A combination playground and paradise, the Hawaiian islands satisfy everyone's passion. Sue Halpern rides a wave of energy from Maui surfboard to Oahu massage table

There is always in Hawaii, just before the day breaks, a moment of doubt. The sun has not yet distinguished ocean from firmament, and you are looking into a vast darkness that gives no hint of what's to come. Used to thinking of weather in terms of odds, you are certain that sooner or later the string of perfect eighty-two-degree days must snap. So you stand on the lanai in the lessening darkness, feeling the salt breeze move across your skin, and wonder—worry—if today is that day.

And then, unceremoniously, the sun breaches the Pacific and cleaves a widening line between water and sky. It all happens so quickly—the sand is illuminated, the surf comes into view, and what few small clouds there are slink off into the bright, uninterrupted distance. You turn and walk into your room, thinking, not unhappily, that you're going to have to get more sunscreen.

"We need sunscreen," my ten-year-old daughter says. It is before seven, and she is already in her swimsuit.

"Where's your spirit of aloha?" I want to ask, but don't. I understand her urgency: We have just woken up in Maui, and there is so much to do.

Because we are in Wailea, the resort district on the island's calm west coast, our orientation is leeward, to the ocean. On earlier visits, we climbed the Haleakala Crater, traversed the Hana Highway, and hiked to secluded waterfalls. For this trip to Maui, though, we have a simple plan: to play in the water. On other islands we'll do other things. But not here.

And so it is, not a half-hour after sunrise, that we are standing at Makena Landing, listening to Brandon Gnazzo, a soft-spoken fellow in neoprene shorts and shirt who guides for Kelii's Kayak Tours, explain the rudiments of launching a plastic open-cockpit kayak over the small waves that are breaking offshore. Led by Brandon, our ad hoc party—a family of four from California, a couple from New Jersey, Sophie and I—will be going to an unmarked spot in the ocean called Turtle Town, known for its resident population of green sea turtles.

"Green sea turtles are not really green," Brandon tells us. "Their fat is green."

After all the kayaks are in the water and moving in convoy, Brandon, who is paddling alongside, shouts out other bits of turtle lore: that sea turtles, or honu, can live to be eighty years old; that they weigh about three hundred pounds; that those we'll be seeing will, for the most part, be middle-aged.

Blade in, blade out, and it's not long before Brandon motions for us to stop.

"We're here," he says, though it's not obvious to anyone else where here—at best an indistinct spot in the ocean—is. Just then, though, a rather large turtle with a serious overbite pokes up its head, drinks the air, and casts in our direction a look of mild curiosity that quickly segues to ho-humness. I slip on snorkel gear and drop overboard. The turtle is directly below me, sinking slowly. I stay put and watch its powerful flippers comb the water, each stroke propelling it yards, not feet.