More kava, please?

Fairly new to surfing in Hawaii, I learned quickly that first, one must get along, then one can play along. Surfing spots can be somewhat territorial, and in my grommet year, I must have been chased away from all of the great south shore spots: Bowls, Rock Piles, Queens, Canoes, Concessions, Straight Outs, Tennis Courts. Hooking up with Kimo and, over the months, gaining a little more well schooled style, has slowly payed off. I still get da stink eye from a few local guys from time to time, but I am no longer being chased out. Persistence has paid off and I've been befriended by a few of the local surfers. While surfing is the driving force, the gathering after the surf session is wholly just as enjoyable.

I used to see these 3 HUGE guys SUPing in the same spot if I made it there by the late afternoon, However, I've missed them lately. To my surprise today they were gathered in the grassy area near where I was hauling in. We starting chatting a bit; They are Samoan; Amosa, Toma and Kalepo. By anyone's standards, these are big 'ol boys, hanging out on da beach, late afternoon, sipping on kava. Kava? To the uninitiated, this a foul-tasting tea. Kava is derived from a pepper tree found in most pacific isles. The Samoans explained, in the past, the root was chewed by boys until it become a mass of mush and saliva, then squeezed through coconut fiber, mixed with water and consumed in one go from a coconut shell. "That's the best way to prepare kava, it's very strong that way, but now the root is ground to a pulp, squeezed through a sock and mixed with water." I am actually okay with not knowing how it is made.

Kava is an intoxicant, usually used as a social lubricant. In younger days of innocent discovery,there were many intoxicants with which to explore. By the time I entered my 30s, however, I had lost contact with friends that would call and ask if I would want to get high and spend the afternoon watching The Wall, again?

The first time I tried kava was a quick trip to Hilo, after a meeting, on the way back to the airport. I had a large glass, served at a small convenience store, with ice. At that time I was told that kava was like an iced coffee, but it may make your lips numb. The taste is pure wretchedness, it is not pleasant. "How wuch wava is too wuch wava?'' I asked, after half a glass. "Wat wady walks wunny". The effect wore off soon, we were on our way back to the airport, somewhat queasy and no longer less than mildly euphoric. I had no idea, as you will discover, that I developed an unfortunate disrespect for its power. Apparently the stuff I had was watered-down swill. Hawaii is not known for producing reputable kava. The good stuff comes from Fiji, Vanuatu, and Tonga although it does not export well. Kava is a digestif in most of the central Pacific islands, saved for gatherings after dinner, passed around in a coconut shell amongst the guests. To true kavaheads, it is best when taken around dusk and into the early evening hours, and one would not be considered rude to wonder off and enjoy the kava on his or her own.

"Take your bowl and find something pleasing to look at".
"Why?"
"Gaze upon the horizon of the Ala Moana south shore, the Pacific ocean, the breakers you've just surfed, it is poetic. Put that image in your mind and down the kava all at once"
"I might throw up"
"Leave that part out of your poetic image"

I downed the 'high tide' (e.g. The big gulp size. The 'Low tide' is a small coconut shell). The sky was streaked with hues of blue and evaporating cumulus clouds, the shades of blue as the pacific expanded in front of me, shades changing as the water shimmered over the coral , then the deeper water of the breakers and well to the horizon.. We spoke idly of work, life in Samoa, Samoan-converted-Mormons playing American college football. I felt injected with a pleasant calmness and contentment with the world, although I think I remember wondering if it was the kava, or just the company, on the south shore beaches of Oahu. Amosa, turned to me: the boyish-faced Polynesian must've weighed in at 300 pound, and simply said "The pacific". It was not a statement, not an opener for further conversation. Just a word describing the present and it hung between us for quite some, until my witty response "yep". Alas, as the conversation faded, I had an unwavering sense that I was heading for departure time. I had lost the urge to speak as did the others, as a sense of mutism wavered in the air. I felt myself becoming as one with all the others. I think a few others had joined the communal sun set ritual. 4 of us or 10, I can't remember but it all seemed the same. I heard Amosa "hmm" and I must have pondered this for quite some time. We breathed the air of the south shore, the ocean, the sand dust: 'Like sands in the hour glass, so are the days of our lives', 'like the ocean in the hourglass..how'd the water get into the hourglass?'

Sitting there with my brothers, the stars and the moon making their first appearance for the evening over the fading shimmering pacific as the sun was setting, I retained a spot of reality, needing to get home. Leg, head, body, too heavy.... to... lift. I am blissfully paralyzed, and resolve to remain recumbent upon the the sands of the hour glass, the sands of time, the sands of the ages for now, and dream.

I actually slept for 45 minutes, and made a quick decent back to earth. When I got home, Laila looked at me inquisitively, with a slight turn of the sternocleidomastoid. I think the effects lingered on until the next morning. I was not hung-over but had a wary sense of a feeling that I traveled a very long distance over many, many years to finally arrive in my apartment.

When is the next high tide?

A wild summer, so far

Suddenly I saw it coming: The biggest most enormous wave I'd ever seen so close from the water. From the moment I saw it coming over the horizon, I knew I'd never make it through the busting closeout. I scratched the water, frantically paddling out to sea with 2 others behind me. The wave walled up all along the reef, darkened the sky as it reached its peak: Not the entire length of bowls, but aimed right at me. It was 'in betweens'. The crest heaved skyward and fell straight down on us, closing out the entire section.

Time stood still for a moment. I thought of how I actually learned to surf at that spot with Kimo. The winter months with calm seas, absent of swells and rogue waves. The nice and inviting 1-2 foot waves, the occasional spotting of a honu. Once I saw a humpback breaching, several times, while launching upon languid waves with occasional comical wipe-outs. Aaron saw me once and we chuckled at my obvious lack of sure-footedness.

And yet, now, there was this wave, this undeniable mass of water. I saw these huge waves heaving from the shore line, before paddling out. Occasionally, there were, what I thought, challenging, but ride-able bowls...Fools rush in where wise men tread lightly.

As I dove off my board, I did not know if I could swim under a wave that big. I swam down as far as I could, my ears hurt as I felt the crest of the wave impact above me. The under ocean grew gray suddenly. The crash was a depth charge sending shock waves through the ocean floor. I thought, how much time before the next beast unleashed itself? I swam to the surface through the white wash of the aftermath. I paddled to shore, my vain endeavor.

Moral of the story: On certain days, one should stay at work.

My Surfboard

This is my surf board. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My board is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my board is useless. Without my board, I am useless. I must ride my board true. I must ride longer than the wave, who is trying to pitch me. I must complete the wave before it completes me. I will. My board and myself are defenders of serenity, we will be masters of da wave. The board and da wave are the saviors of my life. So be it.

3/11/2011

As I write, comfortably I mind you, the tragedy of Japan is hard on the mind. It is sad, n'est pas, the earth does not give up it secrets easily. It seems there is sacrifice demanded each time we are temped to discover: 21st century technology is unable to predict earthquakes.

Tragedies remind us of our vulnerability. Possibly we are also mystified by the fact that we still cannot understand the meaning of it all. In the face of tragedy, whenever we approach some new insight, understanding seems to float away from us like a feather in the wind.

Just as each generation meanders through time, expecting to find meaning and relevance, great catastrophes challenge us to seek more understanding. In all aspects of our lives there are limits; we hope that with each successive tragedy, there will be fewer limitations. As a scientist, I don't want to postpone understanding, but some things are indeed beyond my ken. Humans cannot stop their pursuit of understanding and knowledge.

I overheard someone mention 'why isn't China helping out, with all of their might to take over the world?' In these politically cynical times, we seem to lack heroes. There are endless nights spent discussing the origins of tyrants who lead their people into war and on genocidal crusades, and we ask how to banish violence from our schools, our cities, our families. Considering all of this, a lesson from the '60s should be remembered. In its search for meaning, that generation forgot that love and compassion begin not as a political movement but as actions taken by individuals.

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.