Daybreak in Hilo, after spending the night under a comforting ceiling fan in a friend's apartment by the bay, arrived with calm, clear blue skies and bright sunshine...and the sound of civil defense sirens.
It was 6:30 AM and the sound of sirens and monotone emergency instructions brought me out of my slumber. Dazed and wondering what all the fuss was about, I sat up in the futon on which I was comfortably positioned. The radio filled us all in, "A large earthquake has hit off the eastern coast of Japan resulting in a large tidal wave. Damage has occurred on several Japanese islands and the tsunami is moving towards Hawaii. It is expected to hit at 10:00 AM this morning. All of those in low-lying areas must evacuate as soon as possible. I repeat, a tsunami warning is in effect..."
Say what?!?
I looked outside and saw calm, blue skies and sunshine. Birds were communicating amongst the groves of lush green trees and colorful flowers. It was a beautiful and uncharacteristically sunny morning in Hilo, the wettest city in the U.S., hardly the scene for disaster. Furthermore, it was my first morning in Hilo. Evidently, from the way things were shaping up, it was also going to be an exciting morning in Hilo. As it turned out, the day was pleasantly even more exciting than what I had envisioned.
After hearing the radio report, I was filled in by my friends. We were definitely in a low lying area (we were only a few blocks from the bay.) Furthermore, Hilo Bay, because of its location and geological features, had an uncanny ability to be hit hard by tsunamis. In fact, two tsunamis have caused considerable damage in this century alone. Would I experience a third? My blood began to flow and energy filled the air.
April 1, 1946: an earthquake rumbled in the Aleutian Islands and sent a tsunami across the Pacific. At 6:54 that morning Hilo was greeted by 50-foot waves. It took a mere six minutes to wipe out the rows of buildings lining downtown, leaving debris scattered on the ground and pulling people and remains out to sea. Ninety-six people from Hilo died, accounting for well over half the fatalities in all of Hawaii. Hilo bounced back after rebuilding the destroyed stores and businesses and several innocuous tsunamis in the next decade lulled people away from the threat they pose.
May 23, 1960: this time the genesis was a quake in the coastal waters off Chile. The ensuing tsunami wasted no time in finding its way to Hilo, moving along at 440 miles per hour. Three successive tidal waves, each inundating further inland hit the vulnerable city. Spectators were seriously reminded of the power tsunamis possess. Those by the waterfront were sent further inland and others perched further from shore were caught and washed out to sea, leaving survivors to clench to floating debris. After all was said and done, 61 deaths were counted and the bay front stores were once again demolished.
October 4, 1994: what would be our fate?
We discussed our options as authorities came around knocking on doors to alert those who just happened to miss the blaring sirens. A quarter of the building was already gone, having loaded up their cars and evacuated. Having just come down from Volcanoes National Park, where I was camped at over 4,000 feet above sea level, the day before, I knew I could just as easily go back. No tsunami would have the verve to go that high. But, I was hesitant to leave the excitement behind. So, after helping my hosts pack up their valuables, we went to the University of Hawaii-Hilo campus, which was located in a higher part of town and out of the evacuation area. We congregated at the on-campus apartments of some of their friends.
Our plan was to go to a street high above the bay, well out of the danger zone, and watch for a glimpse of the tidal wave. However, it was still early and the tsunami wasn't due to hit Hilo until 10:30 AM. We had some time to kill and I was game for anything. I put myself in the hands of Dave, a friendly and seasoned local, and had the time of my life.
We headed off to Rainbow Falls, Hilo's own 80-foot waterfall. I was eager to encounter one of Hawaii's picturesque falls up close and in person. I wasn't disappointed. My first view of the falls was from across a chasm, at eye-level with the top of the cliff from where the stream plunged. Below was the collecting pool, surrounded by rocks and cliffs lush with vegetation. We followed a footpath into the foliage and under a huge Banyan tree. We came out on the other side of the chasm and right beside the stream at the top of the falls. The gentle stream filtered over the land and all of a sudden leaped off the cliff in a dazzling display of gravity's power. Gallons upon gallons of cool, clear mountain water did a free-fall before crashing upon itself with a thundering roar in the splash pond below.
I jumped across the rocks, like climbing a talus field, and stepped up to the edge to gain a better perspective. I followed a single drop of water down to the bottom with my eyes. It fell deliberately and uniformly at a rate of 9.8 meters per second squared. In my periphery I noticed other drops following the same regiment in the slow and controlled manner. I blinked and the serenity disappeared, replaced by an entire sheet of water falling violently and quickly. I allowed my gaze to step back and take in the whole picture. Off to the side hung a colorful rainbow in the escaping mist. Rainbow Falls, appropriately named.
I looked behind me, to where the headwaters of the fall reached, and saw a spectacular view of Mauna Kea, one of the Big Island's nearly 14,000 foot high volcanoes which is capped with snow during the winter. Mauna Kea reaches to 13,796 feet above sea level, 117 feet higher than its neighbor to the south, Mauna Loa does. In fact, Mauna Kea is the largest mountain in the world when measured from its base on the sea floor. I swung around and looked passed the drainage of the falls and caught a glimpse of Hilo Bay in the distance.
Ah, Hilo Bay. It was about time for the scheduled arrival of our friend, the tidal wave. We drove to the street on the hill overlooking the bay and joined hordes of others with the same idea. Cars were lined up and down both sides of the street and all the parking lots were packed. We pulled into a remaining spot and sat on top of Dave's truck to watch for movement in the bay. In the meantime, the radio reports detailed the effects on the other islands. Hilo would be its last stop, if it decided to show. Fortunately, the tsunami didn't amount to much and the Hawaiian Islands were left unimpacted. With that anti-climactic emergency all but out of the way, we headed on to our next diversion--Boiling Pots.
Another spectacular waterfall, but with a twist, Boiling Pots also proved its name. From the lookout above, I caught a view of the entire scene. A small (smaller than Rainbow Falls), but still impressive, waterfall initiated the process. Peepee Falls dropped over the side of a cliff into the first of several basins formed of basalt. The water then bubbled and boiled upon impact and flowed across the small pond to another miniature step of only a few feet in height. Upon plunging over this rapid the water resumed its bubbling and boiling form in the next pond's tranquility. The process repeated several more times so that the entire picture looked like a series of stepping stones made of water for the courageous stream which jumped over Peepee Falls to follow. Another way to look at it was a series of pots boiling with water.
Of course, the ponds were calm except for beneath the drops, just like the peacefulness of a Rocky Mountain stream away from the rapids. Furthermore, the water was quite cool, despite the visual suggestion of boiling pots and despite the fact that the air temperature was over 80 degrees near sea level in a semi-tropical environment. However, the water originated on Mauna Kea towering high above and was identical to the most beautiful mountain streams in the Rockies.
Swimming in this configuration of nature was refreshing and awe inspiring. The cool, clear, fresh mountain water was a stark contrast to the warm, buoyant, salt water I had swam in a few days before. Like swimming in the fountain of youth, I became more and more rejuvenated with every minute I spent there. I swam from pond to pond with Jason, a former top collegiate swimmer for UC-Berkely. We climbed up the cliffs, rock climbers without ropes, and bailed off the side into the deep water below when satisfied with the height achieved (or unable to make the next move.) When needing a rest and some warmth for my body, I sunned myself on the rocks until ready to go back in. Then, the reentry anxiously entailed jumping off a natural three-meter platform.
One place we did stay away from was the base of Peepee Falls, where gallons of water would push down anything in its way and leave it churning under the surface. Inevitably, there have been some drownings and deaths over the years. After everyone was refreshed and ready to go, we hiked back up to the park above. I found out from Dave after leaving that this had been the first time he had been back to Boiling Pots in over ten years--since he had lost one of his close friends to drowning.
Well, the day was only half over (after all we got an early start) and it was time for food. We heard the all-clear signal on the radio--the tsunami threat was over. We picked up some sandwiches and went to a park by Waiakea Pond, an inlet from the bay. Ducks and fish enjoyed the brackish waters that were surrounded by coconut trees and the lushness of Hilo's scenery. Signs on the trees read: beware of falling coconuts. Newton was lucky to make his discovery under an apple tree, I thought. Indeed, the dangers of paradise--tsunamis and falling coconuts!
We ate at a picnic table and Dave cracked open a coconut for us. I sipped some of the juice and ate some of its fruit for desert. It was sweet and tasty at first, but I never was much of a fan of coconut, especially when the juice is a luke-warm 80 degrees. Then again, nothing compares to the refreshing taste of the delectable guava, which I couldn't get enough of since I first discovered it after landing on the island.
The day had been quite eventful so far, but there was more to come. We headed off to the Puna region where Dave stopped by several "local" surf spots for us to check out. One was accessible after walking underneath large Banyan trees to the white sand hugging the shore. Surfers and body borders were riding the blue, salt-water waves and local kids were hanging out on the beach.
We moved on down the coast and entered through a locked gate into the housing area where Dave's girlfriend lived. We parked in her driveway and walked towards the ocean a few blocks away. The blocks were actually dirt roads and we passed sparsely built houses, some new and some that looked like they'd been through a tsunami. We passed through two houses; one had a goldfish pond lined with shaped Japanese hedges.
Behind the houses was a swath of land that jetted out and encompassed a lagoon separated from the ocean by a sand bar. The waves rolled around out in the open water, but the lagoon was adequately separated from the mayhem. It was serenely still and away from the crashing surf. I swam on top in warm, brackish water and dove down below to find much cooler water, possibly originating from a spring. When we first got in, the water was almost six feet deep. It was possible to stand in some places on tiptoes. I swam around and dove to the bottom in observation of the many types and colors of fish that lived there.
After exploring the lagoon, I looked out to the waves and was eager to go into the open water. Jason and I, two experienced swimmers, lifeguards, swim coaches and instructors, decided to head out to explore, sticking together for safety. We made our way out of the lagoon, swimming over the shallow sand bar that barricaded it. We swam out into the tossing ocean, checked out the fish and bounced around on the waves. The waves were coming in from every direction at the same time, very unlike swimming off the coast of southern California. The high tide, which had filled the lagoon, was beginning to recede, creating an undertow below. The swells swirled around, like being tossed around on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and we found ourselves in the midst of a huge washing machine. It was absolutely the most incredible open water experience I've had--I felt the complete unadulterated power of the ocean first hand.
We had much respect for that awesome power and didn't stay out for long. As we headed back to the lagoon, we felt a small current working against us. No worries, but when we returned to the sand bar there was only an inch of water covering it. It wasn't a true "sand" bar, either. It was made out of tiny, jagged lava rocks. Unable to swim across to the lagoon, I felt like a beached whale on rocks. Furthermore, I would have much preferred to swim, since it was quite painful to walk across. Nevertheless, we survived the delicate process, much like a guru walking across a bed of hot coals, and returned to the lagoon where we could now easily stand with flat feet in any spot.
The next stop was a place Dave referred to as "Green Lake." We drove a few miles down the road and pulled over to a field full of overgrown vegetation, surrounded by towering green trees. We headed out along a foot trail and passed by a small grove of guava trees. Ripe and ready to eat, I enjoyed a few of the tasty guavas, skin and all (the entire fruit is edible.) We continued on into the forest and came across a large Banyan tree at the top of a hill. A long, thick rope hung from its branches and reached down to the ground. The opportunity to play Tarzan was at hand and we took turns going for rides. I grabbed onto the rope and ran off the top of the hill, swinging out over the tops of smaller trees below and back to the take-off point. There I was, swinging on a rope through the jungle...
Well, after the fun, we continued on down the trail and came to the infamous green lake. It was, appropriately, a lake that was dark green. The lake occupied an old crater, which had filled up with stagnant water. Algae and other growth forms found a lovely home in its lurid, but definitely not luring, waters. Lush, overgrown vegetation and the canopy of trees surrounded the entire lake. Little light made its way through the growth, except over the middle of the lake where the sky could be seen. The sun was beginning to go down at this point and we hiked back up to the fields above to watch its orange glow. Nothing in the world can top the beauty of a sunset...especially a sunset in beautiful and wild surroundings.
The sun retired a little past 6:00 and we drove off along the dark roads to the final stop of the day--dinner. We went to the quaint, hip town of Pahoa. The main street was lined for a block or two with stores and restaurants accessed from the raised wooden boardwalk acting as the sidewalk. We visited the Hawaiian Hemp Company with its displays of various uses for Hawaii's largest cash crop (unofficially, of course.) The largest official crop is pineapple, which pales in comparison and continues to wane as pineapple plantations are developed into exotic resorts. It seems Puna's lava flow is a good place to not only grow orchids, papayas, and anthuriums, but especially pakalolo. Other crops fail to be worth the trouble.
We ate dinner at Luquin's Mexican Restaurant and returned to Hilo at the end of a long, exciting, and especially, fun day. In one day I experienced nearly all of what I envisioned of the islands--waterfalls, rain forests, lagoons, ocean swells, jungle landscapes, gnarly surf...and even the threat of a tsunami to top it off!
The next evening I walked down by Waiakea Pond and Hilo Bay. Much of what used to be bay front buildings is now parks--it proved fruitless to rebuild again in a danger zone after the 1960 tsunami. One notable structure was put up, however. A Tsunami Memorial stands in Wailoa Park in memory of the many victims claimed by past tidal waves. I crossed the street and stood at the edge of Hilo Bay. The water looked rather placid and calm as a rower cut through the reflection of the evening's sunset. I found it difficult to imagine 50-foot waves rising from its peacefulness, although it was a possibility we faced only a day before...