaii. He wears a big straw hat over a leathery tanned face and unkempt wiry beard. “I like the freedom,” Portell says with a soft chuckle.

Presley reaches over to him with both hands. The old man looks surprised but takes her in his stringy arms.

“You know how long it’s been since I held a baby? I can’t remember,” he says, his voice breaking a little.

“I never saw my girl as a baby ‘cause I was always at sea. She was my pride and joy.” Portell wipes his eyes and hands Presley back.

The old man reminds us that even during the most exasperating moments, this adventure with our children truly is a honeymoon in paradise.

Reality check.