We said it once in a church. We said it again on a lawn.
Fifteen years. Three boys at home with somebody else for a week. A little white chapel at the Hilton with a bell in the tower and doors that open straight toward the water. She wore white, I wore linen, and neither of us picked shoes with lava in mind — which turned out to be a preview of the rest of the trip.
Fifteen years is a strange anniversary. Long enough that the wedding is genuinely history, short enough that you're still in the thick of raising people. Standing in that chapel saying it a second time, on purpose, with nobody watching but the officiant, was the least complicated hour of that entire decade.
Green ribbon on black rock
Waikoloa is unlike anywhere we'd played. The fairways are emerald and perfectly kept, and about six feet off either side the world turns into jagged black aʻa lava that will take your ball, your club, and a layer of skin if you go after it.
So you learn quickly: aim at the middle, take the bogey, keep the ball. Sandy figured that out on about the third hole. I figured it out somewhere around the eleventh, which is roughly the standard gap between us.
Objectively it's a very good resort course in an unbelievable setting. Subjectively we got married here twice, so any rating I give you is compromised and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
Go for the lava. Stay for the fact that the whole resort is built to make two people feel like the only ones there.