BEASTIES, VOLCANOES AND SURF, OH MAUI

                                                             …Joe and John in the Emerald Kauhale

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     Joe.  I’m sitting with John on his lanai. That’s Hawaiian for porch, and yes, he lives here now. I am an extended visitor. I had planned this trip for a while, finally following through on promises to visit friends on the Big Island and on Maui.

       During the planning stage, John said he wanted to go with me to see if Hawaii might be a better fit for him than So Cal. He is officially obsessed with surfing and needed to leave the oceanless Midwest as soon as possible. He craved to make a home where he could indulge his obsession on a daily basis.

     John. Yeah, I lucked out big time. I found a job opportunity on-line, applied, had a phone interview, got hired and got here all in about two months time. As if I wasn’t lucky enough, Joe’s friend, Brad, who had become a friend of mine as well, was leaving his apartment for new digs, and I was able to move right into his old place. So, here I am. I’ve got this perfect efficiency that is less than a two-minute walk from the beach.

            We’re sipping on Koko Browns, a favorite from the local Kona Brewery, watching the lizards hunt tiny moths on the wall under the porch light. The lanai is more like a living room. It has two privacy walls, and a bamboo shade on the third side. The walls leave a space above the floor and below the roof to let the breeze flow through.

             “You have ‘leezards’.” Joe loves to imitate the accent of a trekking guide in Brazil he had a crush on. “Yeah, she wanted me to look over the edge of a thousand foot waterfall, and I’m an edgeaphobe. So she said, ‘Come closer. You can do eet. Crawl on your belly like a leezard.’ And there was just something about her voice that made me need to comply.”

              “Well these are actually geckos, and, along with a few other ‘leezards’ and the sea turtles, are about the only reptiles here. There aren’t any snakes.”

               “That’s a plus. In Australia every creature great or small was a threat to human life—poisonous snakes, insects, spiders, fish, not to mention crocs. Even the bloody ‘roos run into your car.” Joe’s reminder of some our encounters with the wildlife of Oz did stir some memories.

                “You know when I went there for the second time after you left, during my recovery phase, I went for a surf session with some of my local friends. I had a rashie on, but only board shorts, and I was a little concerned about the box jellies.”

                “I know. There were times we couldn’t swim in the warm ocean without a wet suit because of them,” Joe recalled.

                “Anyway, I’m at Curl Curl, a spot north of Sydney with a great beach break, trying to have a little session before work. I ask one of the veterans in the line-up about the jellies, and he assures me that they won’t be a problem. ‘The only thing out here might be a Blue Bottle or two. No big deal.’

                All right, only Blue Bottles. And soon I see one, and then more. Holy crap. That’s a Portuguese man-of-war. That’s a Blue Bottle?  ‘Well, yeah,’ he says.

                So now I can see a lot of them, and I’m carefully paddling around them. I ask the guy if the sting is dangerous. ‘Naw,’ he says, becoming a little dismissive by now, because everyone wants to get some waves before work, ‘it’s no worse than a bee sting.’

                Taking comfort in his words, I pop up on the next wave and get a great ride until it closes out near the shore. I get rolled a little, and as I get right and start to paddle out, I avoid the Blue Bottles I can see all around me. Then, I get slugged by a wave from the side, and I feel some contact on my thigh. When the wave passes, I realize a Blue Bottle has wrapped its tentacles around my lower leg; and then the pain begins.

                   Immediately, my leg is on fire, from my toes to my ball sack. I’m fighting my way through waves as I start to rip it off with my hands. That’s the part that’s like a bee sting—the hands. The rest is torture. My whole lower body is shivering in pain.”

        Joe.  “Oh my God. You never told me that story before. That makes my flesh creep.” His vivid recounting has made me almost feel the sensation myself. “That’s horrible. What did you do?”

                 “After I got untangled and got out, I peed on it…my leg, not the man-of-war.”

                 “It’s funny now. I heard vinegar helps.”

                  “Well I didn’t happen to have any. The acid in urine is the next best thing. And by the way, I made it to work that morning, although the whip marks on my leg and some residual pain lingered for days.

                   But the jellies don’t seem to be a problem in Hawaii. The worst we have on land is centipedes. I’ve been warned that they’re really aggressive and have a nasty sting. Plus, we have scorpions and a few spiders that are venomous.”

                  I can actually feel myself breathing a little heavy as I go to bed. The image and feeling have made a strong impression. I’m on a therm-a-rest on the floor. After a few days I’ve become comfortable on it.

                  Sleep comes easy. But at some unknown hour as I move a little, I notice a little discomfort on my upper leg, like a raw cherry from a tough slide into second base, irritated by dragging it over some rough surface. So maybe I scraped it on a rock in the surf and didn’t realize it. Whatever. I try to go back to sleep, but soon my whole leg is on fire.

                  OK, I’m dreaming. This is slightly amusing that such a vivid dream would spring from John’s story.

                  But no. I am not dreaming. I am awake…I think. Yes. I am. Wow! A story so powerful that it has produced a tactile hallucination, but no again. This is real. I have been stung.

                  I roll over and notice a glow on the floor, like a lightening bug, about ten feet away. I have been attacked by some bio-luminescent beastie and there it is. I will capture it and discover its true identity.

                  So in the dark, trying my best not to wake John or alarm the monster, I creep to kitchen area and get a large glass. Silently, I sneak up on the glowing creature, hoping I don’t cause it to flee, or worse, attack me again.

                 It dawns on me that the centipedes can be six inches long, but I won’t shed a tear if I bisect it. Step by step I inch my way toward it, and when I am in range, raise the glass…and wham. I slam it down on the light.

                  Shit! It is John’s iphone, and I have whacked it.

                  Now I’m biting my lip trying not to lol. I hope I don’t wake John. I hope I haven’t broken his phone. Fortunately, the answer is no to both concerns. I shake out the sleeping bag. The whole-leg sting has diminished a bit, although the area around the sting or bite or whatever it is remains like ‘needles and pinza’.

                  Sensing that my symptoms are not getting worse, I go back to sleep and awake in the morning to find only the localized irritation and swelling. No, I don’t pee on it, although given the location, I’d like to say it would be physically possible for me to do so. Instead, I go to the ocean for a soak and pour a little peroxide on it for good measure. After that, only swelling and three red marks remain, no stinging. But that will prove to persist for weeks.

                What was it? We’ll never know for sure. Best bet is a centipede, but if it was, locals tell me I got off easy. Scorpion would be the next most likely, with spider coming in third. But whatever it was, I hope that, like Elvis, it has left the building.

VOLCANOES

        Joe.  Geologically speaking, think of Hawaii as a plate with holes in it, sliding over a stationary cauldron of magma rising up from deep within the earth. Now slide that plate slowly, to the northwest to be exact. As it slides, the rising magma forces its way through the holes that happen to be above the cauldron at the time, making an island. Keep sliding the plate. The first hole is no longer over the magma, so that first island (let’s call it Kauai) slides off to the northwest, and a new island begins to form through the next hole that is now over the cauldron.

                This process has continued over millions of years. The counter-process of erosion now dominates those islands that have formed and moved on. But the processes of active volcanism and island building are currently happening here on the Big Island, Hawaii, the youngest of the chain.

                 There are five different peaks on the Big Island, each representing a time when that part of the plate sat over the magma hot spot. The two that dominate, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, measured from their bases on the ocean floor, are the most massive mountains on Earth.

                 This weekend we will go on a road trip to do two night-hikes: one to peer into the roiling lava lake of Kilauea, the youngest and most active of the volcanoes, and one to hike the crusted lava flows to watch molten rivers pour into the ocean. Here, new land is forming amid billowing clouds of steam and sulfurous gas, as these relentless rivers challenge the power of the thunderous incoming waves.

                  I’m excited about this. I’ve peered into volcanic craters before, but seen only steam, never “live” lava. All the pictures and videos, however, have fed my craving for an in-person visit. The geologist in me can’t wait.

                   We choose the southern route, mostly along the coast, to get to the Puna district, where a friend of Brad, gone for the weekend, has let us stay in his house. There are maybe 120,000 people on this island that is the size of two Rhode Islands or a half Connecticut, and about three-fourths of them live in the three towns of Kailua-Kona, Hilo, and Waimea. Do the math and you realize how sparsely populated the rest of it is.

                      Puna is an area populated by aging hippies who can’t afford to live on Maui. The folks here are self-sufficient and libertarian, and in some cases, suspicious of or even hostile to strangers, a country of pit bulls and rottweilers. But Brad’s buddy, Aaron, has extended us the ultimate in hospitality at his secluded paradise.

                      The last miles of our drive to Aaron’s are down cratered dirt roads where a green jungle produced by a 200-inch annual rainfall hides most evidence of human habitation. Occasionally, a driveway provides a glimpse of a modest dwelling. Odd that the modest show themselves, while the flamboyant secrete themselves deeper in the forest.

                       The sprawling fan of a traveler’s palm marks the entrance to Aaron’s driveway. The path winds its way through dense foliage, lined with a narrow band of manicured grass and some brilliant maroon-leafed plants. It is difficult to distinguish what is the planting of a skilled landscaper and what is nature’s handiwork. But the scattering of wild orchids, bursting white and purple, are clearly a gift from our Mother.

                       The house grows out of a clearing. It is the size of a large studio with a comfortable lanai. As I look out, I notice maybe twenty different colors–all green. The rain comes in waves, every ten minutes. It makes soothing music on the tin roof and on the feasting plants. The Kona Coast, where Brad and John live, is a desert. Here, the plants, the rain and even the air are all thick and rich and enveloping.

          John. “OK, Yussuf, snap out of your trance. It’s time to go see the volcano.”

                      What we are about to do is technically forbidden. The road that surrounds the crater has been closed to the public for about three years because of an eruption and the fear of new ones. But we have some inside information from an unnamed source.

                       Our instructions are to go to a certain parking lot at night. No one will be around. From there we are to walk out the road that has a closed gate with a “No Entry” sign. We are to continue about three miles to another parking lot, and from there we can walk out to the crater.

                        The first part of the walk is through a corridor of trees, but after a while it opens up to a barren plain. The sky is rich with stars, and a faint red glow in the distance let’s us know we are on the right path. Soon the glow grows brighter and earth-born clouds roll across the landscape in front of us.

                        This could make a problem. Breathing sulfur dioxide could be hazardous to our health, or fatal to our lives. We reach the described second parking lot, and find that the shifting wind is blowing pulses of cloud in our direction as we try to make our way to the crater.

                        “Guys, this is not good. We shouldn’t be walking through this stuff.” As we all turn our backs and cover our faces, Brad is temporarily assuming the role of the sensible one.

                        Joe and I both reluctantly agree.

                        “I know it’s a shame we’ve come so far and have to turn back. But it’s just too dangerous to go out there.” Brad has begun the walk back to the car.

                        But Joe is having none of it. Clearly, if there is any way possible, he does not want to take a pass on this opportunity. “Let’s not give up on this yet. I thought I caught a glimpse of a sign a couple hundred yards back that might have marked a trail out to the crater. Let’s check it out.”

                        We go back and find the sign. It doesn’t say “trail”, but has a walking figure and an arrow pointing in the general direction we need to go. “I don’t see any trail, but I think we just dead reckon across the lava, and from here it looks like we come up behind the cloud, and unless the wind shifts ninety degrees, we should be OK. Let’s go.” And so Joe goes.

                        I’m in, and so is Brad, but with an “I’m not so sure about this.”

               Joe. I’m pretty sure that this will be OK. The wind shifted in pulses about forty-five degrees as we tried to approach from the parking lot. From this new angle it would have to shift another ninety, and that has not happened in the half hour or so that we have been observing the clouds. So I’m doing it.

                       The walk is fairly easy. The glow from the crater gives enough light to let us see where we are going. The ground is fairly smooth, but strewn with rocks of varying sizes, ejecta from recent eruptions. A sudden event like that would definitely ruin our day.

                        But Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess whose home is Kilauea, is with us tonight. We successfully make our way to the edge and are well-rewarded for our daring. Although, as you know, I am a certified edgeaphobe, I draw as close to the edge as I can without crawling like a “leezard”. I can now see Halema’uma’u, the crater within the crater, where a vast lake of fiery red lava oozes in continuous convection. It seems to well up from about two o’clock, if we think of ourselves at six. It is immediately crusted over, and the crust cracks like a broken plate, with bright white-hot lines outlining the floating pieces.

                                                                 

                        The broken pieces ride the molten lava toward the eight o’clock position where, cooled just enough, it sinks, to be replaced by the hotter fluid, now rising where it began its journey. It is thick and slow and we watch it in mostly silence for a long time.

                        “This is awesome—in the true sense of that word. I don’t have a ‘bucket list’, but this is something I’ve really wanted to see, and it does not disappoint.”

                        “Wait ‘til tomorrow night,” Brad offers. “I think you’ll like the flowing lava even more.”

            John. Brad has lived on the island for twelve years, and I think he knows about all 120,000 people. If he doesn’t know people himself, he at least knows someone who does know them. I’m saying one degree of separation. This is why, for our lava hike, he will be able to park his car in the yard of a friend of a friend, and we will be able to begin our trek much closer to the sea, which is our destination.

                      Having said that, this hike will be no picnic. It will take approximately an hour and a half one-way over the most difficult imaginable terrain. We’ll be hiking on a hardened lava flow. There is no trail, only dead reckoning in the direction of the smoke rising out of the sea on the distant horizon.

                        “Why do people live here?” We’re in what you might call a subdivision. I’m looking out over a field of foreboding black ragged lava. There are several houses that sit along a gravel road that is maybe a mile in circumference. Other than a group of five dwellings near the entrance road, the few others are widely dispersed. Other than a little cultivated plant life in individual yards, there is only a vast black emptiness.

                       “They obviously detest human contact,” offers Joe.

                        But our host is friendly, and his dog is a licker. I won’t speculate on what other personality disorder might cause a person to choose this life-style. This is just a very weird place to live.

                        The track underfoot is merciless. The lava rock is uneven, sharp and gnarly. It requires my total attention. I have to watch for the cracks and crevices, some big enough to swallow me up. If I ever use my hand for support or to catch myself, the sharp rock will rip my flesh.

                        I discover early on that I am ill equipped for this adventure. My strap sandals, which have stood the test of most any hike I’ve attempted, are a liability here. They are not gripping like I need them to, and as a result, I’m not confident in my steps, especially the frequent steeply angled ones. I am slipping, so I go slow.

        Joe.      We’ve tried to time this hike so we can at least get to the ocean while the sky is light. Now that I am in the middle of it, I’m already dreading the return trip in the dark. We have headlamps, but it will still be slow dangerous going.

                     I can see John struggling. My shoes are tough-soled low-cut hikers that have gotten me anywhere I’ve ever wanted to trek. But this stuff is nasty. After a few minutes, however, I totally trust my steps. The shoes are gripping securely at any angle my foot lands, and I’m walking briskly and confidently. I think, however, that the price of this hike will be the shoes themselves. Even these tough soles are no match for this sharp jagged lava.

                    This hike is the ultimate total leg workout. With shoes like mine that grip like a beast, the large muscles of the leg can use maximum leverage to pull me up steep mounds in big confident steps. The down-slopes work the opposing muscles with equal intensity.

                    After about ninety minutes we crest the last ridge and begin a descent to the edge of the sea cliff. There is molten lava oozing on our right. It is crusted over, making it difficult to distinguish between what is a safe step on hardened lava and what is a false move that will incinerate my leg. I’ll give it wide berth until I see where others safely tread.

                   I am surprised to see two school groups at our destination, although they leave soon enough, and we have the place mostly to ourselves. Most tourists view this sight from a boat or a helicopter. A person needs to be in shape and have a certain attitude to make this trek. Choose your own description of that attitude.

                  We hang around for a while, watching up the coast as four or five massive red rivers, dump into the sea like the guts of a steel plant. Towering waves crash into these lava falls, half evaporating into massive hot clouds of something you might expect to find on the planet Venus—should you ever travel there.

                  As I watch the surface lava, crusted over like the lake in Kilauea, move with agonizing torpor, Brad invites me to a better vantage point. “I’d really like you guys to see this lava flowing red like those dumps up the coast. It’s usually better than this here.”

               “Brad, no need to apologize for the lava. Don’t insult Pele. This is awesome.” I couldn’t be more pleased by this experience.

                        “Oh, I would never insult Pele. Let’s hang out for minute. I hope some of the flow will break out of the crust, and you can see it at its best.”

                        The ground is warm under foot. I have been testing wherever I walk. I would hate for my shoes or feet to melt. It seems safe enough where I am.

                        I’m watching a bulge in the crust, and after some minutes a break-out comes, and the red ooze moves quickly like a rapids until it pools and crusts over again. Brad is disappointed in the show. I am thrilled.

                        The walk back is easier than I expected. The half moon is bright enough to cast a shadow, and my headlamp is giving me good depth perception. I’m moving as quickly as I did on our out-hike, although I’m tired and hungry.

                        As we get close enough to see the lights of the houses where we are parked, we adjust our line of travel accordingly. We are uncertain which of these widely spaced lights is our true objective. An extra half-mile of hiking is at stake.

                        We shoot roughly for the middle of the lights. I have paid close attention to every step for the last three hours fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds of this four-hour adventure. Then, literally in the last twenty yards of the hike, before we come to the gravel road, I look up to identify the light we need to head for, while I keep moving.

                        Dumb ass. I step into a crevice up to my knees and tear my leg up. Irony, frustration, humor, blood, pain—that about sums it up. We have first aid, so infection will not be a part of my summary.

                        Next morning we had back to Kailua, this time taking a more northerly route over Saddle Road that cuts between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea. There is a definite line where the rain stops, replaced at the higher altitudes by a wind-driven chill. The descent to the Kona Coast welcomes us back to the tropics for which, as you know, if you read When It Was Good, I was born–stings and torn flesh notwithstanding.

 

 

SURF

            Joe.  On my very first day at John’s, I of course go to swim in the ocean. I am surprised to find the water temperature at seventy-five degrees, the same as my last swim in Rhode Island. But there, that is the warmest it gets. Here, this is the coldest, and it’s not that cold.

                        His home-beach is called La’aloa or alternatively Magic Sands. Apparently, the big swells come in and take the sand away, leaving a shorescape of big rocks and lava shelves. Then, over time, more gentle wave action brings the sand back, as if by magic.

                                                                              

                        It’s a small sunset beach, sandy now where the waves wash the shore. There’s a shelf on either end of it, easy enough for a body surfer or boogie boarder to avoid. Rocks and lava make steps from the shore to an elevated permanent sandy area. Here, there are palm trees, a volleyball court, lifeguard stand and picnic tables. Throw in the music of the surf and the smell of the ocean and you’ve got yourself that happy place you try to send your mind to in times of stress. Only here it is in the flesh.

                        On day-one I am pleased to find that the surf is ideal for me: a three to four foot shore break, powerful enough to give me a great ride, but not so powerful that my play defies doctors’ warnings. If there were room to throw a frisbee, this would be paradise; but, close enough.

                        Day-two is another story. I go for a swim in the morning. There are a few people who have the same idea. The morning light turns the water to turquoise. It’s glassy with the same wave working. We swimmers have company: marine turtles who aren’t shy about swimming with us or playing in the waves, and bright blue and yellow surgeon fish who add another dash of color to the visual palette.

                        I realize that the waves have a little more power today. They don’t look much bigger. Maybe the tide is higher and that changes things, but they seem to be closing out a little more forcefully.

                        I catch a good one and get a good ride, but as I near shore in the rough backwash, I sense that something is amiss. More specifically, something is missing. I think I have no pants. Yes, I am correct. I feel for them and they are gone.

                        Now I’m not a praying man, but, no question, I ask whatever God will listen to let me find my pants. And I spy them close in front of me. I lunge and snag them.

                        Then I begin a challenge more difficult than a game of Twister. I struggle to re-pants myself in a foot and a half of water, trying to keep my junk submerged, while my face is being buffeted by a gauntlet of incoming waves.

                        It does not help that I am swallowing parts of these waves due to uncontrolled laughter. A lady who has previously educated me about turtle behavior looks in at me puzzled. “Are you OK?”

                        “Yeah, the wave took my pants,” I explain, as I finally complete my challenge. She sees the humor of the situation.

                        This should have been a warning that I was on the verge of making a bad choice. But nooooo. I do not heed the warning, because this is too much fun, and I want more of it.

                        So I choose a big wave in the next set and catch it perfectly. It shoots me toward the shore like a torpedo. There is probably only two feet of water under me as the wave propels me, arms outstretched to fend off any hidden rocks. But then the rest of the wave comes crashing down, smashing me into the sand while driving me forward, and hyper-extending my left shoulder.

                        Rat’s ass. I’ve just spent the better part of a year rehabbing my shoulders to avoid surgery, and now it feel like day one of that process. I am bummed.

                        But day-three will be different. I will make wiser choices. I will not go for the big ones. I will not swim hard for a wave—because it hurts for one thing. I will enjoy the ocean a little more sensibly.

                        OK, here comes a big one. I dive under it, and the next one, and again. Hmm, they all seem a little bigger. Maybe this one. I decide to go for it, but abort at the last second. I ball-up to roll out of it, but my timing sucks, and the wave sucks me up and throws me down on the sand on my spine.

                        I hear that cracking sound like a chiropractic adjustment, but I know this is not to my benefit. I’m dazed as I slog to the beach, but my board shorts are still snug around my waist. I thank the Gods for small favors.

                        This is not good. I have that pain in my shoulder blade that it took spine surgery to correct, and that in the past has been the precursor of loss of hand strength. Now I’m really bummed. I can only hope that time heals these wounds.

            Joe (cont).  During the workweek, I am on my own by day, which is fine. One reason I came here was to see if this would be a good place for me to hibernate. Most days include some ocean time, either at Magic Sands or at Kahalu’u, the snorkel beach a mile walk southward. There is also time for tai chi and a trip into town about four miles northward. It is not a brutal schedule.

                        The trip to town can be either a two-dollar ride on the open-air trolley or a walk. I’m not shy about putting miles on the shoes. My haunts include the gym, the Kona Coffee Café, the internet café, the farmers market, and the Kanaka Kava Bar.

                        Since the cost of transporting some of this island’s best goodies to the mainland is prohibitive, there are wonderful things that you can get only here. The strawberry papayas, which are the sweetest fruit on earth and are to die for, are five for two dollars at the farmer’s market. They are seven for two dollars in Hilo, three hours away, where they come from.

                        The Kona coffee, which grows up the mountainside from where I live, and where there is rain, is very special. If you see it at all on the mainland, it is usually a Kona blend that is about ten percent Kona. You can get one hundred percent Kona here for nineteen to twenty-five dollars a pound. But you can also find Kona Peaberry. Short story: it’s a mutant bean with 70 percent less acidity. It is smooooth as silk and will set you back about sixty bucks a pound–here. It is my afternoon coffee fix.

                        Although most establishments on Alii Drive, the ocean road, cater to tourists, there are a few spots known best to locals. My “Cheers” is the Kanaka Kava Bar. Kava is a root-based drink that has been a staple of the South Seas for centuries.

                        Sage, the “kavarista” explains to me: “When the Europeans got here, there was no alcohol or no coffee.”

                        “That must have been hell—even in paradise.”

                        “But no, they had kava. I admit it tastes bad. Some describe it as potato water. But it gives you a nice physical buzz without causing you to do stupid shit, and it’s completely legal.”

                        “OK, then, I’ll try it.” And it is as described in every way. But while I like the effects of the drink, I like the ambiance even more. The Kava Bar sits hidden behind the front row of buildings. It is a six-stool open-air establishment with a big wooden bowl of brew sitting on the counter. The potion is ladled into coconut shells, some of which, like mugs at a bar, are personalized. There are tables on the other side of the sidewalk that passes through. All of the chairs face the bar, and the result is that everybody talks to each other.

                        The clientele are pretty much aging hippies, young hippies, and the staff and their friends who are young side of middle age hippies. Since I’m one who speaks to everyone anyway, this is right in my wheelhouse.

                        By the way the food is great. It’s traditional Hawaiian: tarot, poi (a tarot dip), purple sweet potatoes, poke (sashimi grade ahi tuna, marinated in herbs and spices) and other good things, most of which are grown on the company farm near Hilo. The people who work here treat me great and make me feel like I belong, so I spend a little hangout time here most every day.

                        Very often, I’ll catch the trolley home at quarter ’til three. If I miss it, I can wait two hours, or walk. The amount of produce I have scored at the farmer’s market also figures into this equation, as does a decision to stop at Da Poke Shop or the wine store, which are about half way. Those are the closest stores to John’s place.

                        The spot at the end of town, where I sit on the seawall to wait for the bus, is also a hangout for some of the local teenagers. I see them most days, either here or somewhere else along the wall that extends for a mile to the pier. I’ve never really spoken to any of them, or they to me, other than to say “hi” if I catch any eye contact.

                        But today, one of them is sitting here alone after the others have gone. I can overhear him making a call. He is really agitated and is venting to the other party about something that happened earlier. I hear the gist of it. It breaks my heart. When the call is finished, he sits on the wall sobbing. I can’t walk away from this.

                        I walk over to him. “Dude, are you OK?”

                        “Yeah, I’m alright.”

                       “What’s wrong?” I’m prepared for, “None of your damn business.” And I would have understood that.

                        But instead, he spills his guts: “I just saw my father this morning, out of the blue. He’s been working on the mainland for five years, and I hoped I’d never see him again. He abused me bad when I was a kid. And there he was, right across the street.

                      So he comes over. I don’t know if he’s gonna slug me or what. And he just starts talkin’ shit, telling me I’m worthless, that I’m not worth a crap, that I’ll never amount to anything—right in front of all my friends. I was so embarrassed and scared. And I don’t know what he’s gonna do, if he’s gonna come after me again or what.

                     I’m seventeen and graduated from high school, not a GED. I’ve got a diploma, because I worked my ass off. I work two jobs—at my aunt’s restaurant and construction, and he says that shit to me.”

                      I am sad and angry. What a bastard. “Oh man, I am so sorry to hear that. Look, you’re doing great. You’re on the right track. Don’t let him or anybody else tell you different. He’s the guy with a problem.”

                       We talk a little more, and I find out a little more about him. He does not deserve to be unhappy like this. I just try to encourage him. “Hey, my name’s Joe.”

                       “I’m Kai (not his real name).”

                       “Kai, my bus is coming. Are you gonna be all right? Are you gonna be safe?”

                      “Yeah, I’ll be OK. Thanks, man.” We shake hands, and he goes back to his phone, as I go for the bus.

                       You want to hate a guy that would do that to a kid, although I realize that an abuser has probably been abused himself. But that doesn’t justify his behavior. I hope Kai can break the cycle when he has a family.

                      I never see Kai again, but some days later, I see one of the kids I know to be his friend. I introduce myself, tell him I had talked to Kai, and ask if he’s OK.

                      “Yeah, he’s doing OK.”

                     “If you see him, tell him I asked.”

                     “Will do.”

                     I guess word gets around. It’s like small town USA anywhere. Again a few days later, I’m walking along the sea wall, and from a group of kids hanging out, one of them looks up and actually makes eye contact. “Howzit, Uncle?” “Howzit” is a local greeting.

                    “Fine, man. And you?”

                    “I’m doing good.” I’m a little taken aback by the show of respect. At least that’s what I take the “Uncle” to indicate. I feel like I’m beginning to fit in here.

OH MAUI

 

      Joe.  This morning I’ll be flying a nine-seater to Maui. I’m going to visit my great friends of thirty-some years, John and Jan, and their daughter Lindsey. I haven’t seen them for four years, so I’m looking forward to just hanging out and hopefully avoid further injury. I’ve always thought of the various Hawaiian Islands as being pretty much the same, but each is very distinctive, both in its geography and in its attitude, as I am about to discover.

      John. “I found that out within a few weeks of my arrival. Although there is plenty of surf here, the Big Island is more about the volcanoes. It’s land-oriented. The focus is farming and ranching.

                  I’m really interested to explore Oahu. People tell me that that is the island of the surf culture, and I think that it might be my best fit.”

                  “But Jono, you’ve just got here. You’ve lucked into the perfect set-up in paradise, and you’re already plotting your escape?”

                  I can see why I might have given Joe that impression. “No, no. I’m really happy I’m here, and happy with my situation. And I know I have a lot more of this island to explore and appreciate. I won’t short-change this opportunity at all. I’m just saying munkin nanti, maybe later, a couple years down the road.

                  I’d like to go with you to check out Maui, but I can’t get the time off right now. Your mission, should you chose to accept, is to make a full report on the Maui scene, especially as it relates to surfing. I’ve read some things and know of some breaks, but a visual check-out would be good.”

                  “I will do my best.”

      Joe.  As we lift off from Kailua airport and skirt the coast of the Big Island, I see two whales directly below, a mother and calf, lying stationary near the edge of the reef, sunning themselves I guess. We cross the channel. Haleakala, the Maui volcano, passes by on my right. A little minor turbulence, then touch down.

                  Maui John shows up straight away. We keep in touch, but there is no substitute for reunion. We’re catching each other up on recent developments, when my hope of avoiding injury is almost immediately dashed. As John is driving us to his home in Lahaina, I tell him the story of the centipede and the iphone, and he almost loses control of the car in a fit of convulsive laughter. Death by story telling…of all the ways to go…

                                                                 

                  Yes, Maui will be an interlude of the high life. I sit on the lanai in the morning with my coffee, watching the whales play in the great blue basin that lies between Maui and Lana’i to my left and Molokai to my right. The bright sun, barely above the mountain, crafts a low-arcing rainbow that pours its vivid colors into the sea right in front of me.

                   In the afternoon the rainbows appear behind me, in the clouds that are extruded from the mountain gorges. Every day, whales and rainbows, whales and rainbows…this place is lousy with whales and rainbows. It would be tempting to just sit on the lanai with a mai tai in my hand and a shit eatin’ grin on my face and stare at this scene all day.

                                            

                  But over the course of the next few days, we get around to check out some of what Maui has to offer. The differences from the BI are apparent. The snowbirds on Maui are in their fifties and sixties, as opposed to those on the Big Island, who are more often in their seventies and eighties, and a lot of the Maui folk have a couple extra zeros on the end of their income statements.

                  If you’re a stargazer, you might see Stephen Tyler, or Woody Harrelson, maybe Carlos Santa, Michael Mac Donald, or Chris Berman. But rich and famous aside, Maui is more oriented to the arts than the BI. I get that vibe wherever I go on the island.

                  On my first night we all go into nearby Lahaina. Lahaina, the principal town on the west coast is an old whaling town. The streets are lined with high-end art galleries, more than in Kailua-Kona. Tonight is a gallery walk. Most of the establishments are offering wine and hors d’oeouvres, and feature both local and international artists.

                                                                            

                  I compare Kailua-Kona and Lahaina as I do the old mining town of Aspen with the new ski town of Vail. It’s not an exact comparison, but Peter Lik and others have galleries here just as they do in Aspen. There also seem to be as many good local artists here as there are whales and rainbows for them to depict.

                  Speaking of whales, the next day we take a whale-watch cruise that gets us up close to the breeding humpbacks. Seeing a whale is another first for me. This time of year is the season of best viewing. These great sea mammals have migrated from their feeding grounds in the North Pacific to this low latitude oasis, where they come to mate and breed.

                  On my last day, smug in the knowledge that I have gone five days without injuring myself, Jan and I go to the driving range. A phone call distracts her, but I keep hitting. My swing feels really good, but I’m not using a glove, and I’ve choked all the way down on her club that I’m borrowing. I realize, too late, that I have gone beyond a blister and worn a dime-sized hole in the palm of my hand. Is nothing safe? Golf? Sleeping?

                  This visit is much too short. John and Jan are leaving for Tahiti in two days. This has been a chance to renew a great friendship. When I was thirty and traveled two years, John and his brother, Mike, shared about nine months of that time with me. I have recently preserved all of my photos from that journey, dear reader, and I hope to soon tell you the stories. They are as fresh in my memory as if they occurred last week, and my journals will keep me honest.

      John. “Welcome home, my friend.”

                  “Great to be back.” Joe gives me the Maui briefing, including the surf report. “We never got to Jaws (the legendary big wave break). If it’s not cranking, it’s not worth the trip. It will cost you thirty-five bucks, for the parking ticket you’ll get. You have to view it from the cliff road where there is no parking. There’s no beach access. The riders all come in by boat.

                  But we did get to Honolua Bay at the north tip of the island.”

                  “I’ve heard of that place. What’s it like?”

                  “We went on a day when Lindsey told us it probably wouldn’t be doing much, but while we there, it got pretty good. There’s a point break at the head of the bay that breaks in three zones. Maui John said that when it gets big, guys will ride from the outside all the way in. It’s the longest ride he’s ever seen.

                  There were maybe thirty guys out there. There’s a dirt road that gives access and parking out on the cliffs, and they just hike down. Check out the pictures.”

                  “Sweet. I’ll get there soon enough and try it myself.

                  By the way, while you were gone, I had an interesting little adventure. I was doing my typical sunset surf, but it was pouring rain. There was a winter storm warning for the mountains, but for us that meant the rain and big waves.

                  There were only a few guys out there, but I love surfing in the rain. The ocean was otherwise glassy, and as everyone else left, it turned into the most spiritual experience I’ve had surfing since I got here. I was getting some really good rides. But it started to get really dark, and soon I was totally alone.

                  These big waves would roll in out of the darkness, and I couldn’t see them coming until they were nearly on top of me, which made it very challenging. And given the time of day, thoughts of sharks began to cross my mind. But I craved just one more ride. You know how that is. And I got it. It was a beauty. It carried me all the way in to the inner break and all the way on in. I was so stoked.

                  Anyway, as I got my board mounted on my bike and started to pedal home, the rain came on even stronger. It was dark as hell by now, and the cars were churning up rooster tails of water that, well, they didn’t get me any wetter. But I couldn’t see shit, and I was really concerned about being hit by a car, but I kept going.

                  And then nearly right above me, I saw a blinding flash and, almost simultaneously, heard a buzzing sound followed by an explosion with an even bigger flash. For an instant I thought I might be finished.”

                  “A meteorite?”

                  “No, a transformer blew right above me. It took my breath away. Sparks started raining down on me like fireworks. All of my muscles froze in shock. My traps felt like I’d just attempted a four hundred pound shrug. My bike kept going forward. I wasn’t peddling. My body just shook all the way home and kept shaking for a good while.

                  “Whoa. For a minute I thought you might be having the St. Paul on the road to Damascus experience.”

                  “No. I didn’t fall on my ass—or off my ass; and there was no voice from above. But I just thought of all the risks I take, be it surfing, or even riding home like I was…of all the ways to go…”

                  “Believe me, I understand the sentiment.”                    I

            Joe. On my last weekend we declare a road trip—to Waipio Valley and Beach. It’s across the island, but miles to the north of where we had been two weeks ago. To access our objectives, we begin with a mile hike down a twenty-five percent grade. That’s really steep—four wheel drive only. Brad’s VW is no match for it. So we walk.

                  The view from the top is spectacular. I can see far up the steep cliff-lined coast. In the nearer view the green mouth of the stream and it’s majestic valley yawn into the oceans. And at their end, a wide stripe of black sand demarcates the beginning of the deep dark blue.

                  This down climb is a challenge. We all spend time walking backwards to use different muscles. I perversely look forward to the up climb, as we joke about the poor bastards now doing just that. They look defeated and pathetic.

                  The road slithers down to the flat valley floor, maybe a half-mile across here, and into a grove of tall old trees. The rich soil supports some tarot farms, but much of the land is protected. Hikers can choose an up valley route that offers views of waterfalls cascading from the uplands, which are about 2000 feet above. But we are here for the beach today, so we take the right fork of the path until it disappears into fine black sand.

                  The better beach lies across the Waipio River. The guidebook warns not to go in the river if you have an open wound, because the agricultural run-off is nasty and can breed infection. John had a hole in his foot from surfing, and we thought we might have to skip the crossing because of that. But he has taken good care of it and is good to go.

                  John and Brad begin the ford very close to the ocean. I seem to remember the guidebook suggesting crossing farther upstream. Also, I see little kids crossing farther up, so I choose that route. Bad choice.

                  The rocks are round and slick, and about halfway out—too late to turn back—I loose it. I go down hard. It’s not deep, but the current is swift. I’ve dropped my shoes, and, anticipating their direction of travel, twist and lunge and snag them. It’s a move I seem to have perfected.

                  I drag my ass out, back to the bank. I noticed that my knee is torn up and bloody. I have created an open wound and soaked it in shit-water. I’m annoyed with myself. My camera, which is on my hip, has remained totally dry. I cannot explain this good fortune.

                  The return crossing a few hours later is uneventful. We are psyched to climb the road out, and are guessing how long it may take. A pick-up truck comes by, and we beg for a ride. That’s only because we won’t otherwise have time to clean up, eat and get to a concert in Honokaa where we are staying. Right.

      Joe (cont). Unfortunately, it’s time to go home to Cincinnati. I had hoped to outlast winter, but I see it is still raging in the Midwest. Brad and I are at John’s, getting dinner together, waiting for John to show up. Then it’s off to the airport.

                  “I’ve been a little bummed today.”

                  “Oh, sad at having to leave?”

                  “Well, I am that, but I just feel like I’ve had this series of injuries and mini-disasters that are all the consequences of my carelessness or bad choices. It’s like I can’t be trusted to go in the surf among other things.”

                  “Geez, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. I mean shit happens. I’ve been hurt twice this month myself. Visiting the Big Island is a full-contact sport, unless you just want to sit on the lanai and drink mai-tais all day. And that’s not really you.”

                  “Thanks for that encouragement.” I’m about ninety percent sold on his way of looking at it. That’s good enough to change my mood. I’m a happy boy.

                  And so, to the airport.

EPI-TALE

      Joe.      One last story: As I am flying home, I have layovers in LA and Chicago. While walking around O’Hare, near my departure gate, I notice an attractive dark-haired middle-age woman. There is something familiar about her. When I board my plane to Cincinnati, imagine my surprise to find her in the seat right across the aisle from me.

                  This never happens. I’m usually flanked by the family with the bad baby, or the three hundred and fifty pound stinky man in the seat next to me.

                  I’m about to say something when a teenage girl, giving her father the “whatever” attitude, is about to crush my laptop in the overhead bin with her overstuffed day-pack. I say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” And I stand up to look for a win-win solution.

                  With that, the lady in question says, “Joe Emmrich, I recognize that voice.”

                  I double take and look at her closely.

                  “I’m Peggy, Doug’s wife.”

                  Things don’t get stranger than this. Doug was my first travel partner when I went on the road for two years at age thirty. I had seen him in So Cal, where he and Peggy live, two or three years ago, but I hadn’t seen Peggy. I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.

                  When we traveled, Doug left the road after only a few weeks—because he was totally in love with her. Thirty-five years and three kids later, I know that is still the case. I never held it against him for going home, although it came as a shocker. Had he not been willing to start that journey with me, I can’t be sure I would have started it alone.

                  Peggy and I catch up. I get the scoop on her family. She’s on her way to visit relatives in the Cincinnati area.

                  “I just caught up with John and Jan. (Yes, they are also friends of Doug and Peggy). We wondered how you guys were doing and were even planning to call. This blows me away, running into you like this. The world is very small, and the universe is very strange.”

                  “Strange indeed, Mr. Spock. Strange indeed.” I contemplate this traveler’s path that I follow. But I realized long ago that even on such a path, it’s not about sightseeing or checking this or that off a list. It’s about the people you encounter and the friends that you make and keep. Carlos Castaneda, through his character, Don Juan, says, “Whatever path you choose, make sure it’s a path with a heart.” That’s all there is.

                   Aloha.