The Edge of the Road, The Edge of Fear: Travelling the Road to Hana

The Road to Hana doesn’t begin at the first curve. It begins in the stillness before—before the engine turns over, before the sun climbs out of the ocean, before courage fully wakes.

We were in Maui for the first time, a family of four from the mainland, wide-eyed and a little dazed from jet lag. My husband floated the idea casually: a drive to Hana. We’d buy ourselves “I survived The Road to Hana” t-shirts from Whaler’s Village when (if) we made it back. Our teenage daughters lit up at once. Waterfalls, rainforest, sea cliffs—what’s not to love? I smiled, nodding along. But inside, something resisted.

I don’t love being a passenger. Too many curves make my stomach flutter, not in the good way. Too much speed, and my mind spins ahead to what-ifs. The Road to Hana, with its narrow turns and cliffside plunges, felt like something to be admired from afar. Not something to enter willingly.

But then—there was the car.

Global Prestige had outfitted us with a BMW X1 Sport Activity Vehicle, more for convenience than anything else. It wasn’t until we took it out for a spin around Lahaina that I felt it: the quiet strength of it. The way it responded like it knew what you needed before you asked. Soft leather, island breeze through the windows, a scent of plumeria riding the air. In that moment, my hesitation softened. If I had to do this, I wanted to do it here—inside this cocoon of calm and control.

We left before sunrise, the world still hushed and silvery. Our Global Prestige Concierge had recommended the early hour and even offered a few tips—where to pause, when to turn back if the road felt too much. But he’d done more than offer advice. He’d seen my nerves and offered reassurance, quietly and without pressure. That mattered.

The road unfolded slowly—like a ribbon winding through time. On one side, cliffs rose green and lush, stitched with vines. On the other, the Pacific stretched wide and blue and endless. Waterfalls emerged like secrets. One-lane bridges led us forward, over ravines and streams that shimmered in the morning light.

Somewhere along the way, my fear unknotted. The road was demanding, yes, but the vehicle held each turn like a whisper. The girls queued up music over Bluetooth—Fleetwood Mac, a little Jack Johnson. We drove with the windows down and the volume up, all of us lost in the rhythm of it. I didn’t think about the edge anymore. I thought about the now.

There was light rain during our drive, so when we reached Hana we wandered through the Kahanu Garden instead of hiking the no-doubt muddy trail—our feet grateful, our curiosity intact. Towering palms, a centuries-old heiau, stories written in stone and soil. The girls read every plaque. I watched them, wondering when they’d become so grown.

The drive back was slower, busier. But something had shifted. I no longer counted the bridges or held my breath on the bends. I trusted the road—and myself—more than I had before.

That evening, back at the Marriott, we made good on a promise: we bought the “I Survived the Road to Hana” T-shirts. But it wasn’t survival I felt. It was something else. Something quieter, more lasting.

The kind of beauty you only find when you stop resisting and start driving straight into it.