Mahalo, Hawaii, for our day of rainbows

MAUI, Hawaii — It's as common a phrase in Hawaii as the palm trees: No rain, no rainbows.

I didn't know how true this was until my wedding day.

This time last year, I was in the throes of making save-the-dates, CD favors and helping guests make their reservations. It felt like the big day would never arrive.

After all, this time last year, I was sharing with Travel readers my tips for how to plan a destination wedding ("Run away and get married," Seattle Times, July 17, 2005).

So imagine my shock on June 24 of this year that this was it. Two years of planning, six months on the South Beach diet and 2,640 miles later, there I was, standing on Kaanapali Beach in the white dress and veil, ready to walk down the aisle in front of 30 guests.

With no minister in sight.

Turns out the minister we had booked 13 months in advance was running late, stuck in traffic, and didn't bother to let anyone know until my fiancé called him 15 minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start. He was still more than 15 miles away, and he didn't seem too concerned that sunset was rapidly approaching.

It was about 100 degrees. In my big white dress, it felt more like 800 — and sitting down or running headfirst into the Pacific wasn't an option.

So, while I teetered on the verge of an eye-makeup-ruining breakdown, my posse of fuchsia-clad angels fanned me, brought me water and repinned the orchids in my hair. You've got to love bridesmaids.

Then came the rainbow.

One of the caterers tapped my shoulder. "I have something to show you that may make you feel better," she said.

She pointed at the sky, where a brilliant array of colors had appeared: the byproduct of earlier maki showers.

"Now you know everything will be all right."

And it was.

The head of the catering company called a minister friend who lived in the next town and explained the situation. He hopped in his car and zoomed down to the beach. A cheer sounded from the bridal party as he rolled up in a golf cart and the musicians began to play "Canon in D."

"Let's go get you married," one of my bridesmaids said.

The substitute minister turned out to be even better than the one we had hired. His gentle words touched everyone. There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd. (Some of us got a head start, bawling the whole way down the aisle. It looks really attractive on the video.) He spoke of how everything happens for a reason, and that maybe fate brought him to us.

As the sun set behind us, he spoke about love, and led us through a lei exchange, where we wrapped fragrant green orchids around each other's necks as a symbol of our commitment. It was very Hawaii, and very romantic.

My favorite part of the ceremony came after the vows. Instead of a traditional recessional, everyone walked to the edge of the ocean, and after a blessing from the minister, threw rose petals into the water.

The rest of the evening was a blur of food, champagne, dancing and the best cake I've ever tasted.

And it turns out the details I had devoted hours to were worth it — the raffia-tied favor tags and menu cards, the tiki torches lining the lanai, the orchids scattered among the crystal and china.

And I'm sure that my husband, who is still a sports reporter with little interest in weddings, would agree. Just as long as he didn't have to do any of it.

We could have gotten married at home. But you can't buy scenery like a Hawaiian sunset. And we could have invited everyone we've ever met. Instead, we wanted an intimate setting, where we could celebrate with our guests, instead of spending 10 seconds per person in a receiving line.

As we walked onto the cabana floor for our first dance, I flashed back to the warning my friends gave me: Something will go wrong on your wedding day. No wedding is perfect.

They were wrong.

My wedding was perfectly imperfect. And I wouldn't change a thing.

Jennifer Chancellor: 206-464-2179 or jchancellor@seattletimes.com