Skip to main content

Olivine - The Adventures of Hercule Peridot

Yes, it’s me, Adamas Bontemps; gemologist, world traveler, and dedicated student of the art and science of deduction.

Peridot and I had returned home from Florence a few weeks earlier. I was back to my early morning activities; chronicling our travels, and practicing guitar. Out the corner of my eye, a FaceTime notification appeared on my computer screen. 

I clicked “accept” and an image of that familiar turquoise door materialized, [Incoming video from 1740 Tsavorite Lane]. It was Peridot.

Magically, as the door opened Peridot popped onto my computer screen. He was impeccably dressed; a fine silk vest, and dashing purple necktie. His lean, congenial, smiling face radiating from my screen.

Olivine Crystal in Matrix
“Bontemps, this blog that you insist on posting has stirred my curiosity, and sentiments of my deceased, loving, wife, Olivine.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m thinking we need some time away from the case, say, a little vacation. Some time to relax, and reminisce.

He pulled a leather bound book from his library, flipped it open, and read the following; “Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.” - John Muir

With his yellowish green eyes looking up in an Angelic state he whispered, “You see Adamas to live a balanced life one must take time to just “Be”.

Peridot always reminded me that the science of deduction included time to experience nature.

Bien, what are you proposing?”

“Hawaii, my boy. The big Island. This year, would have been our our 30th anniversary. Olivine and I visited the Island of Hawaii, on our honey moon years ago - a very special place.”

I immediately Googled Hawaii, “This is incroyable.”

“Did you know one can travel through ten of the world’s 14 different climate zones on Hawaii ranging from Wet Tropical to Polar Tundra.”

Says here, “A result of the shielding effect and elevations of the massive volcanoes Maunakea and Maunaloa. The big island is nearly twice as big as all of the other Hawaiian Islands combined.”

Peridot calmly held up his hand to stop me from rambling. “To be specific, Adamas, we will explore Green Sand Beach, the Hawaiian name Papakolea.”

He took a sip of his coffee, dabbed his mustache with a napkin, cleared his throat and began;

“A truly magnificent place, the green sand gets it’s color from tiny olivine crystals (commonly known as Peridot) created from eruptions to a dormant volcano. Nestled in Mahana Bay, one of only two green sand beaches in the world. In fact, green sand beach itself is within what was once a cinder cone. Three sides of the cone are still present, with the ocean coming in from what would have been the eastern edge.”

“Sounds exciting. I said.”

“I’ve hired a guide to escort us to Papakolea.”

“Pack your bags, my boy, we leave tomorrow.”

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

What an E-Bike Can't Do

In this episode, a return to the struggle. There comes a point in life when many people decide they've earned a machine to do the hard work for them. Some celebrate retirement with a bright red Corvette—the old ads called it "The American Dream Machine." Others opt for a Harley-Davidson, because apparently retirement isn't official until you've purchased enough chrome to be visible from space. Me? I bought a bicycle. Not an e-bike. Not one with enough battery power to serve as its own charging station. Just a bicycle. People have asked me why. Bicycles have always kept me young. The exercise is good for the body, and the quiet is good for the mind. Unlike a sports car, nobody expects you to explain why a retired guy suddenly needs to go from zero to sixty in four seconds. Before the e-bike crowd starts sharpening their keyboards, let me confess something: there were several moments on today's ride when I would've gladly accepted a small electric motor—mayb...

Parabolic Arcs, and Pulled Putts

In this episode, the Retirement Mulligan Welcome to the first official morning of the rest of my life. With no alarms and no meetings, chasing a little white ball around The Lakehouse—a par-58 canvas—felt like the perfect way to christen retirement. Golf is a game of profound integrity, so I must disclose that my playing partner, Steve, and I took a couple of mulligans off the tee today. When you overswing like you're launching into low-Earth orbit, the most mature choice is sometimes a do-over. In retirement, these aren't mulligans. They are Executive Retirement Relief Strokes —a benefit package we’ve earned. When the swing connected exactly as intended, it was pure geometry in motion. Watching a crisply struck iron trace a towering parabolic arc against the San Marcos sky is the everyday magic we try to capture here at On the Fly . We witnessed it eleven times today, to be exact. Hitting eleven greens in regulation meant I repaired so many of my own pitch marks that I wonder...