and citrus, breadfruit, and avocado lining the fertile, mile-wide “Valley of the Kings.” Formed from a catastrophic fault collapse and perpetually rushing streams, the amphitheatre valley mouth hails ever wider to the open Pacific. This is where Kahmehameha, most powerful of all Hawaiian kings, was secretly hidden as an infant. The King of the Big Island had ordered the child executed because his mother was believed to have slept with the King of Maui and she also had an odd craving to eat the Big Island King’s eyes. But Kahmehameha grew strong in this spiritual heartland of ancient Hawai’i and ultimately used it as a base to take over all the Islands in 1795, forcibly uniting them under the century-long Hawaiian monarchy that ruled until U.S. Marines took over.
Above Waipi’o Valley, the Belt Road climbed between Mauna Kea and the Kohala Mountains that form the northern sector of the island. Waimea, one of the oldest towns in all the islands, felt about as removed from the ocean as possible. Evergreen trees lined a massive cattle ranch and cowboys bounced casually along on horses kicking up dust. The air was dry half a mile above the water and smelled of livestock and pine. Perhaps I was just homesick for Montana, but I couldn’t help but think of the fresh Rockies passing through Waimea.
Passing over the spine of the island and dropping down the dry side, the overall feel of the land changed remarkably and abruptly. Scrub pines and cactus dotted jagged parched lava fields along the South Kohala coast leading to Kona. Elizabeth and I spent some time at enormous white sand Hāpuna Beach, before we got Tonka and found more out-of-the-way places to experience the sea together.
Further around was an interesting little bay called ‘Anaeho’omelu at the end of Waikoloa Road that the locals called A-Bay. Coastal trails led to the tranquil enclosure from natural brackish pools filled with unique life, ancient freshwater fish ponds, and deep, cool lava caves. It was somewhat tainted by upscale resorts with their manicured sand and paddleboats, but remained a clear place to watch the sun set over the water with views of purple-streaked Haleakalā poking out of the clouds across ‘Alenuihāhā Channel on Mau’i. Haleakalā is the only active Hawaiian volcano not on the Big Island, but she is drifting from the hotspot into her twilight, last erupting with a possible final fling in 1790.
Lava most recently flowed into the ocean along the North Kona coast in the 19th Century, yet, in stark contrast to the rapid erosion and ecosystem pace so evident just an hour away, the land remained largely unchanged. The jagged rocks still had sharp edges and rested where they were deposited a century before. The windward side of the towering Big Island took the brunt of the trades, squeezed moisture from them and leaving the leeward side amazingly dry. The Kona Coast was effectively a desert, but one with intermittent gardens and coffee plantations amidst expansive black lava fields surrounded by some of the most gorgeous and abundant marine life in the world.
Coming around Keāhole Point, the westernmost edge of the Big Island ten miles north of Kailua-Kona, the seas calmed noticeably. This stretch of Kona Coast down to Kealakekua Bay was completely in the lee of the trades and the snorkeling and diving was incredible. I have yet to dive the South Pacific, Australia, Philippines, or Red Sea, all rated as among the most spectacular in the world. But from my experiences throughout Hawai’i, Florida, the Gulf of Mexico, and Caribbean, the Kona Coast was unrivalled for raw beauty, diversity, and abundance of tropical life. The water was gentle, aquarium clear, and perfectly warm, driving a different flavor, size, and abundance of coral reef and marine creatures.
Many of the same underwater animals seen elsewhere in Hawai’i were common along the Kona coast, just in brighter abundance. The reefs were paved with grazing surgeonfish, crunching parrotfish, banded coral shrimp, pokey spiny urchins, and darting hawkfish, blennies, wrasse, and gobies. Black, yellow, and white striped Moorish idols strutted stately with streaming white dorsal banners, interrupting their promenade long enough to snap a bit of sponge or algae with their narrow, orange-tipped mouths. Bluestripe snappers cruised the reefs, waiting for nightfall to scour the seafloor for small crabs and shrimp. Thin blue horizontal stripes on each fish flashed as massive schools banked in unison, giving the combined individuals a massive, daunting presence to predators. One of the most recognizable fish (for its appearance and its name) on the Kona reefs was the state fish, an aggressive black, orange, and gold trigger called the “humuhumunukunukuäpua’a”. These sleek, solid-bodied bruisers reached two feet here and most other reef fish steered clear of them.
Some of the fish along the Kona Coast were fairly rare. One of the smallest but most beautiful fish in the islands, common along this stretch and uncommon elsewhere, was the Hawaiian cleaner wrasse. With their bright blue tails and long black stripes from their eyes to their tails, they looked like someone dipped the front half of them in neon yellow paint. Like other cleaner wrasses, they eased in and out of the open mouths and gills of larger fish that could easily snap them up. This cooperative relationship (“reciprocal altruism”) benefits both the cleaner, who gets a meal from bits of food and algae, and the cleanee, who is rid of harmful bacterial growth. I once burned a whole tank hovering at thirty feet, watching a cleaner wrasse and a banded shrimp servicing large grouper patiently waiting in line at a ‘cleaning station.’
All of the coral reefs rimming the Big Island are relatively young compared to other Hawaiian Islands and much more so than some of massive reefs throughout the south Pacific. The young Big Island reefs tend to be less productive with more corals than filter-feeding animals. But along the leeward Kona Coast, the sheltered reefs were more expansive and diverse than wave-pounded Hilo and Puna. Light-gray finger corals were thicker and brighter, grayish-brown plate corals extended eight feet across where not shattered by poorly placed boat anchors. Encrusting and false brain corals painted vertical walls burnt orange and rusty red, like a quiet Arizona mesa at sunset. White lace corals formed small heads and intricate branches resembling fine Victorian hand fans. Kona reefs, at least fifteen years ago, were vibrant and bursting with life.
Hilo was my home while I lived on the Big Island, but the Kona Coast was where I left my heart. After the first taste of their sun-soaked Kona corals, I did all I could to get over the island to snorkel or dive. Many formative moments of my early ocean journeys took place on the leeward west coast of the Big Island, most ending in stunning sunsets.
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We bounced on gentle chop on Kailua Bay. There was an hour of light left and we wanted to get in a quick warm-up dive. I had been working all day helping a friend who was repaying me with an evening on his boat. It had been a hot day and the water felt exquisite on my shoulders and neck. Our dive buoy bobbed in the deepening reddish-gold as we dipped beneath the shimmering surface.
North of Kailua-Kona there were phenomenal walls dives with reef zonation patterns stacked close together. Similar life forms still occurred in similar regimes, but since the reef was compressed horizontally, a wide spectrum could be observed by simply moving up and down. I found a sheer face loaded with finger corals and butterflyfish at twenty feet that morphed to encrusting corals and huge parrotfish at fifty.
I hovered, watching the dwindling light change complexion on the brownish-orange wall. If the sky is right, you can look back to the east at sunset and watch the simultaneous rising of the shadow of the Earth on the horizon. What I had never realized until that day, is that if you are under water as the sun sets and the ocean is right, you can witness night emerge from the deep.
Waning sunbeams drew horizontal across the mirror as darkness crawled up the face in a well-defined band, engulfing the deepest red. I crept ever-shallower, following the sunset up the wall, forced to the surface by the rotation of the planet. The last hints of light lingered in wispy clouds as we motored to Honokōhau Bay, an eminently calm spot with excellent night diving.
We tied to a fixed buoy to avoid anchoring on the live reef. Our lights cut the water like spelunkers descending into a massive cavern. Even in the crystal clear water of the leeward Big Island, visibility at night was forty feet at best. We dropped down to an expansive black flat that formed the base of the bay’s floor. There is something inherently disquieting
