![]() Spiritual wisdom notwithstanding, it paradise was a state eminently more palpable the following morning, late in the morning, there on a pile of volcanic rock in the middle of the ocean, just south of the Tropic of Cancer, on the dry west coast of the Big Island of Hawaii, 2,400 miles and three time zones away from the security mazes at LAX and about as far from any other significant body of land as one can get on planet Earth. Brutoco had said, in Seat 10A, already in requisite Hawaiian shirt, barefoot, and awaiting further instructions from the flight crew.
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