Spirit Matters in Hawaii

Adventures for the soul pull me forward. At 48, I'm no longer driven to accumulate stuff or prove myself. Time spent on yoga mats and surfboards has helped me realize that my greatest responsibility is to live fully engaged, without regrets. In her poem, "The Summer Day," Mary Oliver asks, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" My answer sounds like this: I want to play, to soak myself in experience and to feel every nuance of being alive. I want to know moments of bliss every day. I want to be a wide-eyed, awestruck guest on this planet. I certainly do NOT want to lie down for the big sleep, wipe my brow and declare, "Well, at least I got that life thing done."

When my husband and I had a chance to house sit in Hawaii for three weeks this winter, we said yes. The logistics were complicated, and we both irritated people to make this last-minute trip happen, but "no" didn't match our life plan. We're surfers who paddle out when the waves are workable. So we did our best to plead and placate, and we packed.

The journey was filled with chances to oooh and ahhhh  at this extraordinary Earth, but a simple local festival in honor of a community-built boat provides the best launch into my story. On the Big Island's northwest shore, at the Kawaihae small boat harbor, a double-hulled canoe was dry-docked for its 19th birthday party, called "Malama Makali'i." Serenaded by a local band crooning about the islands and sea, I climbed a one-story ladder onto Makali'i's wooden deck and met a woman in a handmade straw hat. She described the school children and other voyagers who become empowered sailors and ocean stewards aboard this mighty classroom. Then she pointed to the wooden housing for the rudder, mast and boom. Comprising the sailboat's spine, this housing is called the heiau, she said. Hawaiian for temple, a heiau provides a container for spirit, in this case the sacred center of a beloved boat. The metaphor struck home. As a yoga teacher, I help students keep their spines happy and healthy. It struck me that coming to the yoga mat--or any other healing place--is like dry-docking to shore up before setting sail again. Yoga is a little malama festival to honor and care for ourselves. 

This impromptu trip to the Big Island became my own malama opportunity, a chance to tend and consider the spirit center of my wild and precious life. Writing this blog was my way of articulating that experience. Some of it was written in an airplane, some while watching rain fall from our cozy island home, some while listening to the wind howl back on the Oregon coast.

On Jan. 24 we took off from Portland, the sunrise casting a rosy glow on the airplane's wing over my right shoulder as we banked southeast before steering west. I took in the momentary views of Mount Hood, Adams, St. Helens and Rainier, quiet sentinels witnessing daybreak with white shoulders stout in the morning's new blue. Volcanoes, majestic and sometimes terrifying, had stories to tell about the sameness of creation and destruction. I was eager to see dormant Mauna Kea, the world's tallest peak if measured from its underwater base; the massive Mauna Loa, which still belched and spewed occasionally; and their fiery younger sister, Kilauea, still at work forming the Big Island's southern topography. A Midwest Plains girl at my origins, I'm awed by these peaks that shift, explode, sigh and settle to forever redecorate our planet.

Climbing still higher on our island-bound flight, I spotted another of Earth's major architects: The Columbia River yawned toward Astoria, its mouth roaring into the Pacific at the great span separating Oregon from Washington. My eyes scanned south. Popping from the scalloped edge of familiar coastline was Kong's Head, the iconic rock that gazes to sea from Pacific City, our favorite Oregon surf spot. The waves would be clean but fierce there that day. A 10-foot swell with a 16-second period would offer fast and furious rides for hardy souls willing to paddle out.

But we wouldn't be mixing with our home crowd that weekend. We bade farewell to Oregon's shore: the familiar jut of Cape Lookout and its sand-spit campground below, the steep cliffs of Oceanside, the moon-shaped, rock-rimmed Depoe Bay.... The world's smallest harbor became a pin dot just before I lost site of Kong's Head. The next five hours provided a predictable view of fluffy clouds with an occasional break to endless water below.

Bound for Kona, on the Big Island, Hawaii, I sipped a mai tai and contemplated the swirl of events that had led me there. Two weeks earlier, capping the holidays with my 48th birthday Jan. 5, I had committed to settling into a routine of teaching yoga, helping at my son's high school debate tournaments, stocking the fridge and pulling out items to stir up into meals....The days had stretched out, ordinary but peaceful. A few days into this domesticity campaign I had gotten a call from a swim team friend. Her dad lived on the Big Island, and his house sitter had bailed. He would be coming in, well, 10 days. Could we watch his house in Hawi? For nearly a month? Mmmmm. One life. Wild. Precious. Bliss mission. Yes!

As we de-planed via an outdoor stairway, we sucked in the tropical air. Palms lined the walkways. Peeling leggings from under my skirt (I had planned this public disrobing), I was surprised by the quaintness of this international airport. Encircled by overhead beams and dark wood walls, gates and shops, the waiting area was mostly outdoors. Replacing my wool socks and boots with slippers (Hawaiian slang for flip flops), I smiled at the "hieroglyphics" rimming the plaza: surfer dude on a stick, paddle-boarder holding his stick overhead, turtle drawn of curves and lines. In the center of the plaza stood a larger-than-life bronze statue of three hula dancers. A real one swayed to ukulele music across the plaza. "Aloha" greeted us at the gate leading outdoors. We soaked up dappled sunshine on a low rock wall waiting for Mimi, matron of the home we would be minding. She was headed to her birthplace, Taiwan, the following day. At our feet lay a dead cockroach bigger than my big toe. This odd first view of local fauna amplified my excitement. I was ready for all things exotic.

A quick hug from Mimi, and she whisked us away for a day of stocking the house with groceries and learning the ways of the diabetic cat, HeHe, and their lap dog, Max (a bichon frise), who was our best friend after his first tummy rub. Our Costco fling felt like a soul-sapping delay but proved worth it, as groceries at smaller outlets would be pricey. Mimi also guided us through the Kona farmer's market, worth the 15-minute drive south from the airport for excellent local produce. "Not those papaya," Mimi gently scolded. "You want the strawberry papaya. A week's worth, green, to ripen, and a few yellow ones for today and tomorrow. Here, you want these!" Long skinny eggplants, a pineapple, beefsteak tomatoes, apple bananas and avocados bulged in the cloth shopping bags Mimi had brought for us. Waste disposal is a big deal in Hawaii. Stores by law require reusable bags, and although some of the market vendors had plastic bags they were visibly pleased when we didn't need one. Mimi's cooler kept our fresh food cold on the hour long drive north from Kona to Hawi Town in Kohala, the northernmost district that is named for the Big Island's oldest and longest dormant volcano.

Stopping for mail at the small bank of postal boxes in the foyer of Hawi's minimalist grocery store (closes at 6--so does the gas station) we got a feel for the small-town life we had signed up for. There were a couple of restaurants, a few touristy shops and boutiques. Quaint, sweet, historic. Up Hawi Road, we passed a few modest homes on our way to a long driveway lined with citrus trees. Mimi's commentary revealed realities about island life: "No trash pick-up. Keep going that way, not far, to get to the dump. You take recycle there too. No food in the garbage. Use the compost bin or toss it over the fence for the horses. And the cows; they like the tangerine peelings." The modest wood-frame house, built by our host in the 1980s, was tucked in by manicured palms and bushes. I recognized several plants as giant versions of the foliage I nudge along indoors back home. A small covered lanai faced north toward the pale blue outline of Maui, which faded in and out of view with the weather and "vog" (volcano fog). Up close, red cardinals and yellow canaries perched on the dog's little boundary fence. On the patio table, orchids bloomed in a mix of baskets and repurposed plastic tubs. Watering them while enjoying the view would become a sweet way to greet the day.

I felt like Goldilocks, but the owners were welcoming us to stay at their just-right country home in paradise. How did we get so lucky?

Our first morning was a Saturday, so we drove to the Hawi farmer's market. Tucked among the buttresses of ancient banyan trees were booths staffed by mostly ex-pats from the mainland and elsewhere. The 20-something who sold me a groovy sundress, sewn of repurposed cast-offs and christened "forest feather," talked about growing up in Ecuador. The smoothie vendor hailed from Juneau. In no hurry, we sipped our wheat grass juice and enjoyed his paranoid rant about aliens who would relay psychic messages to raise collective consciousness: "It's the only way to save us all!" Everyone we met had a story about coming to see this place and never finding reason to leave. From this odd gathering, we bought handmade passion fruit butter, soap, shell earrings, macadamia nut raisin bread and a half dozen carrots. We noted that produce was scant at this little market. I found out later that a primary local farm had in recent years lost access to irrigation water. Politics and distribution problems had worsened a predicament begun by a decade-long drought. It seemed that the age-old problem facing any ship-wreck victim survived in this small island community: no water, no food. Well, except that Costco and Walmart were an hour away by car.

After getting final instructions for tending the house and pets, we wished Mimi well on her journey and drove south toward Hapuna Beach, described on our "Big Island Revealed" app as one of the world's best beaches. White sand, blue water, mellow waves. Close your eyes and picture a beach, and you will envision this place. Exactly. We tossed our borrowed beach bag onto a rock and strapped on fins to greet our first Big Island waves with wooden hand planes--foot-long, hand-held planks for body surfing. Wa-pow! As I tried to bust through the breakers, a set wave sent me sprawling, board and fins stripped. I thanked the friendly folks who retrieved my gear and swam out for another spanking by this play-by-my-rules-or-go-home sea. A local later would explain that the Big Island is young. It's reefs are raw, and the full force of the Pacific comes at you without apology. Generally a waist-high wave there hits with the power of a head-high wave back in Oregon. Noted. I would be a newbie here at any break. We played all afternoon, planing down a few three-foot faces before they crumbled into whitewash. Local kids showed their style on boogie boards: drop fast down the line with a laugh, a hoot and a drop-knee flourish.

We washed ashore chilly and decided to find a happy hour spot with cozy sunset viewing. We headed to the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel. Our friends had told us about this resort, which hosts a small public parking lot in compliance with state law requiring public access to the shoreline: "Get there before 9 am for a parking spot." Late in the day parking was abundant, but the resort's gatekeepers were staying just inside the law. The lot had met capacity earlier, so public service was done for the day. We explained that we were going to the bar, and they waved us toward the hotel's valets. Sensing our right to be there, we parked in the public lot and wink-winked along with the Hawaiian security guard in a golf cart, who explained, "I'm supposed to tell you to use valet parking." He later cruised past and smiled: "I'm glad you understood my message." In a country where money can buy almost anything, including a great view, Hawaiians and their lawmakers clearly would need to stand firm to keep their sacred shoreline accessible for all. Beneath this corporate behemoth, where room rates start at $550 a night, we followed a paved path to the crescent bay, where a lone local boogie boarder finished his sunset session in fine style. Then we walked up to the bar for drinks and sushi--and a glance at opulence.

The next morning we met our host's on-island daughter, Summer, at Kawaihae Harbor, a great spot for cruising on longboards during winter's bigger swells. Outside the harbor's break wall, the waves peel in long lines, deeper and more forgiving than the craggy reef breaks elsewhere. While we chatted with the sister of our friend-from-home--and eyeballed gratefully the nine-foot boards she would loan us--a humpback whale breached a few hundred yards out. "Oh! Have you seen The Whales yet?" Summer asked. Locals seemed to say it that way. The Whales. A community. I liked that. At home in Hawaii during winter, the humpbacks mate, give birth and nurture their calves before making the 6,000 mile journey back to Alaska for summer. Sightings provided wonderful conversation starters throughout our trip. After one spectacular view of a breaching, tail-smacking male at sunset, we chatted with a formerly corporate couple who had dropped off the grid to grow their own food and piece together a house from recyclables. Sighting elsewhere we met tourists from southwest Washington who turned out to be our neighbors. And whale-spotting bumped us into a man who told us about "professional house sitting" on the Big Island. There's an idea....

Each time, the whales provided a totem for familiarity, a shared appreciation for nature, an awe-inspiring and humbling vantage point from which to recognize our own small position in the universe. How could you not unite in respect and reverence for all living beings in view of these magnificent creatures? A breach, a tail slap, a mother-and-baby swimming in tandem. Life's contemplations bubbled at the surface: "...this one wild and precious life?"

The whales were playful, but Kawaihae wasn't giving people rides the day we met Summer. The mellow corduroy had dropped to glassy flat. So we headed for Pinetrees, a popular surfing beach between the airport and downtown Kona. Lots of riders in the water showed where the peaks were, but we couldn't tell which rides might end in super shallow water over wicked sharp reef. Near the north end, we watched a pot-bellied, middle-aged man (super tan, but still a haole) trudging up the rocks with a mid-sized surfboard. We smiled, "Good session?" The tide was receding, he explained: Probably should have paddled toward the deeper bay. He pointed south. We shrugged. If this old guy could make it we probably could too. 

We strapped on leashes and started picking our way among the rocks. Don't step on the green ones, my husband reminded. The coral cuts. Ten feet out. Twenty. Still too shallow to hop on our boards without scraping them on the rocks. Clearly we had chosen a terrible route to the line-up, but tip-toeing back to shore didn't appeal. Finally, we dropped onto our boards over the back of a used-up set wave and charged toward the break line, trying not to worry over the sharp rocks just beneath us. Lucky enough, we made it to the outside without injury. A lone short boarder eyeballed us. "Idiots," I could almost read in his mostly disinterested expression. Pretty quickly, a set wave rose before us and I saw my husband turn for it. His head disappeared behind what was probably a 5- or 6-foot face, and I silently begged any divine entity (smoothie guy's aliens?) to watch over him. When his board didn't springboard into sight, I assumed he'd made the wave and would be grinning beside me soon. What I didn't know was that his decent ride and kick-out finish had deposited him in knee-high water. Flat-swimming out of the path of another surfer, he'd been caught by a wave that dragged him over the shallow reef and left him begging for air. Giving space to the other surfer was his error, we learned later from locals: "You have to paddle back out quick!"

Safely outside the breakers, I committed to sitting tight until Matt returned. By then, another rider had joined the small line-up. I asked if he was a regular. He caught my gist. "You've never surfed here before? You should paddle down to the bay. This is really tight here. Shallow. Pretty sketch, and the tide is going out. Getting worse. Go to the bay." Done! In a few minutes we joined a crowd of happy locals, mostly on boogie boards, who hooted each other down walls of blue that jumped from chest-high to overhead in a moment and tossed the riders into a roil of foam before they popped out laughing. A few short boarders and one stand-up paddler hung to the outer edges of the fairly narrow take-off zone. I joined them and hoped for my perfect Goldilocks wave: not too hard, not too soft.... But the shoulders didn't carry enough juice for a solid take-off and threatened to slam me over the falls if I took off late or slow. As the afternoon wore on, I was keenly aware that I hadn't yet stood up on a wave.

I spotted a young woman sitting just inside the main line-up. She was occasionally getting worked, but she was also getting some long rides headed to the right. I wanted one of those! I joined her and was thrilled to finally get to my feet on a "reform," a wave that curls into foam but rebuilds a smaller and rideable face after hitting another underwater bump (in this case, reef). The water wasn't deep, but it wasn't dangerously shallow either. The rest of the session was busy: When you sit inside you never get a break from paddling, but I rode at least half a dozen waist- to chest-high reforms that packed a Hawaiian punch and boosted my stoke. I was an island newbie, but I was riding waves. A local kid, about 7, actually smiled and paid me a compliment, "Nice wave!" I had arrived!

At Pinetrees (no pine trees in sight, by the way, but our host remembered camping on lava fields there long before the roads were built), we were 15 minutes from the waterfront restaurant/shopping district in Kona. We did the parking lot beach change (wet stuff off/dry stuff on under a towel) and headed for happy hour at Huggo's on the Rocks, where we enjoyed inexpensive mai tais and fish tacos while chatting with a gay couple on honeymoon from Seattle. We shared snapshots of recently epic Oregon Coast sunsets and joked that this Big Island variation wasn't up to our standards. And, of course, we talked about The Whales.

Monday morning yoga class in Kapa'au was challenging, friendly and a great place to meet Debbie. Like me, she had learned to surf at 40. Her husband had encouraged her at Pinetrees: "If you can surf and survive there you can surf anywhere in the world." That was vindicating. A 61-year-old longboarder, Debbie preferred the mellow rides at Kawaihae, where patience often was rewarded, she explained: sometimes you watched the flats all afternoon before a wave would spring up. I soaked up her sound advice. She was an immediate role model, and I was pining for the long-peeling wave she described.

That afternoon, it all came together. The wave was about head high, but minus the elevator lift and slam we'd worried over at Pinetrees, this ride was pure heaven. You could count on tucking into the slope, maybe pumping out a few carves before an easy kick-out and a calm swim back for another round. The wave broke about a quarter mile out from the small boat harbor, and there were just a handful of us on the water. Surfing's magic trapped me in its familiar spell, where time slowed to mark the interval between sets and life became as simple as the air in my lungs and the color of the sky. An occasional whale would leap or sing its haunting call, best heard underwater. Sitting on my board, I was keenly aware of my position on the planet. And in that position I was both tiny and huge, a shiny drop on the vastness of all that exists. I felt quite profoundly that I was as close to home as I'd ever been.

The evening ended in rain, which carried into the next day. It was a cozy day for me to write and cook while my husband worked "from home." Where were those eggplant from the Kona market? Stir fry. Mmmmm.

And so our days continued for the three weeks that we immersed ourselves as residents on the Big Island. We returned several times to the harbor for glassy surf and friendly conversations with a parade of regulars. Other fun surf breaks included Kapalu'u Beach south of Kona, where Matt and I shared a marriage-enriching sunset ride to rival that seaside kiss in "From Here to Eternity," and Honoli'i on the island's east side, where huge sea turtles bobbed under our boards after nearly every cruise down waist-high glass.

On Super Bowl weekend, we were joined by a friend whose battle with lung cancer had inspired him to tick down his bucket list. Among his wishes was to see the live volcano, Kilauea, so we took him down the island's southeast side. At the end of Highway 30 we walked a path that had been a suburban roadway before lava flowed through three years ago and obliterated the neighborhood. Using GPS coordinates to identify their lots, dozens of residents have rebuilt and now live on the cooled fields without utilities but with big spirits. One homeowner boasted, "I didn't used to have an ocean view, but the trees are gone and the lava raised me up high enough to see it!" Feelings of survival, willpower and a cheerful acceptance of nature's whims were common themes in the conversations we shared, and our friend Mike enjoyed those chats immensely.

Just past sunset, we arrived above the volcano's crater at the Jaeger Museum, which offered the best view of red hot lava that weekend. Gazing into the glow was like watching Earth give birth to itself. Inside the museum was a relief map that showed the volcanic hot spot under the Pacific and the continental drift that had shifted the growing Hawaiian island chain over it. I had previously only visited Kauai, the oldest and northernmost island, and I now understood viscerally why its younger and heftier sister, the Big Island, felt so much rougher. It was still having growing pains, for heaven's sake!       

We ended that weekend of witnessing Earth in its extraordinary act of creation by racing back to Kona to watch the Seahawks win the Super Bowl. What a fun day to be in Hawaii via Washington State!

In the final week of our trip, we splurged on three boat trips: a kayak and snorkel tour of a pristine bay, an open ocean swim with wild dolphins, and a night snorkel with manta rays.

Paddling through Kealakekua Bay, hundreds of feet deep with a white sandy bottom, I noticed that my eyes felt soothed by the most stunning shade of blue I'd ever gazed into. A nature conservancy, the bay has been holy to Hawaiians for centuries and now requires docking permits to restrict access and hopefully prevent further damage to its reefs, which had been overrun by reckless tourists recently, and, well, long ago. At our destination across the bay was a monument to Captain James Cook, whose notorious cluelessness about native culture had got him killed there in 1779. Just before his death by drowning, Cook's mates had cannon blasted the bay's crescent-shaped eastern cliff, which was filled with small caves that had been secret burial sites for ancient chiefs. Our kayak guide, a history teacher, explained that stealing bones from a wealthy or famous person had been a way of stealing that family's "mana" (good fortune) in Hawaiian culture, so the revered bones had been well hidden in the cliffs by honorees who then jumped to their deaths with the secret.

Other clues about days long past were hidden among the fishes, where bits of old ships and pilings occasionally peeked from beneath the coral. Snorkeling there was a real-life trip into an animated world, where Nemo and all of his cartoon-like brethren live between the shelves of reef and the big deep. After our swim, our guide provided another island treasure, fresh lilikoi (a small passion fruit) from his yard. We scooped the pulpy sweet-tart seeds straight from the rind with a knife. Delicious.

Although visitors often site dolphins in Kealakekua Bay, they weren't spinning there the day we paddled through. I realized this was a Big Island experience I desperately wanted, and so I booked a bigger boat.

Led by a native Hawaiian, the "Sunlight on Water" tour began with a ceremony to honor the ocean and to ask for permission to swim among its creatures. Captain China blew into a horn he had carved from koa wood to salute the sunrise and then the south, west and north. Throughout the tour, the captain's reverence for his island and its traditions was clear: He kept a respectful--and legal--100 yards of distance between the boat and the humpback whales we spotted. We got an extensive coastal tour that morning, as we were searching for the dolphin pods that weren't hanging out in their usual spots. I asked China if he was worried that we might not find dolphins; his company claims a 99 percent "sighting guarantee." He laughed. "I never get nervous about seeing dolphins," he said. "Either we'll see them or we won't. This is their home."

Helping us to be respectful guests in this sanctuary, our guides coached us to "swim like dolphins," with our arms tucked to our sides. Gentle kicks would seem natural and help keep the ocean calm for the spinners, which had spent all night jumping, fishing and eating and had come toward shore to rest. The swirling schools sounded their arrival with clicks and squeals from hundreds of yards below before we saw them emerge. Many had one eye closed in the half-sleep state that dolphins use to rest one side of the brain at a time. Arms glued to my sides, I marveled as the spinners twirled around one another and at times around me. I don't recommend giggling into a snorkel tube with waves undulating above you, but a little saltwater down the gullet didn't break the spell. I was earning my nickname, Jerrifin, and it was so beautiful it was almost corny, like swimming into a poster from the pink-and-blue bedroom of an 8-year-old girl. Unicorns and rainbows would have fit right in.

Sci-fi/fantasy definitely describes our night snorkel with Manta Rays. These huge fish, with bat-like "wings" that span 10-20 feet, feast on plankton by funneling them into their giant mouths with specially adapted fins that open like sideways lips. Plankton are attracted to light, and divers in Kona discovered about a decade ago that if they wanted to see more mantas, they needed big lights to bring in the food. Divers and mantas adapted together toward this unique industry that brings hundreds of curious tourists--and often dozens of hungry mantas--to the bays each evening. Our boat, operated by Kona Ocean Adventures, provided a raft made of PVC pipe around an old boogie board plugged with holes to hold underwater flashlights. Wearing fins to float our legs, we held onto the plastic pipes while gazing through our snorkel masks into the 30-foot deep water, well lit by a slurry of divers and rafts from a dozen boats.

Swirling though this illuminated water was a fog of plankton, and the open-mouthed mantas flipped and flowed through the light in a mesmerizing ballet. Lost in the rhythm of the movement, the water, and the sound of my own breath through the snorkel I felt suspended in time, as though I was witnessing the world in prehistory and currency all at once. At one point a female manta swam directly beneath me, flipping just under our lit platform and about a foot below my belly before diving and coming around for another turn. I counted at least a dozen flips as she got closer and closer before finally rubbing belly to belly with me and then swimming away. I don't know what this graceful gal felt, but I accepted it as a gift, a shared moment of knowing that we are all connected on the wheel of life.

My manta mama grand finale sent me home awed and grateful, not only for my trip but also for the yoga teachings that have helped me appreciate and articulate my experiences. Flying home I met an artist who had been leading ceramics workshops in Kona during the same three weeks I'd been playing in the sea. She and I delighted in swapping tales of our adventures, the peoples and creatures we'd encountered. At one point on this late afternoon flight, a woman watching a movie on her laptop turned with a grumpy face and asked us to please "keep in down." We lowered our voices a bump, but it occurred that what she really wanted was for us to subdue our joy a bit. Perhaps it's annoying when you just want to plug in and check out to have people around who are lively and engaged. Ah well. I quietly showed video footage of the underwater manta ray ballet to my new artist friend. "Amazing!" She was giddy with me. One wild and precious life. Yes!

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