We hack around underwater, checking out the Picasso triggerfish (his blue, Cubist period) amid the lobe coral and the dozens of needlefish. A pair of turtles seem to be hacking around too; I follow a female, who loses me when she eases into a cave. After I don't know how long because I'm just going with the flow, Captain Roger sounds a horn and we return to the boat, where two crew members are holding platters of hors d'oeuvres. "Nothing like a piece of broccoli when you've just come in from the water," one of them says.

From La Pérouse Bay, we head over to Molokini, a cinder crater that half emerges from the water like a crescent moon. The ocean here is a protected marine park, and the snorkeling—reputed to be the best in greater Maui—does not disappoint. Captain Roger has timed our arrival to coincide with the retreat of the other snorkel and dive boats, so we've got the yellow tangs and Moorish idols and stoplight parrot fish and saddle wrasses, to say nothing of the octopuses, all to ourselves.

On board again, the personable young men lay out a buffet lunch—chicken salad, Caesar salad, pasta salad—and pour drinks. Captain Roger maneuvers the boat to allow us to watch whales while we dine.

"When the adult whales are here in Hawaii," he says, "they do not eat a thing."

The nice young men pass around baskets of freshly baked cookies.

Later, sated but keen for another adventure, we check with the hotel activities desk, which as usual is the conduit to too many things to do. (A sunrise gravity ride from the summit of Haleakala? Night tennis? Zip-line "hiking" over cliffs? Sailing to the island of Lanai? Jeep tours to the eastern end of the island?) Stimulated by our underwater experience, I consider taking the resort's "Scuba for Chickens" course, which starts with a half-hour in the shallow end of the swimming pool. My companion, however, lobbies hard for surfing.

"This is Hawaii," she says, as if making a fully reasoned case.

Which is how we end up in the company of John Browne and His Maui Beach Boys, facedown on ten-foot, soft-foam longboards laid in the grass of Kalama Park in Kihei, practicing that crucial surfing move, the upward hurl and twist called the pop-up.
"Just about anyone can learn to surf," Browne claims. "We taught an eighty-two-year-old last week."

We follow our instructor, Darren Hill, to the beach. There are about fifteen fellow novice tube riders in the water already. Not one looks eighty-two.

"I've never not had someone stand up and ride a wave," Darren says as we paddle out about a hundred yards. I am still contemplating this double negative when he turns my board, points it and me toward shore, and says, "When I say paddle, paddle as hard as you can. When I say stand up, stand up. Okay, paddle!" I move my arms and hands like mad. "Okay, stand up!" It is such an unconditional command that I stand up on the surfboard—without grace, but vertical nonetheless. Once I get my footing I look around, amazed. A tiny tumbler urges my board shoreward. I wave to Sophie, who cruises by on her own board. She waves back. It's official: We're hooked.