They feed offshore at night and rest in the morning and mid-day, but in the afternoon they tend to put on a show. No one knows exactly why they do it, though suggestions have included ridding themselves of parasites, advertising their strength to potential mates, communicating with one another, or simply having fun.
I don’t think that even the most rigid scientist could have denied the fact that the slick spinners seemed to enjoy themselves. They raced in furiously, buzzing and clicking in investigation and intimidation before banking off with an amazing grace and power, flashing their white bellies. I was literally about as defenseless as one could be, stunned by their absolute command of movement in water. I tried to float as calmly as possible with two-hundred pound bullets screaming by in all directions. They soon ignored me and set into a furious display as naked people on the beach applauded each spinning cart-wheel.
A juvenile cleared the water and did a full rotation, aiming the tip of his rounded rostrum toward the spitting clouds. Several slightly larger animals spun next, in near tandem, and easily finished two full spins with a half-twist before landing on their sides with a splash. Soon there were four at a time, then seven, and at the climax of the festivities more than ten spinners twirled in the air, churning the Bay like a break-away water polo match. Some of the animals seemed to reach twice their meager five foot lengths above the water. Two to three complete spins or rotations were most common, and they tended to spin at about a twenty degree angle to the surface of the water. Two young adults broke out with four full spins, one following the other. I bobbed in the middle of it, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘aah-ing’ at the best natural fireworks display of my life.
After an hour and a half, the animals took turns racing across the bay, skimming the surface of the water like kids on a frozen pond. There were a final few isolated spins as the pod slowly pulled back out of the bay into deeper water with the gathering darkness. I heard whistles and squeaks as the pod reformed, some of which seemed to be repeated with emphasis toward the last few juveniles intent on getting in a final spin.
I resisted the urge to try and pursue them as they headed back into deeper water. Once the display ended and the last of the amazing animals were gone, I realized I was exhausted, freezing, and completely pruned from being in the water for three hours. I held my mask in front of me as I slogged across the mostly empty beach.
We bounced out from profound darkness beneath the banyan tree. I could see the moon lighting the walls of a cloud bank billowing up this windward-facing volcano slope. The opaque feature churned and twisted as it rolled up the mountain, black on the bottom but brilliant white on the moonlit side. Mirroring this contrast on the ocean were spotlight patches interspersed with utter voids.
I thought about the spinner pod as Tonka chugged up the east flank of Mauna Kea past MacKensie into the quintessential tin-roof Hawaiian town of Poho’iki, devoid of artificial light and advertisements. Fat drops dripped from mulberry trees onto the narrow road. I imagined the dolphins circling one of the brightly lit zones offshore, lurking in surrounding shadows as the fish they were stalking used the light to find their own prey, waiting, and then shooting into the moonlight in dashing ambush pairs. I wondered whether they twisted and twirled as passionately in the moonlight.
Turning inland, I wrestled Tonka up a steep hill through papaya orchards. Their sweet scent belied their presence in a heavy warm mist that seemed to emanate from geothermal power above the steaming ridge. A probe through rock there touched 500° down below, hinting at its immense potential. Like every alternative form of energy, geothermal power has limitations, one being its location, specific availability and that that the infrastructure is not in place for it to be widely cost-effective or widely distributed. Yet in the face of carbon-dioxide-driven global warming, poisonous smog, trillion-dollar oil profits, and war after war over the black stuff, one begins to wonder how long we will continue to accept such tired reasons for not more emphatically expanding the many proven sources of alternative power.
My interest in environmental science and conservation had been peaked by a few early experiences, but remained rudimentary and immature. Before Hawai’i, I had begun to work on conservation at the University of Tulsa, where Elizabeth and I formed a grassroots conservation group. I switched from engineering to biology and became environmental editor for the school paper. But my blunt perspectives were poorly received in the conservative Midwest. I wrote a piece about how development of alternative fuels following the 1970s energy crisis would have rendered the first Gulf War unnecessary. The president of the University (coincidentally heavily endowed by U.S. and foreign oil barons) ordered me to write a retraction or face “terminal disciplinary action.” I refused and nothing happened, but it was a sign that I would require a different path.
I found others with a sense of awe for nature in Missoula, although parts of Montana share a defiant resistance to responsible stewardship. I began studying conservation biology and freshwater ecology and spent time writing in the Rattlesnake, fishing the enchanted Bitterroot, and backpacking in the Mission Mountains. I fell in love with the natural world, determined to do something significant, enact some change, and inspire others. I was young and idealistic, without regard for practicality or snails-pace progress. Life taught me to tuck this irreverence away and draw on it sparingly, but to also never forget it. So too was I unfocused in science, life, and love - driven by idealized, unrealistic expectations. But the raw biological beauty and striking, infective Hawaiian culture surrounding me began to hone my focus.
We puttered through the misty orchid farms of Pāhoa and chugged up another hill to Kea’au. Past expansive macadamia fields and the sequentially blooming rare tropical flowers of the “forever beautiful” gardens, a funnel-shaped bay emerged in the lusciously fragrant evening air. A dim yellow glow rose from the sleepy, historic settlement that hugged that elbow of ocean, nestled between rugged Leleiwi Point and the deeply cut east flanks of massive Mauna Kea.
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Hilo Town had an aura of diversity – a disparate blend of people, ecosystems, and eras. Weaving down the rolling toes of the dormant volcano to where they dip into the broad bay, the towns’ essence changed as frequently as the oscillating sun and rain. Theologies, ideologies, and the buildings themselves seemed to come in equal proportions from the booms of the 1890s, 1920s, and 1950s. The southernmost U.S. city and one of the wettest places in the world, Hilo didn’t seem like the largest settlement on the Big Island or the county seat. Mostly spared the sprawling, soulless resorts on O’ahu, Maui, and the leeward Kona-Kailua coast, Hilo retained a traditional dignity. It was my home there and the most distinct of the dozen places I have lived. Some dislike Hilo because there’s “little to do” and a damp sense of stagnated development, but that, and its rich natural and human history, was why I loved it.
Like most of Hawai’i, Hilo has a stop-and-start story. People inhabited the bay for a thousand years before traditional life was forever changed by western influences. Equidistant from the northern and southern ends of the island and with ample river and ocean access, Hilo evolved as a natural center of commerce. Natives from the south brought cloth and dried fish to trade along the banks of the Wailuku River. The people of Hilo, Hamakua, and areas to the north brought hogs, fresh fish, and taro root. Traders shouted prices from one bank to another, negotiating until a trade was agreed upon and enacted cautiously since sour deals usually resulted in violent disagreement.
Captain James Cook put the islands on nautical charts in 1778 and greed found its way from around the Pacific Rim. Presuming that life was perfectly balanced and tranquil before the arrival of evil white men set into motion the incremental decimation of culture and the environment is an oversimplification of how and why changes occurred. It is fair to say that once outside influences arrived, no aspect of Polynesian-rooted Hawaiian culture was unaffected. Fur traders, whalers, sandalwood foresters, pirates, and other profiteers came in increasing abundance. In response to these new pressures, and because of his own quest for power, King Kamehameha the Great soon united the Hawaiian Islands into a single kingdom. These changes and the introduction of new agriculture irrevocably
