Yesterday we went to the Molokini beach, on a double-masted schooner, Lavengro, which is Gitano for lover of words. Aptly named. I waited for the words to come, but I was too excited being on the schooner. Pretty much anything with a mast and sails thrills me. And to be able to snorkel in such an extraordinary place, I had no words.
The westward sail in late afternoon with the wind pushing us ever forward, was well worth the trip, alone. I was in hog heaven. Everyone here, including the crew, is from somewhere else. Crew member, Charlene, who kept us in libations, is from Oregon, but most of us are native Californians.
Nick, the first mate, who originally hailed from Flagstaff Arizona, now lives in South Point on the Big Island. I tell him I was just there a few days ago staying with my cousin. My extended family has been coming to Hawaii since the early 1960s. It’s in the blood. We bond over that shared moment. He says he lives on the makai side.
Nick said that Maui is 100,000 strong and that the population is expected to double that by 1995. Almost every destination resort we passed on the way to Makena Beach is under construction. Big Island, where Nick is from, has 100,000 people but it’s six times bigger than Maui. I haven’t been here since 1983 and I am going into shock. Lahaina is a zoo. Wall-to-wall, no, shared-wall condos all up the Ka’anapali coast. The building boom is on.
Then, when we got to the half-moon crater, a steep volcanic cinder cone in the middle of nowhere, we dove along the inner arms of the crater wall. I don’t know how far down it drops, but even in the afternoon light, it was an extraordinary sight. However, snorkeling is never good in the afternoon because the ocean is not calm. We had to be careful that we weren’t thrust up against the rough sides of the volcano wall as everything was razor sharp.
A six-month pregnant woman who snorkeled with us, said there’s a baby boom in Oregon. The crew person, Charlene, said she just got two phone calls, one friend had a baby last night, and another is pregnant. It must be something in the air.
We talked about the Big Island, Nick says Kealakekua means pathway of the gods. I point out an old Hawaiian trail going up into the West Maui Mountains. Somewhere in those high caves, the aili’i are buried, Nick says, the one in charge of placing the bones in the cave was lowered down on a rope, then the rope was cut so no one would know exactly where the chief’s mana was hidden. Sacrifice.
One dolphin swims over from portside to see us off, but didn’t stay long. I was disappointed by the snorkeling in Molokini. Charlene says that during World War II, the military also bombed Molokini. Perhaps that explains some of the barrenness of the crater floor. A hoop, what once was a barrel?
The craziness of Lahaina is far from here. Lanai is by the pale blue shadow against an even paler backdrop of sky. They’re burning sugarcane again in the fields, even this far out to sea, Molokini is nearly one league from the land. That’s 10 miles of burnt cane smoke drifting by the wind like seaweed. The indigo of the sea is more intense than lapis, and it is interrupted by lacy whitecaps.
This morning was one of those rare, clear ones that jackknifed across the sky like a can opener, revealing the silvery brightness of dawn. We could see into the hanging valley, where Charlene said there are the remains of a huge settlement. But smallpox and King Kamehameha, decimated the settlement. No one calls him a traitor. They say that the rivers ran red for days after after the battle, so many bodies piled up in the rivers, that the water stopped flowing.Then, the onslaught. And now the tourists come in droves to witness what is gone.
The cliffs of Molokai jab at the sky. Hard to believe that Haleakalā was actually cloudless. Beneath the shadow of the peaks, it’s dusted green, where the rainshadow begins. Yesterday I was above the clouds on the rim of the house of the sun where Maui once roped one of the legs of the sun to slow it down so that his mother could continue her work on the tapa cloth. A tapa cloth tells a story, it’s a kind of writing. No wonder a woman’s work is never done, with men out lassoing the sun to stop it in its tracks.
Today, we went down to Makena Beach, where most of the locals go. The Hawaiian surfer dude sitting in the crotch of the tree watches the sea. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Nearly a decade, a lot has changed. The Hawaiian is oblivious to the boogie boarders and tourists. He’s watching the outside waves. Suddenly the surfer stands, looks intently out to sea, adjust his net in the crotch of the tree, it’s like a huge jellyfish. Guess he’s planning on catching some dinner too.
The Hawaiian waxes his board, puts on his booties and fins. A butterfly surfing on the offshore breeze is shoved back by the force. False alarm. He hand-signals to a friend waiting on the crest of a wave, who leashes the board to his ankle, reads the surf. Another outside wave swallows the surfers. Another and another. The Hawaiian in the blue trunks runs towards the sea, is airborne, but now the sea is calm. He is waiting for the big one. It is a fine art judging the waves like that. Waiting for the right wave takes patience. Boogie borders turn unexpected somersaults, a salute to summer?
A covey of surfers collects around the Hawaiian. From this angle, the water makes his hair black again. He is no longer the father of all of those children, but a boy riding the waves again, long before the infestation of resorts spread its malignant splendor along these once pristine shores.
Koho’olawe’s red mane under the tail of a cloud, is momentarily quiet. Last December, President Bush gave the former military target date back to the state of Hawaii. Over 1/4 of Hawaii belongs to the military. It is hard to fathom. For decades they bombed the shit out of the island, that once supported rare and endemic species, I remember listening to the adults complaining when I was living in Haiku, near Paia. Koho’olawe’s sacrifice, now a red wasteland where nothing will grow. It bleeds into the reflections of clouds, staining them pink.
More star pines and ironwood trees wear yellow bows—yellow ribbons everywhere—even in Hana which is at the end of the earth as far as Maui is concerned. Bring them home. Hana folks like their seclusion. After the sugarcane refinery went belly up, they had to rely upon their own resources. Not a café or eatery to be seen in 57 miles down the one-way road.
The Hawaiian is back up in his tree. His progeny greets the next wave. It turns out he is a lifeguard sitting in a koa tree. The Hawaiian wades out into the surf with his net cradled in both arms. The son has built a fire on the beach. Slowly he wades out through the lava rocks like a cat in tall grass waiting for the right moment.
I remember watching the fisherman of Mexico, descendants of African slaves, casting nets from the shore in a much similar fashion. Being out on the water again reminded me of the Galapagos where we were 10 days at sea in an open boat. We fought for the flat spot in front of the boat. The helm is the steadiest spot. The sea was the same shade of indigo, fathomless depths. Such an impossible blue. Ultramarine. Literally.
Two enormous bombers lazily fly low over the crater, ominously, a slow predatory crawl through the air. They circle back towards Koho’olawe like homing pigeons. Force of habit, I guess. The military presence is not forgotten here. Some things die hard. No matter that the endangered Hawaiian tern nests on Molokini, we’re not allowed to land on the crater rim, or face of $5000 fine. That’s fine by me, there is literally no place to even stand on the crater rim. The bombers circle again, perhaps the bloodletting of ancient Koho’olawe attracts them.
The Hawaiian boy gathers up more wood for the fire. He says this is the first time I saw them there, they better not bomb this island, he said, shaking his fist at the sky. He is the one who will inherit this place, tourists, and all.
For what it’s worth, this is the only journal entry that required extensive surgery as I had written it after the fact and in a circuitous piecemeal fashion, interleaving both stories, unsuccessfully I might add. Still not done yet but at least it’s recorded.
Nick said that Maui is 100,000 strong and that the population is expected to double that by 1995. Almost every destination resort we passed on the way to Makena Beach is under construction. Big Island, where Nick is from, has 100,000 people but it’s six times bigger than Maui. I haven’t been here since 1983 and I am going into shock. Lahaina is a zoo. Wall-to-wall, no, shared-wall condos all up the Ka’anapali coast. The building boom is on.
Then, when we got to the half-moon crater, a steep volcanic cinder cone in the middle of nowhere, we dove along the inner arms of the crater wall. I don’t know how far down it drops, but even in the afternoon light, it was an extraordinary sight. However, snorkeling is never good in the afternoon because the ocean is not calm. We had to be careful that we weren’t thrust up against the rough sides of the volcano wall as everything was razor sharp.
A six-month pregnant woman who snorkeled with us, said there’s a baby boom in Oregon. The crew person, Charlene, said she just got two phone calls, one friend had a baby last night, and another is pregnant. It must be something in the air.
One dolphin swims over from portside to see us off, but didn’t stay long. I was disappointed by the snorkeling in Molokini. Charlene says that during World War II, the military also bombed Molokini. Perhaps that explains some of the barrenness of the crater floor. A hoop, what once was a barrel?
A moray eel undulates lazily across the wasteland. Another displays his tonsils as I was washed over him by a wave. The water is unusually rough, and we are bobbing about like corks or apples. I stay out the longest, but no one, not even me, a diehard snorkeler, wants to go out for another dive.
On the way home, a line breaks on the mainsail, so we pull in the jib and the mainsail, then raise the foresail. Heaving seas drenches us every two or three swells. I wear my windsurfing jacket all the way back into port. This area of beach near Ma’alea has the fastest waves in the world. Freight train waves, says Charlene. I believe it. Those waves rip along the seawall with a velocity that would make Amtrak seems slow as a snail.
The sea was so rough, truth be known, I was glad to get out of the water when the dive was over. I was chilled to the bone. We had plenty of time to meet our shipmates on the way back. Besides, it was happy hour and the mai tais were as free as the wind and the waves. Nothing like a barefoot sunset cruise. When we landed, the dock felt like it was pitching as violently as the sea. As I walked to shore, it felt like my knees were hitting my chin, I was bone-tired but happy. Happy to return to our little bungalow facing the sea above Lahaina. Far from the banyan tree.
Did I say Lavengro means lover of words, she says, it’s from a Tom Robbins novel. I buy a T-shirt how can I not resist with the literary name like that? It’s right up my alley. Melville jumped ship here. It’s a literary hot spot here. Speaking of hot, I can’t believe Jack London wrote To Build a Fire on the beach at Waikiki, that place of swamps.
On the way home, a line breaks on the mainsail, so we pull in the jib and the mainsail, then raise the foresail. Heaving seas drenches us every two or three swells. I wear my windsurfing jacket all the way back into port. This area of beach near Ma’alea has the fastest waves in the world. Freight train waves, says Charlene. I believe it. Those waves rip along the seawall with a velocity that would make Amtrak seems slow as a snail.
The sea was so rough, truth be known, I was glad to get out of the water when the dive was over. I was chilled to the bone. We had plenty of time to meet our shipmates on the way back. Besides, it was happy hour and the mai tais were as free as the wind and the waves. Nothing like a barefoot sunset cruise. When we landed, the dock felt like it was pitching as violently as the sea. As I walked to shore, it felt like my knees were hitting my chin, I was bone-tired but happy. Happy to return to our little bungalow facing the sea above Lahaina. Far from the banyan tree.
Did I say Lavengro means lover of words, she says, it’s from a Tom Robbins novel. I buy a T-shirt how can I not resist with the literary name like that? It’s right up my alley. Melville jumped ship here. It’s a literary hot spot here. Speaking of hot, I can’t believe Jack London wrote To Build a Fire on the beach at Waikiki, that place of swamps.
The craziness of Lahaina is far from here. Lanai is by the pale blue shadow against an even paler backdrop of sky. They’re burning sugarcane again in the fields, even this far out to sea, Molokini is nearly one league from the land. That’s 10 miles of burnt cane smoke drifting by the wind like seaweed. The indigo of the sea is more intense than lapis, and it is interrupted by lacy whitecaps.
This morning was one of those rare, clear ones that jackknifed across the sky like a can opener, revealing the silvery brightness of dawn. We could see into the hanging valley, where Charlene said there are the remains of a huge settlement. But smallpox and King Kamehameha, decimated the settlement. No one calls him a traitor. They say that the rivers ran red for days after after the battle, so many bodies piled up in the rivers, that the water stopped flowing.Then, the onslaught. And now the tourists come in droves to witness what is gone.
Today, we went down to Makena Beach, where most of the locals go. The Hawaiian surfer dude sitting in the crotch of the tree watches the sea. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Nearly a decade, a lot has changed. The Hawaiian is oblivious to the boogie boarders and tourists. He’s watching the outside waves. Suddenly the surfer stands, looks intently out to sea, adjust his net in the crotch of the tree, it’s like a huge jellyfish. Guess he’s planning on catching some dinner too.
The Hawaiian waxes his board, puts on his booties and fins. A butterfly surfing on the offshore breeze is shoved back by the force. False alarm. He hand-signals to a friend waiting on the crest of a wave, who leashes the board to his ankle, reads the surf. Another outside wave swallows the surfers. Another and another. The Hawaiian in the blue trunks runs towards the sea, is airborne, but now the sea is calm. He is waiting for the big one. It is a fine art judging the waves like that. Waiting for the right wave takes patience. Boogie borders turn unexpected somersaults, a salute to summer?
A covey of surfers collects around the Hawaiian. From this angle, the water makes his hair black again. He is no longer the father of all of those children, but a boy riding the waves again, long before the infestation of resorts spread its malignant splendor along these once pristine shores.
Koho’olawe’s red mane under the tail of a cloud, is momentarily quiet. Last December, President Bush gave the former military target date back to the state of Hawaii. Over 1/4 of Hawaii belongs to the military. It is hard to fathom. For decades they bombed the shit out of the island, that once supported rare and endemic species, I remember listening to the adults complaining when I was living in Haiku, near Paia. Koho’olawe’s sacrifice, now a red wasteland where nothing will grow. It bleeds into the reflections of clouds, staining them pink.
More star pines and ironwood trees wear yellow bows—yellow ribbons everywhere—even in Hana which is at the end of the earth as far as Maui is concerned. Bring them home. Hana folks like their seclusion. After the sugarcane refinery went belly up, they had to rely upon their own resources. Not a café or eatery to be seen in 57 miles down the one-way road.
The Hawaiian is back up in his tree. His progeny greets the next wave. It turns out he is a lifeguard sitting in a koa tree. The Hawaiian wades out into the surf with his net cradled in both arms. The son has built a fire on the beach. Slowly he wades out through the lava rocks like a cat in tall grass waiting for the right moment.
I remember watching the fisherman of Mexico, descendants of African slaves, casting nets from the shore in a much similar fashion. Being out on the water again reminded me of the Galapagos where we were 10 days at sea in an open boat. We fought for the flat spot in front of the boat. The helm is the steadiest spot. The sea was the same shade of indigo, fathomless depths. Such an impossible blue. Ultramarine. Literally.
Two enormous bombers lazily fly low over the crater, ominously, a slow predatory crawl through the air. They circle back towards Koho’olawe like homing pigeons. Force of habit, I guess. The military presence is not forgotten here. Some things die hard. No matter that the endangered Hawaiian tern nests on Molokini, we’re not allowed to land on the crater rim, or face of $5000 fine. That’s fine by me, there is literally no place to even stand on the crater rim. The bombers circle again, perhaps the bloodletting of ancient Koho’olawe attracts them.
The Hawaiian boy gathers up more wood for the fire. He says this is the first time I saw them there, they better not bomb this island, he said, shaking his fist at the sky. He is the one who will inherit this place, tourists, and all.
For what it’s worth, this is the only journal entry that required extensive surgery as I had written it after the fact and in a circuitous piecemeal fashion, interleaving both stories, unsuccessfully I might add. Still not done yet but at least it’s recorded.
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