Sooner or later, a tsunami will visit every pacific coastline

A fast moving set of waves, at times hugely destructive, produced by an undersea destruction such as an earthquake, landslide or volcanic eruption. Tsunamis, also known as a tidal wave, means 'harbor wave', which actually have nothing to do with tides. An earthquake alone can create a tsunami, but the effect is thought to be greatly enhanced when an earthquake is followed by an underwater landslide, as was the case in July, 1998 when a set of three tsunami waves out of the sea of Bismark-one reported to be 30 feet high- suddenly roared into the northeast facing coast of Papa New Guinea killing more than 2,200.

These seismic sea waves can move through deep water at 600 miles per hour. They are barely perceptible until they approach shore at which point the grow tremendously as they slow down. Tsunami waves retain their power for thousands of miles. In 1960, 5000 Chileans were killed by a set of tsunami waves triggered just minutes earlier by an offshore earthquake of 9.4 magnitude: 14 hours later the waves reached Hilo Hawaii and killed 61. Nine hours later a tsunami hit Onagawa Japan and killed 150.

Surf lore contains a few stories involving tsunamis. In the 1860's, surfer/farmer A'a Holoua is said to have been swept out to sea along with his wooden house as the first set of tsunami waves hit the northeast coast of the Big Island. Ripping the door from his house Holoua rode back to shore while standing on his make shift surfboard

Maybe more credible, 1965 world champion surfer Felipe Pomer ventured into water at a surf break near Lima Peru with a friend on October 1974 about 1 hour after an earthquake. Not long after positioning themselves on the outside of 3 foot waves, Pomer and his friend were pulled out more than one mile as the water drained from the shore in a typical tsunami prologue. Both surfers then caught and rode separate 10 foot waves, one following the other, pulling out a few hundreds yards off the beach and watched as the waves exploded onto the shore.

Mark Twain got the Stoke!

Twain was 30 years old and virtually unknown when he arrived on Kona in 1866. As a $20-an-article travel correspondent for the Sacramento Union newspaper, a brief story of surfing took up just one paragraph in one dispatch. Twain's portrayal of the sport was deft and funny. Sadly during that era, surfing was looked down upon by visiting missionaries to Hawaii, like Hiram Brigham, who presented surfing as 'being in opposition to the strict tenets of Calvinism and against the laws of god'.

Twain didn't think so, and went so far to give the stoke a try himself.

In one place we came upon a large company of naked natives, of both sexes and all ages, amusing themselves with the national pastime of surf- bathing. Each heathen would paddle three or four hundred yards out to sea (taking a short board with him), then face the shore and wait for a particularly prodigious billow to come along; at the right moment he would fling his board upon its foamy crest and himself upon the board, and here he would come whizzing by like a bombshell! It did not seem that a lightning express-train could shoot along at a more hair-lifting speed. I tried surf-bathing once, subsequently, but made a failure of it. I got the board placed right, and at the right moment, too; but missed the connection myself. The board struck the shore in three-quarters of a second, without any cargo, and I struck the bottom about the same time, with a couple of barrels of water in me. None but natives ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly.

Surfing seems to date as far back as 3000 BC, but surfing as it exits today is a Polynesian invention. Stand up surfing was deeply integrated into Hawaiian culture since around 1000 AD. I was told that there are more breech births in the Polynesians than in other groups: Hawaiian babies are ejected from the confines of the womb and land feet first right onto a surf board. Surfing spans across all sections of society in Hawaii: Commoners and politicians, young and old, men, women, and children.

A sense of history was most likely lost upon Brigham who, I imagine experienced a horrific wipe out and took a defeatist point of view:Now that would be against the laws of god?

So, fireworks are serious here. Illegal Class B fireworks are something all Hawaiian dudes/dudettes (brahs, sisters) prize to possess. There have been thunderous booms occasionally in my 'hood in preparation for New year's eve. They shake you right out of bed, even when exploded several blocks away. I nearly soiled myself during the first few 'surprise' attacks,

Sanders is a typical Hawaiian brah. We work together. To Sanders, most everyone is a 'dude': nurses, patients, families, doctors, administrators. "Dude, I think the patient is crashing, dude!". Sanders invited us to his family's home in Pearl City, which is adjacent to Pearl Harbor. Driving to the neighborhood, first on the H1 Highway, there are fire works blasting off in all directions of vision. When most of the population has class B fireworks, the 'professional' firework displays of Waikiki beach are diluted in the aerial mix. Driving through the Pearl City neighborhood ( the houses are packed together, typical for any populated island, most of them several generations in multi-family houses) on any other day is a quiet clean decent working class neighborhood. But from sunset December 31st, is near chaos if one did not know better. Spent cartridges and explosive remnants litter the street, and fire-powder smoke hangs semi-translucent in the air. Am I driving through the streets of 1995 Sarajevo?

Sander's family's house is quite large, and sits facing the Pearl Harbor Lake- House, street, Lake(at one time the x-band radar), Pearl Harbor, Pacific ocean, in that order: Pulled pork, Korean-type BBQ, hawaiian/chinese noodles, and on and on. Beer, vodka etc. And the nearly bottomless arsenal of fireworks was non stop. I was privileged to have launched a few mortars (ground to air missiles) with some trepidation and reservation. I like my 2 hands and 10 fingers with which to use to hold chop sticks and beers. They go up, fine. Everyone is vigilant to watch for the one rogue mortar that fails to ascend. The explosion is deafening.....A misdirected mortar could cause a life altering situation. I think it could possibly call one into religion, should they survive the chaotic mess. Next year, your neighborhood might benefit from a Hawaiian brah with dakine choke fireworks.The drive back, Honolulu seemed to have a fine mist and fog in the air, however the odor of spent gun powder permeating the air reminds you that there is rarely fog in Oahu.


I could be wrong, though. Maybe you grew up with terrorist-grade fireworks, and I am just blowing smoke up your skirt, dude.

You people should get off the bus! Would you like a beer?

Riding The Bus, occasionally awarded one of America's best public transportation systems, is a continual exercise in patience and tolerance, for most folks, that is. Late buses, crowded buses, broken down buses. Don't forget about the passengers: Bus passengers who don't have access to bathing, passengers who are openly philosophical, passengers who are pleasantly friendly, passengers who are quiet and content. I once heard a homeless looking guy seemingly spewing quotes from what I gathered was Eric Cartman from South Park: "Fxxkin'Hippies.They're everywhere. They wanna save the earth, but all they do is smoke pot and smell bad" I sometimes end up sitting close to all but the quiet and content.

I needed to pick up my car from the repair shop. Although it is dying a slow death, I was actually going to take it from the 'hospital' and bring it to a funeral home. In any event, the auto repair shop is in a location where I could either take the 42A or the 20. Of course the first to arrive was the number 20. I was actually hoping for the 42A because it is a 'double jointed' bus, and I like sitting in the jointed, accordion part. I slipped the $2.25 into the binnacle and took an aisle-facing seat in the rear of the bus. As the bus meandered left and right through downtown picking up and letting off passengers, an ill-kempt guy took the front-facing seat next to me. After a few moments I heard him say something, but not making any eye contact, thought he was on a cell phone. Next stop, a nervous, figity guy sat next to me, the bus was getting crowded. I heard the the local dude ask me where I was from, and when I told him 'Punchbowl' he kindly told me I was going the wrong direction on the bus. We chatted a bit about my car, and the trip to the auto repair shop. "The 42A gets you closer" he said. Meanwhile, recall that the number 20 stops at the airport and there did happen to be increasing numbers of island visitors, clutching baggage.. We were making slow, but decent progress through the outskirts of downtown, but whenever the bus stopped, the haole-looking dude blurted out "Shit" Mostly under his breath, but those of us in the back of the bus could hear this very well.
"God damned fuckin bus" Eventually he detailed his discontent. "Fuckin tourists" he muttered. " you all should just go somewhere else, get off the [fucking] bus!". Eventually my first neighbor, a local guy, asked me if I wanted a beer, and approximated to me an unopened can of Primo. How cool, man. I did not see any other beers that he may have had and I was truly humbled as I thought this dude, albeit drunken and not having any idea about the anti-tourist sitting next to me, offered me his last beer. That's respect, brother. Seeing that it was his last beer I declined, although the thought of drinking beer in the back of the bus was appealing. Anyway my stop was next. The drunk slapped me a low five, and gave me a shaka (respected again).

I'm getting off this fuckin' bus and I'm gonna have a beer

I ride the bus, I floss my teeth, I trim my beard, my pants fall down

I am not unfamiliar with riding on crowded public transportation: San Antonio's VIA no.551, 'Are those Ruben's Tamales?', NYC's A train where riders are not afraid of chemical warfare, the Antwerp tram where you must exit only the rear of the car. The Bus in Oahu is really not much different. Most times I catch the no. 20 which winds its way from Pearl Harbor to Waikiki, of which the Honolulu airport is a popular stop. With practice, standing on a crowded bus laden with island visitors and heavy luggage, intermixed with warehouse workers and homeless folks becomes less intimidating. It can get so crowded that the only place to stand is behind the forbidden yellow line. I've been banged by luggage, backpacks, suitcases, elbows, small Chinese women carrying sacks of live sea crabs and spiny lobsters, and a whole gamut of other items while riding The Bus. It is the one place in Hawaii to stand up close with the less fortunate homeless persons. I am empathetic towards society's outcasts, but riding The Bus provides a strange combination of being unpleasant yet entertaining. Many of the homeless whom with I've come into contact smell. Fortunately the bus riders seem not to have the weeks-earned smell of urine and whatnot. The recirculated air confines of the bus prohibit standing upwind.

Several riders caught my attention on a recent trip. Now, Hawaii is known, not by me and you, to be a great place to reside as a homeless person, I suspect Honolulu has a good deal of 'working homeless' persons. Homelessness is tolerated here. The gentleman flossing his teeth, albeit not a full house of choppers, I overheard was going for an interview at a restaurant. His tee shirt has probably never been washed. I am the opposite: never floss, always wash. The seat in front of me was occupied by a 40'ish year old guy, trimming his 'stache, avec mirror, and general primping, deodorant application and a quick wisp of aftershave (aftertrim). He got off at the airport

Honorable mention: A pleasant elderly homeless man came onto The Bus clutching his pants with one hand, holding his other hand out for spare change, and collecting I might add! His balance was unchallenged when The Bus was stopped, he made a slow path to the back of the bus, gaining coins with one hand, holding up the baggy pants with the other. When a bus moves, however, balance is preserved with at least a 3 point support base: 2 legs, one arm. Sure enough, when the bus took off quite rapidly, he had to choose which hand to use to hold a steady balance. My guess was right when he used the hand holding up the greatly over sized pants to attain standing balance. It is harder to pick up coins, which have rolled way out of your reach, and possibly into someone else's hands. The pants came down as gravity took over. People on The Bus are cool because thay seemed to act as if this always happens. I am the opposite, I keep my pants on and lose my money.

Toys in the Attic

5 philosophical mind games: ( Adapted from J Jones and W Wilson)

1) Zeno's arrow: The flight of an arrow is an apparent example of motion, but at any given moment it is where it is and where it is not, therefore not moving. This must have drove Zeno's friends crazy when he ranted about this

2) Plato's cave: shadows are reality. The search for a perfect car is an idea

3) Buridan's ass: A stumbling block to the act of free will. An ass, placed equidistant from 2 identical bundles of hay, has no bias for choosing one over the other and ends up starving to death. Likewise, a single doctor in Honolulu, placed equidistant between two sumptuous female targets, will be walking home alone.

4) Occam's razor: One thing accounts for everything else that is going wrong. One diagnosis only: you know the rest of the story

and 5) Pascal's wager: In the cosmic game of heads or tails whether God exits, you have everything to gain and nothing to loose by betting on His existence

As days go by and time drifts from one week to the next, I find that I am becoming completely enraptured by the waters of the central Pacific. Oahu always looks good from off shore. The island is idyllic with its clusters of coconut trees rising from the sun streaked water colored every shade of blue, and at times in rougher distant weather, green.

Zack is the boyfriend of one of my neighbors. He is not a normal person. He is from New Zealand, and has taught in nearly every school between Fiji and Hawaii, spending a good deal of time in the obscure atolls of the south Pacific, places I had no idea existed other than the the likes of the Marshall Islands. His world revolves around books and surfing. Zack has been patient enough to tutor me in the world of surfing. I would usually see him loading up his boards in his VW bus, so one day I asked him if he would teach me to surf. Unfortunately this was during a time last week when the swells of the south beaches were up to 3-5 feet. The usual inviting reef-breakers on the south shore tend to be a modest 2-3 feet. Ahead, I could see Zack paddling furiously up the face of a wave that eventually crashed upon me, after which a series of breakers targeted me. Were the surfing demi-gods telling me to paddle back to shore? The waters finally calmed so that I was able to regain composure and paddled myself and my surfboard past the breakers, now in wait for my invitation. "What do I do now" I yelled. "Look for a wave shaped like an A" The first several waves I caught were hand outs. I did nearly nothing besides paddling a little ahead of the mounting surf, the water would gently glide my board up and push me along, eventually the wave would submerge and I would turn around and go at it again. My confidence fools me some times.

There is a moment, shortly after one accepts the imminence of one's demise, when it occurs that you could be elsewhere: that if you simply left the house a little later, or lingered over a mai tai, you would not be here now confronting your mortality. This moment occurred just as I encountered a very large (from my perspective), rare and surprising wave. A wave that was pitching and howling, and it really had no business being where it was-underneath me. My options were not good. The demon wave picked me up and after that, I have only a vague recollection of spinning limbs, a weaponized surf board, and chaotic white water. I wondered if surfing is for me. I generally no longer engage in adrenaline rush activities that carry with them a strong likely hood of life-altering injury.

"That really sucked" I told myself. "You picked the wrong wave" Zack said after surfing the same distance in a state of such languid repose, seemingly mocking my tumble through the water. The paddle to shore was reassuring, though. Soon, I will be back on top of a wave, the next time with better clarity, and hopefully in front of the break. I don't want to get sappy about it, but being on the waves just offshore of a tropical island is about as sublime an experience as one can find on this planet.