There is always in Hawaii, just before the day breaks, a
moment of doubt. The sun has not yet distinguished ocean
from firmament, and you are looking into a vast darkness
that gives no hint of what's to come. Used to thinking of
weather in terms of odds, you are certain that sooner or
later the string of perfect eighty-two-degree days must
snap. So you stand on the lanai in the lessening darkness,
feeling the salt breeze move across your skin, and
wonder—worry—if today is that day.
And then, unceremoniously,
the sun breaches the Pacific and cleaves a widening line
between water and sky. It all happens so quickly—the sand is
illuminated, the surf comes into view, and what few small
clouds there are slink off into the bright, uninterrupted
distance. You turn and walk into your room, thinking, not
unhappily, that you're going to have to get more sunscreen.
"We need sunscreen," my
ten-year-old daughter says. It is before seven, and she is
already in her swimsuit.
"Where's your spirit of
aloha?" I want to ask, but don't. I understand her urgency:
We have just woken up in Maui, and there is so much to do.
Because we are in Wailea, the
resort district on the island's calm west coast, our
orientation is leeward, to the ocean. On earlier visits, we
climbed the Haleakala Crater, traversed the Hana Highway,
and hiked to secluded waterfalls. For this trip to Maui,
though, we have a simple plan: to play in the water. On
other islands we'll do other things. But not here.
And so it is, not a half-hour
after sunrise, that we are standing at Makena Landing,
listening to Brandon Gnazzo, a soft-spoken fellow in
neoprene shorts and shirt who guides for Kelii's Kayak
Tours, explain the rudiments of launching a plastic
open-cockpit kayak over the small waves that are breaking
offshore. Led by Brandon, our ad hoc party—a family of four
from California, a couple from New Jersey, Sophie and I—will
be going to an unmarked spot in the ocean called Turtle
Town, known for its resident population of green sea
turtles.
"Green sea turtles are not
really green," Brandon tells us. "Their fat is green."
After all the kayaks are in
the water and moving in convoy, Brandon, who is paddling
alongside, shouts out other bits of turtle lore: that sea
turtles, or honu, can live to be eighty years old; that they
weigh about three hundred pounds; that those we'll be seeing
will, for the most part, be middle-aged.
Blade in, blade out, and it's
not long before Brandon motions for us to stop. "We're
here," he says, though it's not obvious to anyone else where
here—at best an indistinct spot in the ocean—is. Just then,
though, a rather large turtle with a serious overbite pokes
up its head, drinks the air, and casts in our direction a
look of mild curiosity that quickly segues to ho-humness. I
slip on snorkel gear and drop overboard. The turtle is
directly below me, sinking slowly. I stay put and watch its
powerful flippers comb the water, each stroke propelling it
yards, not feet.
Sophie swims up, taps me on
the arm, and points to a trio of bright-yellow butterfly fih
nibbling on a stand of cauliflower coral. A gang of convict
surgeon fish hurry by as if they were late for an
appointment, followed by the comical unicorn fish. The sound
of our laughter travels up our snorkel pipes. Apparently
we've hit upon a secret call because more turtles appear and
rise to the surface. If we hadn't been told not to, we could
reach out and touch them.
Read the rest of this article...............
