I am removed enough from the situation that I can now speak freely about my kayak experience. I hesitate to call it a "panic attack," because I am not generally a panicker, but I am a control freak and that description screams OUT OF CONTROL. I like to think I was totally in control when I demanded, two minutes into the trip, that we return to the beach. I made a conscious decision to stop paddling; I seemed to be a hindrance to our progress, plus my hyperventilating was interfering with what little skill I had for the task. My He-Man husband single-handedly (well, I guess he used two hands, but it was still impressive) got us safely back on solid ground before I could completely entertain visions of falling overboard and being eaten by sharks. Nevermind that these kayaks don't tip easily and the ocean was pretty smooth, and sharks would rather be out eating all the tropical fish swimming away from the four hundred snorkelers on the island. Somehow I freaked out and that was that. Poor Stu got to man a two person kayak out to Lanikai Beach while I hoofed down to meet him. Which involved a little more not-quite-panicking when I reached the place where the beach ended - who knew? Just a sheer rock wall and waves splashing (menacingly, I thought) against it. I had to backtrack the hundred yards I'd gained, head up a hill past all the beachfront homes, then cut between them to the beach. After which I collapsed next to 'our' kayak and took pictures of my feet in the sand before calling a restaurant to make reservations for dinner. Then I read a little bit and took a quick nap. Sadly, I think the whole Hawaiian beach atmosphere is wasted on this land-clinging girl. I can hear the collective shaking of heads from water lovers cyber-worldwide. I'm so ashamed.