its back. This can be a visual sign of aggression, but this animal just seemed uncomfortable in water nearly as shallow as it was long. It continued around us, focused, ignoring the plethora of reef fish hugging the nearby rocky wall. We turned with it for the entire circumference of its route until it banked back toward deep water. Having investigated us, the shark swam away just as slowly and deliberately as it had approached. Rhythmically swishing its powerful tail like a haunting metronome, it faded past the outer reaches of the sand bar. Garden eels shook in their burrows as the tiger cruised off the reef.
Divers are rarely hit by sharks. Many attacks involve the mistaken identity of those riding the same near-shore waves that the sharks larger prey (turtles and marine mammals) frequent. Several weeks earlier, a kid on a boogie board had been killed by a tiger shark just a few miles away. I have no idea if it was the same shark I saw – probably not, but it crossed my mind. Usually after someone is attacked, there is a fervent, pointless hunt for the culprit in which many sharks are killed. Most people fail to appreciate that the ultimate culprit is us, having over-fished areas where sharks hunt, changing their ecosystems and foraging patterns, forcing them closer to shore. I was slightly intimidated by being circled by the potentially deadly animal, but more so privileged to have shared the reef with it.
We sat in the warm sun drying off. Hibiscus blossoms pointed straight overhead to the noontime sun, recalling the sign of the remarkable tiger shark encounter. The wind shifted to the nominal trades, blowing in from the ocean, stirring the sea as another group of divers headed out. With the changing conditions, their dive would be more typical of windward Big Island reefs than had ours – they should have gotten there at dawn.
I closed my eyes and rocked internally with that pleasant after-dive sensation. There is a perfectly logical neuro-sensory explanation for this feeling, having to do with different movement of vestibular fluids in the inner ear on land and in the water. But I choose to believe it is the residual synchrony the body retains following an intimate connection with the living sea. Even if you haven’t just been in the water, you can, with the right mindset close your eyes, block out reality, listen with your soul, and feel the rhythmic pulsing of the sea – of life’s very creation.
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We headed north, toward Honoka’a into one of the most remote rainforests on the Big Island. There were no roads extending more than a few miles up from the Belt Road that crept through the steep, wet North Hilo district. Above that, there were no developments until ten miles into the Hakalau National Wildlife Refuge. This northeast slope of Mauna Kea bears the brunt of the southwesterly trades, sifting moisture from the tropical winds. Streams rushed under the Belt Road, pouring steadily through wind-sculpted cuts and occasionally forming impressive waterfalls like the thunderous 450-foot vertical drop of ‘Akaka Falls. Huge tree ferns, honeysuckle vines, and ōhi’a lehua branches overgrown with epiphytic plants formed damp, tangled jungles.
Persistent mist and nectar laced the air, hints of cloud forests lurking further up the dormant volcano. Two friends and I stashed Tonka under heavy foliage along a one-lane road and started up the Hakalau stream. I hated experiencing it without Elizabeth, but subconsciously I knew we each had to find ourselves – and that this would ultimately lead to difficult choices.
We hacked our way through bogs, scrub forests, and fern patches to the border of the nature refuge, a cloud forest at 4,500 feet. It rained nearly the entire three days, not surprising considering the area received some 250 inches a year, and it was thus impossible to build a fire. It was also surprisingly chilly at our campsite in a primeval, moss-coated gulch covered by ferns and huge fallen trees. The native montane forest was shrouded, silent but for the steady gurgling stream and dripping rain. Upslope breezes moved tangled plants, including the occasional koa and native raspberry. There were no people, no trails, nothing but a glimpse of what the islands once were.
I marveled at the abundance and diversity of the birds, plants, and insects. My friends told me the Hawaiian names of some but my scribbling in the utter humidity was illegible. Odd black beetles with massive lower jaws stood stoutly along tiny streams flushing down a moss-covered log, dunking their mandibles into the passing water and filter-feeding on tiny prey. They strained the flow just like groping feather duster worms or the massive baleen plates of a large whale. Sometimes, whatever the environment, nature finds similar solutions to similar problems in different organisms. This remarkable process of “convergent evolution” explains why some distantly related species have common features. It is, for instance, why some sharks (fish) and dolphins (mammals) are both streamlined. The existence of such an eventuality is as beautiful as any Kona sunset or misty dawn in a cloud forest. But it is a treasure that may only be embraced by exploding any human relation to time, just as one must to fully grasp the majestic creation and destruction of the islands themselves. Convergence and inter-connection in biology, geology, society, and religion became powerful concepts made increasingly clear to me through the benefit of journeys to many edges of the one ocean, beginning in Hawai’i.
The wildlife refuge and remote areas around it were one of the last stands for many native birds, as well as the endangered hoary bat, one of the only indigenous Hawaiian mammals. Introduced species, habitat loss, and hunters had backed native life into a very few undeveloped corners. Much native abundance and diversity had been lost, but shreds remained, as well as the stunning array of habitats that made the Big Island one of the most distinct places in the world. We were fortunate to witness a pair of rare Hawaiian honeycreepers feeding in the cool dawn, their fluid, tandem fluttering echoing in the canopy like the movements of Mozart or the words of Thoreau. Their curved bills slid perfectly into long-stemmed flowers, like butterflyfish probing neatly into reef crevices. The honeycreepers licked out the nectar with specialized tongues as beams of rising sunlight sliced through the dripping, primeval foliage.
My time in Hawai’i was a blur of beaches and canopies, hikes on arid lava rock, fighting Tonka over the Saddle Road, and eye-opening encounters with history, biology, and a very different society. Myriad travels around that fresh place sharply shaped me and began to reveal the intricate relationships between land, sea, and sky, between action and consequence, and between life, love, and faith. They were also the most carefree, uncomplicated times Elizabeth and I ever had. I had never been so happy.
We both took a full load of classes and worked part time, but managed to get to nearly every corner of that fantastic island. With little money to stay in fancy places or eat at nice restaurants, we camped a lot, grilling fresh seafood on sunset beaches and dark forests around the island. Often it was just the two of us, traveling simply, seeing new places, tasting new foods, immersed in mutual love of the sea. For a time, we were perfectly happy, thousands of miles from reality, living the dream together. I thought and hoped it would never end.
So much of what I was learning about marine life was being amplified in vivo beneath the wavering mirror. The diverse ecosystems above and below Big Island water were about the most radical comparative perspective a budding student could have encountered, especially when sampled in such rapid succession. One reptilian experience along the black sand south of Hilo sealed my conversion to marine biology, but these many journeys incrementally nudged me in that direction. Just as life lessons in Tulsa turned me to biology and to Missoula, so did journeys in Hawai’i crystallize my scientific focus, draw me away from freshwater ecology and Montana, and change the course of my whole life.
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North of ‘Akaka Falls, picturesque views of Mauna Kea interspersed with tangled, saturated jungle surrounding the winding Belt Road like a tunnel. Bamboo, wild ginger, and orchids graced the verdant cliffs. Ten-foot sugar cane stalks intermittently lined the road leading into the comfortable tin-roof town of Honoka’a. Here there was a choice – turn west toward Waimea and the north Kohala coast, or continue tracking the Lower Hāmākua Ditch to Kapulena and steep Waipi’o Valley.
The Waipi’o overlook above lush, waterfall-lined cliffs was stunning – a panoramic
