Origins
The author during his first solo cycling trip around the Big Island in January 2010.
Hawai’i 2010
I land on the Big Island with two panniers and one love of the road. I had been training for months in the wonderland hills near my home in West Marin, California. I am impatiently praying that my bicycle will appear in the Oversized Luggage section at the Kailua-Kona airport in west Hawai’i. I hadn’t checked a bag since 1997 when my suitcase was lost en route to Tanzania. Three days wearing the same t-shirt and shorts that I bought in a German beach hotel near Dar Es Salaam - both with white elephants – was enough incentive say Never again. But a ten-day cycling trip is not the right time to ride a foreign steed, so I make an exception for a predictable piece of home.
Two days later, bike assembled and tuned, I visit Keleakekua Bay where Captain Cook was killed by native Hawaiians in 1779, butchered into pieces, and given to the island chiefs to eat in tribute. There is no mapped road access to the reef side of the Bay, and while carloads of people offload rental kayaks at the south end, I walk alone 1300 feet straight down an old, overgrown farm trail that a sweet, old, Hawaiian woman named Carla at the Manago Hotel showed me the night before (this trail has since become overrun thanks to internet tourism). It is 8am when I arrive at the lava rock shoreline, spy the white Captain Cook Monument to my left and see a catamaran in the distance with a hundred loud tourists trying to put their snorkeling gear on for the first time. The cacophony in the distance grows and, recognizing the moment, I quickly put on my fins and mask to beat them into the water. My mask is a little foggy, I misjudge a step, slip, and belly flop into the ocean. I’m quickly surrounded by more colors of fish than I could have imagined. I’m hooked. I didn’t know it, but the newest object of my affection was likely to vanish in my lifetime.
Big Island Volcanoes over 13,000 feet in distance
That evening, I listen to the unrelenting sound of non-native Coqui frogs below my third story window. I am reading an article online and a few sentences capture my attention.
“The Hawaiian creation chant is called the Kumulipo, and talks about the first organisms that were brought forth and then what came after that. And the very first organism was the coral polyp, and from that came the coral colony, and from that came all of the other marine species—the fishes and everything. And from that came terrestrial plants and animals.”(i)
What is a coral polyp? I wonder to myself as I drift off to sleep. For the next seven days I bicycle the highway loop around the Big Island, making daily diversions to swim, snorkel and sun. I encounter marine life that defies my imagination - the labyrinth of pools and channels near Kapoho, swimming with Bottlenose dolphins by day and giant Manta rays at night. I fly home thinking it can only get better.
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Kaua’i, 2014
The sand feels warm beneath my feet, but as I scoop up a handful, the coolness underneath the surface shows its early morning. I can still taste the fresh coconut meat I ate for breakfast. An army of non-native sand flies cruises along the surface of the intertidal zone looking for prey. I dip my pointer finger in the water and taste the ocean, and then lift it into the sky to gauge the speed and temperament of the breeze.
The ocean tastes differently everywhere I go. The ocean’s version of terroir, it’s smooth and silky in Maui, rich in Tanzania, sharp and spicy in New England.
Anini Beach, Kauai (c)
Standing alone on Anini Beach, I use my left hand to shade the sun from my eyes as I scan the near distance for coral. Amidst the blue and green reflection of the sea, the nearby reef just below the surface looks closer to a brown and rust purple. Two green sea turtles surface for air to the right. I follow their lead.
I am most likely to get fearful in the open ocean. All those Jaws movies I watched repeatedly on Betamax tapes in my youth certainly didn’t help. The loss of peripheral vision from the mask and lack of site distance can make me agoraphobic. A beginner might view it as claustrophobia, but I view it as the opposite. There is something about knowing that the ocean is so vast that I am never confined even though I can’t see that far in front of me. As a terrestrial creature dangling in the ocean, the steady certitude of a limestone reef nearby reassures me. The fear of doing so by myself never goes away and that’s a good thing, because I’ll be doing it anyway, so I might as well be alert. At the edge between life and death, time slows, colors burst, and every moment is vividly recorded. I used to think that the fear would grow the farther I got from shore, but anthropological influences still reign: I feel safer a few hundred yards offshore and out of earshot from sunbathers than I do swimming fifty feet from an empty beach. As a fellow non-predator, it’s safer to travel in schools. But before long, I will remember how to be a fish, dive under crashing waves, dodge surfers, flow with the fish in the current, swim out in the deep blue, bob like buoy, sunbath on the surface – concerns about safety drift away. I am one with the source.
I am on vacation, hiking across the island of Kaua’i from one beach campground to the next. I was hit by a car while bike touring on a windy road on the north shore of Kauai on Labor Day 2010, and while I learn a ton about how to use alternative healing to treat traumatic injuries, my cycling career is foreseably over. I travel on foot.
I had snorkeled the island regularly for three weeks in the summer of 2011 while working for an algae biofuel company, so I know some locations to visit and how to use the $1 bus service that circles the island to aid my walks. Each day, wearing little other than hiking boots, quick drying shorts, a backpack, visor and a thin veneer of sunblock, I stroll for miles on country roads and through rural communities on the way to my next snorkeling adventure. I seek out Acai bowls and grilled Mahi Mahi from food trucks, graze on recently fallen lilikoi (passion fruit) along the roadside, and stock up on star fruit and coconuts at Asian market stands, periodically taking breaks to savor the Kava I carry with me. I check the local newspaper for updates on waves and tides, ask locals about their second favorite diving spot, flirt with the tall, dread-locked woman behind the counter at Bubba’s Burgers and buy a bottle of local honey wine to share with fellow campers. The sun is rising and I can feel the heat on the back of my neck and droplets of sweat cascading down my torso. I look for shade.
I stop by Snorkel Bobs gear rental to get some mask defogger. Snorkel Bob’s transformed my life during my first bike trip in 2010, as I had never found size 15 flippers for rent and had barely snorkeled before then. Now I feel somewhat seasoned and still wear the big, clunky, heavy, bright blue flippers I bought from them the following year. I meet a woman with a wetsuit over her shoulder in the shade outside. She’s in her early 30s and wears a trucker hat that says, “Surf or Die.” After exchanging alohas, I say, “I’ve been camping my way up from the south and east coast all week. What’s the story on the north shore?”
She informs me about a reggae show that night. I try impress her with my local hiking knowledge before asking, “What’s your favorite snorkeling spot? The one you never tell people about.”
Her smile disappears. She sighs. ”I was at Anini yesterday. One of my favorite spots is there. Most of the coral is dead. I am not sure how to handle it. I keep going back hoping things will change.”
“What do you mean, dead?’ I say incredulously.
“Its happening all over the north shore. El Nino. Global warming. Disease. Death. Head out just about anywhere on Anini or Tunnels and you’ll see. It’s the worst at Anini. ”
My curiosity sparked, I find a perch nearby in the shade, pull out my smartphone and do some quick research on coral reef ecology. Coral reefs comprise only one-tenth of one percent of the earth’s marine habitat but are home to one quarter of all marine life at some point in their lives. They are called the rainforests of the ocean, and only thrive between 30 Deg North and 30 Deg South Latitude. Individual reefs are often one organism, like Aspen stands in Montana and Redwood groves in California. Coral likes water between 73 and 84 degrees Fahrenheit. If the local ocean water warms just two degrees beyond 84 degrees for at least a month, many coral species will expel the symbiotic polyp friends that live inside them, inadvertently committing attempted suicide. Only half of these are unsuccessful. The rainbow of algae species that live within and give corals their colors, once expelled from their homes, die not long after, leaving dead white limestone skeletons, a proliferation of seaweed and not much else. They call these bleaching events, and while some species are more tolerant than others, they are happening with increasing frequency.
After a night of ocean dreaming, filled with Green Sea turtles, Caribbean Elkhorn coral, and Needlefish, I awake at the Annini Beach Park campground around 5 am, refreshed and optimistic. Something about Hawaii entices the human body to reconnect with its diurnal upbringing – we settle into Mother Earth’s womb not long after dark and arise in time for Father Sky’s first wink hello. It’s still raining hard outside, but I expect it will stop soon.
The Hawaiian island chain is marked by consistent winds and precipitation from the Northeast. The meteorological line between windward and leeward is as steep as the volcanoes thrusting upward in the middle. The northeast face of Mount Wai‘ale‘ale to my back is the second wettest place on Earth but fly like a Black-footed albatross ten miles southwest and you are more likely to think you’re visiting the Grand Canyon. Rainforest to the northeast, desert to the southwest and, on some islands, very little in between. One of the blessings of Kauai’s north shore though is that 85% of this rain falls under a night sky, gifting us with rainbows many mornings and evenings, and mostly sun in the middle. Anini is no exception. Within an hour of waking the rain starts to slow, the clouds part, and still wet palms, Albizia trees and sand glisten in the rising sun.
Anini beach is paralleled by fringing reefs that help protect the shore against the waves and wind. The best places for diving, though, are usually on the deeper, ocean side of the reefs. This is not well protected, so wind and tidal currents can be important determinants of the quality of a snorkeling adventure. As the sun rises it heats up the surface of the land faster than the ocean causing a difference in air pressure, which leads to a steadily increasing onshore breeze throughout the day. I am reminded that rather than blow wind actually gets sucked from high to low pressure, and laugh at the thought of a TV meteorologist saying, “the wind sucked hard yesterday.” While snorkeling in the morning is often blessed with long site distances and clear crisp colors, winds bring turbidity, sometimes turning the water into a boiling cauldron of sediment. If I walk to a beach ready to snorkel and its windy, I lower my expectations.
I scan the horizon for other swimmers and see a bobbing red flag on a buoy. I expect there is a mesh bag tied to it below the surface that I imagine is holding freshly speared Parrotfish or Snapper. My stomach growls. I finish my water. I wonder how long the diver can hold his breath before resurfacing, but I’m impatient to get in the water, so I don’t wait to see. I do some sun salutations on the beach to loosen my muscles. Wisps of wind wax and wane. I grab my snorkel gear and wade in. Waist deep, a school of small silvery fish swims around my legs, glimmering in the early light. I take one final panoramic look, then thrust forward, feeling the sleekness of my body as it glides through the sea.
As I swim toward the reef, I see a field of sand intermittently darkened by algae and wisps of seaweeds reaching toward the surface. An outpost island of Brain coral comes into view and small schools of Saddleback wrasse and Raccoon butterflyfish dance among the little caves and crevices. I can hear the crackling in the water – the sound of fish eating algae off the coral. Something slides along my leg and I react violently. Calm down. There is nothing out here to kill you. I instinctively come up from the water and look back for reassurance toward a Texan named Karl who is cooking freshly caught Ahi tuna near the beach.
I return to my journey, following the front edge of the main reef. Vivid green, blue and brown corals provide a backdrop to the jungle of life feeding on them and one another. The neon blue of a Black triggerfish catches my attention. A moray eel sticks its head up from its den just in time to gobble up a little fish. A White-Tipped reef shark startles me from the right as it takes a failed swipe at a Grouper. I see a plastic shopping bag swaying in the current, dive down, carefully remove it from a rice coral, and jam it into my pocket. I am swimming along thinking about how hungry I am, lose track of time and suddenly everything has changed. Much of the coral is bone white with a film of red algae swaying in the current. Where did all the fish go? I swim back to where I started and retrace my path more slowly the second time. Certain colors of coral disappear first, others look sick. The abundance of fish decreases along the same gradient. I had snorkeled this same location three years before and it was teeming with coral and life. Now it’s greatly diminished. In its place, a patchwork of color and white skeletons.
An hour later I am eagerly eating Karl’s tuna, which he offered me after sharing my honey wine the night before. I tell him what I saw. “Yeah that coral you saw is dead. If they keep dying we’re fucked,” he said. “Do you realize how much of the oxygen we breathe is created in the ocean?”
Two days later, I am sipping Kona coffee at Java Kai on Kauai’s eastern shore when I overhear two women debating. Scientific buzzwords like Black Band disease, global warming, and algae growth peak my interest. I interject.
“Excuse me, but what does Black Band Disease have to do with warming oceans.”
“Who says it does?” says the one I interrupted, clearly annoyed.
The other gives her a jokingly disapproving look, turns to me and says, “Many local coral species, given time and normal conditions, can recover from a bleaching event, but Hawaii waters have experienced unnaturally warm temperatures for three of the last four years Declining coral reef health makes disease outbreaks more common. Black Band disease is using blue-green algae as a vector and has been expanding – we think – due to warming waters. It’s been killing infected Rice corals at a rate of four inches per day.” She sighs, quickly pausing in thought. “The warming ocean/black band double whammy is wreaking havoc throughout the north shore. Marine biologists are trying localized treatments, but we can’t patrol every reef every week. We need a better solution, and we don’t know where to start.”
Its twelve miles to the airport. Since I’ll soon be jammed into an airplane seat, I might as well walk. After ten days, my pack feels light and I bound forward with long strides along a grassy right-of-way as hundreds of cars whiz by fifty feet to my right. A Kamehameha butterfly – the state insect – lands on a bush ten yards ahead and, rather than bask in the sight of its fluttering wings, my thoughts grow impatient. I contemplate my place in the maelstrom of uncertainty that someone I have never met decided to coin climate change. We might be experiencing more 100-year storms and heat waves on land, but nothing seems as acute and frightening as what is happening in the ocean. Factoids fill me with dread as I walk. Blue Tuna catch is down 90% worldwide. Pacific Northwest commercial oyster harvest is down 50-70%. There was only one Dead Zone river mouth in 1976 and now there are 4,300. 2.7 billion more people on earth by 2050. Will my future kids ever see a healthy coral reef? What have my parents’ generation done to us?
I know too much and can do very little. I want to quit my job and do something, anything to turn things around. Then I realize I am, in my own ways. Every day I help small, organic farmers in California who have no interest in Nitrogen fertilizer, pesticides or big combines. I also teach people how to invest their money in local, sustainable food businesses. I wrote a guest column three weeks prior in the local weekly arguing that a better definition of “sustainability” is that all species have enough habitat to live healthy lives. I doubt it’s enough, but it’s a good place to start. And there are millions of other people, like me, trying in their own way to do the same. Will it be enough? I am not going to wait to find out….
New volcanic beach formed after the recent lava flows in Puna, east Hawai’i