Hawaii turns me into a morning person like nothing else can. Realistically, I’m sure the time difference is the culprit, but I like to pretend that I’m a better person there, kinder and more easy going. Pretend I wake early because the mynah birds are engaging in morning chorus that I don’t want to miss, because the flowers are turning their faces to the sun and I can, even in a hotel room, smell the pikake. Make believe that the fresh morning (so shiny I think each one is the first dawn, ever) is so irresistible that even I, a confirmed and crotchety night owl, want to greet the day singing. Prosaic reasons or not, I was awake Saturday morning when Anna texted me at 7:30. She was sorry it was so early, but were we ok?
I looked around the room, looked out the window, looked down and thought, yes, but, oh no. I suppose that like most of us after 9-11 my first thought was airplanes and I loaded CNN before Mike could turn on the TV. Once I saw “earthquake” and “Chile” I knew that the next topic was going to be “tsunami” and “Hawaii” and my mind had a moment of blank. That was the ocean I could see out the window, after all. Further googling and watching of local news plus a call to the front desk both filled in the blanks and alleviated any urgent worry. Our room was on the top of a 25 foot cliff, the waves were expected in the 3-6 foot range, and the disaster team told us we could stay put.
It was barely 8 and we had empty stomachs and three hours to wait until wave time, so we walked to the shopping center three hotels down, looking for food. There were other people out too, mostly talking on cell phones and (like me) taking photos of the beach for potential “this is what it used to look like on Ka’anapali” documentation. The restaurants were closed, the hotels were serving only $30 buffets and we decided that with the roads still open and a supermarket a mile away, we’d try for that option. Too late, as it turned out – the supermarket was turning people away at the door. We scored a smoothie from a gym and headed back to wait it out along with the rest of the island. Our block of rooms fell in a safe zone, so we split our time between the newscasts and the whale watching, with increasing time going to the whales as the morning progressed.
I’d seen a whale, actually, as we were landing, and it seemed unreal, a frame from a Discovery Channel show, a large gray shape in the water below, moving with surprising gracefulness past a toy sized boat. Driving from the airport to the resort we stopped at a crowded scenic overlook and stared, along with everyone else, and the three or four spots of whale activity not so far from shore. There were geysers of spray blown straight in the air, dark shapes breaching the water in low arcs and sometimes a billowing wave following the improbable sight of a whale coming vertically out of the ocean. I’ve never been whale watching, never had the desire, but I was entranced by the whales. Any time I looked at the ocean, there they were; it was harder to miss them than to spot them. Saturday morning was no exception and I think most of us held captive on our black and craggy volcanic cliff looked at that as a good sign. If the whales were playing, certainly they could sense no great malevolence in the ocean. And playing was the only way to describe what the whales were doing, really. I saw splashes and waves and rolls and more than one perfect tail fin waving at me before slipping back into the blue. A mother and calf were lolling close to shore and the baby was practicing the big kid moves – a breach, a pectoral slap, a little mini tail lob. It was particularly endearing to see it attempt the spyhop – slowly it raised its (comparatively) small nose and head out of the water, straight up. It wobbled, spun a little, then fell back in. I could only imagine that it was proud of itself for trying.
We were, undeniably, stranded for the time in paradise. The sky was brilliant cerulean blue, the ocean beneath it a gleaming rumple of silk. The breeze was soft and scented with the mix of flower and growth and salt that is unique to Hawaii and the sun was just on the uptick of hot, seeping into my skin as I shielded my eyes with my hand and watched the whales play. At the low lying resort in view to the north of us, the palm trees leaned over the empty, smooth butterscotch stretch of beach, white wavelets foaming over the sand before sinking into it entirely. Tropical postcard paradise, unaware by all appearances that a small wall of water might be, at that moment, headed towards it with destruction in tow.
I wasn’t afraid. Disconcerted, maybe. I knew we were safe, and I knew that most everyone else on the islands was as well – the evacuation procedures were through and the news media on the job. The possibility of the destruction of homes and shops and roads and potentially lives was certainly there, but I had a gut feeling that the entire situation would end up exactly as it did – a wonderful exercise in understanding that the islands can, with advance notice, handle a potential emergency with grace and minimal fuss. I couldn’t quite picture the worst. I would have preferred, as I think we all would have, to not spend the majority of a beautiful day wondering what the ocean was going to deliver, but that uncertainly and missing breakfast were the worst part of the day. I read a book in the sun, listening to the lulling and ancient songs of the whales. I watched the mynah birds bully the plovers over crusts from my sandwich.
Later, when the all clear was given and the pools and beach were again our playgrounds, I snorkeled among the Moorish Idols, the Trumpetfish and the Humuhumu-nukunuku-apua'a. A puffer fish swam below, paused, eyed me and came closer than I felt necessary. I think my hands looked like potential food, and I was floated as motionless as possible hoping I would become boring. I did, and he slipped off, hunting for another treat. Close to shore Mike pulled my arm and spun me around, pointing – not more than five feet from us were three turtles, feeding on the coral. I floated and watched as they rolled with the surf, rocks doing ballet. Prehistoric and a little intimidating, they moved with amazing grace in the deeper water, but floundered and tilted when carried up onto the boulders of the shoreline. Their hooked noses were hard and sharp, and they tore at the growth on the coral, snatching bites as they wheeled past. I let the current maintain our separation and just watched the show, so much better than the turtle encounter we had in Barbados where the turtles were surrounded by flailing snorkelers and had a nasty tendency to bite. Honu are fascinating, heavy and laboring on land, almost avian under water, and I felt privileged to swim so close to them, the ocean’s apology, maybe, for the morning tension.
Most of the time we travel without incident, but I’m often asked about safety – do we feel safe places, do we think we shouldn’t have gone to certain cities, at specific times? Do we worry about the airplanes, the terrorists, the political uncertainty, the potential crises? We’re not daft – of course these things cross our minds, and we consider them when making a decision of where to go and what to do – but I would be lying if I said that I gave them undue weight. Something terrible can happen anywhere. It was hard, when we went to Southern Thailand, to not remember the scenes from 2006. Standing on that beach I did eye the water with a little mistrust, and again on Saturday, I eyed it in Maui, after the threat was past, and wondered what it might have in store for me – and then I waded in and found the turtles, heard the whale song floating past my ears. It might be safer to stand always, on the front porch at home, but I hate to consider all I’d be missing.
Just look how pretty it was: Maui Photos
Yep, sorry to be your rooster that morning! I am so glad that nothing came of it and there is no destruction to such a beautiful place. And glad that you were able to resume your day with minimal fuss.
Posted by: Anna | 04 March 2010 at 23:07