Exploring the World: Travel Essays from My Adventures Across Continents

🌊 Survived the 2025 Tsunami (Barely): A Story of Courage, Cocktails, and Utterly Unnecessary Panic-Packing

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🌊 Survived the 2025 Tsunami (Barely): A Story of Courage, Cocktails, and Utterly Unnecessary Panic-Packing

You never expect to face a tsunami warning while deciding whether your shrimp taco outfit is cruise-cute enough… and yet, here we are.

It was just a few days ago in Hawaii, and things were going suspiciously well.
We were at a beach bar—me, deeply committed to my tropical cocktail journey; my husband, casually watching the horizon like a very relaxed Navy SEAL; the sun doing that cinematic shimmer thing that makes you believe everything’s going to be just fine forever.

Cue nature’s plot twist.

Out of nowhere, the resort speaker system crackled on—sounding exactly like a villain about to monologue in a 1990s disaster movie—and announced, in the calmest, most unnerving voice imaginable:

“This is a tsunami warning. Please evacuate inland immediately. This is not a drill.”

Excuse me?? I still have half a mai tai and a boat to catch in 40 minutes.

Suddenly, the bar exploded into action. Servers disappeared. Guests scattered like sunscreen samples in a windstorm. Chairs were flying. Flip-flops were left behind like they’d died in battle. The restaurant staff was politely but urgently herding everyone toward land like panicked, sunburned ducklings.

Naturally, we tried to call an Uber.

Oh, sweet summer tourists.

Turns out Ubers don’t thrive in full-island evacuation traffic. Ours was trapped in a cluster of rental cars somewhere in the depths of Honolulu gridlock, moving at a speed I would generously describe as inspired by geologic time.

Enter: our hero.
A lone restaurant employee—who I’m pretty sure is now our legally adopted island cousin—offered to drive us back to our hotel in his very tiny car, with very big traffic ambitions, and zero hesitation.

We said yes immediately. Not because it was smart, but because I had already emotionally adopted a coconut from our table centerpiece and named it “Steve,” and we all needed to get back to safety together.

The drive was tense. Not because of the impending wave, but because we were going two miles an hour, surrounded by 400 rental Jeeps, and I was frantically Googling “tsunami hotel survival” like I was cramming for a test I didn’t study for because I thought it was a beach day.

From the back seat, I called the hotel:

“Hi, quick question—are you evacuating people orrr are we just… trusting the architectural integrity of the cabana?”

The woman on the line responded calmly, as if she got this question hourly:

“We are currently executing a vertical evacuation. All guests below the fifth floor are being moved upward.”

Oh, I see. Vertical evacuation.
Because nothing says “relax, you’re safe” like a hotel version of The Hunger Games: Elevator Edition.

Luckily, we were already on the highest floor. So instead of running, we did what any well-prepared, semi-panicked vacationers would do:
We ordered two piña coladas. For me.
Because if this wave was coming, it was NOT going to catch me sober and unaccessorized.

My husband declined.

“I’d like to stay clear-headed in case we have to make fast decisions.”

Fast decisions??? I just packed a bag with three kaftans, an eyelash curler, and a wedge of brie from the mini bar. My decision-making window closed when I chose the flip-flops with rhinestones.

We scouted exits, identified the roof access (yes, we actually did this), and turned our luxury suite into a fully functioning survival bunker with decorative pillows and mild snack anxiety.
His prep kit: passports, flashlights, bottled water.
Mine: three flavors of lip gloss, a pack of gum, and the aforementioned Steve the Coconut, who was NOT being left behind.

We watched the local news for hours as anchors tried to sound calm while standing in front of terrifying wave simulations. There were tide charts, warnings, color-coded maps, and phrases like "tsunami surge potential.” I was stress-refreshing my weather app while simultaneously applying under-eye masks just in case we had to be rescued and I ended up on the news.

The watch went on all night. Or, technically, until I fell asleep mid-doomsday coverage, surrounded by pool towels and piña colada empties like a very hydrated castaway.

In the end?
No tsunami. No drama. Just a whole lot of humid panic and one overly dramatized brush with aquatic death that mostly resulted in me drinking rum in the dark and naming fruit.

Final Thoughts?

I officially survived the 2025 tsunami, from the top floor of a luxury Hawaiian hotel suite—armed with cocktails, decorative throw pillows, and absolutely no useful skills beyond dramatic narration and emergency beverage procurement.

My husband? He was ready for anything.
Me? I was emotionally preparing for a rooftop rescue that included waving down a helicopter with a floral sarong.

And if that doesn’t sum up marriage, I don’t know what does.