Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  Chapter 5

  My mind is made up. I’m going to Kahoolawe and I already know how. Bob can’t fly me over; besides the fact it’s a restricted military zone, there’s no airstrip on the island. Of course I could jump out of the biplane from a safe height and parachute down to the island. That would be pretty cool, of course, but I’ve never skydived before and somehow it seems a little too James-Bondish. Well, actually I reject the idea mainly because it’s relatively difficult to return to Maui by parachute afterwards.

  I do have the perfect transport device in mind. But first up is tackling the preparations for my mission. First on the list: Internet research. Google Earth doesn’t bring me much new knowledge; after all, I’ve already seen the island with my own two eyes. The bay where the speedboats are is called "Kamohio Bay." Chances are there aren’t any signposts on Kahoolawe, so the name doesn’t really matter.

  It’s a bit more than seven miles from Maui to Kahoolawe. Halfway is Molokini, a volcanic crater, which rises only a few feet above sea level. It seems to have quickly lost the will to live over water. The small island just stopped growing without further ado and is content on being a small, uninhabited semi-circle on the map.

  Overall, the Internet isn’t a big help for my one-man invasion. I had hoped to obtain confirmation as to whether or not soldiers are stationed on the island and, if so, how many. It would be interesting to know how large the staff of the disarmament company is on site. Unfortunately, I find no evidence of the number of "inhabitants" on Kahoolawe. Looks like I’ll be going in pretty much blind!

  I spend the rest of the evening thinking about what equipment I should take and make a list of items that may be of use. Around 11 p.m., I then think about rolling a joint – naturally, just to fall asleep more easily. However, I didn’t bother putting away my grass this morning, and it looks like the wind has made me a teetotaler tonight.

  Most of the night I lie awake, going over in my mind all the different scenarios the next few days may bring. At 6:30 a.m. I decide to get up; rolling from one side of the bed to the other is not helping anyway. Maybe I can take an afternoon nap later.

  At 8 a.m., I enter Wal-Mart, the first stop on my shopping trip. I go straight to the sports section and look around at the fishing tackle. It remains a mystery to me why fisherman wear camouflage outfits, but today this phenomenon benefits me. I pack pants and shirts in a desert camouflage design into the shopping cart, plus a decent flashlight of the traditional "Maglite” brand. It’s not only great for lighting, but also makes for a great baton. Next, a sturdy outdoor knife finds its the way into my cart. That's enough for now. I don’t want to attract attention at the cashier by buying a camouflage outfit and masses of weapons. On the way to the exit, a folding spade virtually falls at my feet. You never know, a spade is always a practically thing to have. Sold. I pay and drive to Sports Authority.

  Luckily, there are several shops where I can discreetly stockpile my arsenal. At the store, I pretend to be an avid sports shooter to get some advice. Crazy, I could easily buy a small caliber firearm. Here it is again, the incomprehensible double standard in America. I’m not allowed to drink a beer at the beach at sunset, but it’s fine to run through the streets with a semi-automatic weapon in your pocket.

  But I have no experience with firearms and loud bangs are not what I need for my mission. So we check out a few sports bows, the sales assistant and me. Archery: last time I did that was about 20 years ago; as a teenager, with homemade bows in the forest. This gave me great joy, but in regards to my marksmanship, there was - to put it nicely - room for improvement. The sales person, however, doesn’t let me test shoot it in the store - what a philistine!

  My gaze falls upon a crossbow. Now we’re talking! Small, handy, easy to use; and I was a master at the crossbow - back in the forest, that is.

  I buy the crossbow and a sufficient supply of arrows and a long rope. Enough for one shop. I pay and head over to the K-Mart.

  First I check the harpoons. The arrows - or whatever it's called in a harpoon - are too heavy. I guess underwater they "fly" just fine, but on land, they are only useful for a very short range. Since I don’t intend to be involved in an underwater fight, I leave them on the shelf.

  I should already have most of the necessary utensils by now, so I look around for inspiration. Oh, sure, a pair of binoculars is always good. I opt for a mid-sized model. Why, I do not know; just a feeling.

  Let's see, what else could be missing? If I need to knock off one or more guards, it would make sense to do that as quietly and quickly as possible. But would I really shoot someone from a distance with my crossbow with the intention of killing him? Probably not.

  I need something else, but what?! How do you make an enemy “hors de combat” as quietly as possible? I could of course shoot him in the leg with the crossbow. Presumably, the victim would then scream out loudly or even shoot back. Not a good idea!

  The villain must not only be unable to fight, but also be quiet, and not die. The first thought that occurs to me is doing Spock's Vulcan neck pinch. Or maybe I should get something hard to hit with: a baseball bat, for example.

  In the sports department, I look at some models. But I do have my doubts. In movies it's always easy: the one guy cracks the other neatly over the head and he falls over. Sometime later he wakes up and has nothing more than a slight headache. But is reality like this? I would imagine it's pretty easy to whack too hard and accidentally hurt someone. Or, even worse, I sneak up on the enemy, hit him, but instead of falling, the bully hits me back. Either way, not good.

  Hmmm.

  Women often carry pepper spray when jogging in a dark forest. (Why do they actually go around jogging in dark woods?) Whatever, we used to mess around with these things at school sometimes. But it’s not very precise; you can easily get into the gas cloud yourself. Even if you don’t, the victim will no doubt be screaming from the burning eyes and simultaneously trying to attack you in return.

  Hmmm.

  I could strangle the evildoer with a rope from behind. But then he’s pretty much dead again.

  Hmmm.

  Wait! Of course! The kidnappers showed me how to do it! Steve got taken down with a stun gun. That's it! I buy several. Who knows how long a battery lasts and how often I might use it; so, better to have backup. Also, I choose a waterproof pack for my iPhone and a flare gun. If I get in trouble, I can at least draw a little attention to me.

  The only thing missing now is my means of transportation. I go to Kanaha Kai, a friendly surf shop, and rent two SUP boards, paddles included. SUP stands for "Stand Up Paddle." Basically it involves a big surfboard that you stand on and paddle. You can use it along the coast or on a lake for paddling, but also to ride waves.

  An SUP is ideal for my purposes. A standing paddler is barely visible from the shore; after a few hundred yards, he blends in with the ocean. Without an engine, naturally, no engine noise will give me away, and the board is easy to hide on land. In a relaxed paddling mode, you can easily cover about five miles per hour.

  Granted, that could be a disadvantage if a 450-horsepower speedboat is after you.

  The equipment for my trip is now complete. I go into a supermarket and get myself a delicious lunch from the really excellent deli counter. Today I can’t do anything more for Steve. So, I just eat on the beach and spend the rest of the afternoon windsurfing.

  In the evening, Christine calls with an unknown caller ID. Good girl! I talk to her, but don’t let her know about my invasion project. I do actually trust her, but I just want to eliminate any risk of having an undesirable welcoming committee waiting for me on Kahoolawe.

  Amazingly, I sleep deep and sound and don’t wake up until about ten o’clock the next morning. I instantly feel the adrenaline rush. I usually only feel like this when I go windsurfing in really high waves. I know that I’m about to do something dangerous today and that’s already got my adrenaline on high. It’s not really like being scared; I would even rather desc
ribe this feeling more like "anticipation." I can understand this sensation when I windsurf. Of course I’m excited even if it’s dangerous to windsurf in high surf - I fly halfway around the world to windsurf in twenty-foot waves. But I’m definitely surprised to discover a similar feeling today. Maybe it’s because finally something’s happening: I am following a clear path and no longer searching blindly in the dark.

  I load the car and start the engine. On the way to the south coast, I buy a delicious breakfast and lots of canned food. I totally forgot about this yesterday; I need to eat and drink on Kahoolawe.

  An hour later, I park in La Perouse Bay. From here it’s about ten miles to Molokini. It’s not the shortest way, but in case Steve and I have followers on the way back, they would certainly be looking between Kahoolawe and Maui for us; definitely on Molokini and on the most direct route between Maui, Molokini and Kahoolawe. If my mission’s actually successful, I’ll plan a different route for the return journey.

  I pack my equipment in a backpack and put it into a waterproof bag made of truck tarpaulin. I also put a few stones into the bundle. If I get caught on the way, I’ll just throw everything into the water. The stones will pull the backpack down into the infinite depths of the sea and I can just pretend to be a stupid tourist, knowing nothing about a military area, and just wanting to paddle over to another island.

  I tie my backpack firmly down onto the second board, which I fasten to the first. With this bizarre towed convoy, I start my journey into the unknown.

  After an hour and a half, I approach the east coast of Molokini, the backside of the island. It's 2:30 pm and I decide to rest here a while. The bay is protected so I won’t drift away with the current. I have my snorkel gear with me. I can relax pretty well by floating at the water’s surface.

  Sunset will be at six-thirty. Paddling from Molokini to Kahoolawe should take less than an hour. However, I’m planning to land in Kanapou Bay; to there it should be a good two-hour ride. Except for a break, I will use the time in Molokini to observe Kahoolawe. I need to know whether the military or anyone else is patrolling the island by boat.

  That would complicate my plans, because you aren’t exactly fast on an SUP. It might be tricky to sneak in between two patrol boats.

  Here, at the back of Molokini, there’s supposedly a large shark population that’s quite popular among divers. Luckily there’s no boat with shark tourists on site today. I look forward to a relaxing break on the inside of the island.

  When I paddle around the corner, I get a view of the crescent-shaped crater. I’m shocked, almost to the point of cardiac arrest. No sign of peace or deserted-island romance here. On the contrary, the bay is covered with at least a dozen tour boats; apparently they ship tons of tourists here every day. Supplied with snorkel masks, they flock them together, just to dump them in the Molokini crater. I could cross the bay to Molokini without getting my feet wet, simply by walking over the mass of shiny white bodies of tourists, assuming I don’t slip in the pools of tanning oil or get entangled in their wild back-hair growth.

  Startled, I sit down on my board and watch the show. The term "clear water" in the snorkel flyer ads is definitely misleading. The Gulf of Mexico can hardly have looked worse after the sinking of the "Deepwater Horizon." An oily film has already formed on my legs and on the board. With this broth on the surface, no fish will at any rate get a sunburn.

  I see a plump man on board of a ship lubricating his entire, massive body with plenty of sunscreen. After he’s finished this work, he happily puts on a diving mask, stuffs the snorkel in his face and jumps into the water. Way to go – might as well just squirt the sunscreen into the ocean and jump into it. Later tonight, you‘ll be able to discover a visible, clearly discernible connection between the intensity of sunburn and the intelligence of the burnt person.

  Since I’m here anyways, I can venture a look underwater. Let's see if the $100 day-trip is at least worthwhile. With mask and snorkel I dive down.

  Well, yes, I have to admit: Molokini’s underwater world is worth the trip. There are some places on Maui where you get a similarly colorful and diverse underwater spectacle, but for a day-trip like this, the "voyage" is part of the adventure. So, this is certainly something you’ll tell your friends about back home and it will remain in your memory longer and stronger than just a swim with a snorkel set.

  The fish do not impress me for long, so I start to watch the people. Unfortunately, only very few remarkable specimens are present. After a while, I notice that everyone, old or young, fat or thin, is moving with the same ease in the water. Each floats relaxed at the surface and enjoys the view.

  A sudden jolt of inspiration strikes my brain. That’s it! That’s the idea. Not just an idea, no… THE idea! Once I’ve survived my trip to Kahoolawe, I have to make an appointment with a bank manager. The most brilliant business model suddenly pops into my head! The TV constantly shows people who have eaten their way to such a point of obesity that they can’t move anymore. At each step on the stairs, they groan and moan. All you would have to do is simply make their houses waterproof and fill it up with water until just under the ceiling. Then they could just float around their house, relaxed. They could go anywhere easily with a simple stroke. No more gasping, groaning and moaning anymore with every movement! This would give a whole new quality of life.

  We would also attach a waterproof television device at the ground and send an infinite loop of afternoon reality shows. Bam! Every fatso on the ceiling is overjoyed. Above the TV, where the head of our chubster mostly floats, a hatch gets installed in the ceiling. A feeding door. From here a social worker can throw peanut flips into the snorkel so our floating friend does not starve. I'm sure with a little willpower; you could also suck a delicious hot sausage through the snorkel!

  Perfect. But many bankers are conservative party poopers with the incredible gift of seeing nothing but problems in innovative ideas. I already hear my smart-aleck bank manager saying: "Mr. Greenall, this idea is basically not bad. But the cost of heating the water makes your model unprofitable. And what do you do when the ‘patient’ has to go to the toilet?"

  Aha! Now comes the completely insane highlight of the matter: With the secretions of our immense floating reality TV fans, we run a small biogas plant. The electricity is sold and, with the waste heat, we keep the water warm. That’s why we cram peanut flips and sausages into the snorkel instead of lettuce or tomatoes. Large body mass is associated with large excrement, therefore we cannot afford that the "patient" slims down.

  Health insurance will cover the cost of sealing the house. In the water, the person’s joints are no longer strained, so health insurance will be cheaper compared to a non-floating overweight. Social worker, sausage and peanut-flip costs will be covered by the sale of electrical power.

  Up to this point, the whole thing is an economic perpetual motion machine: all costs pay for themselves. But my plan is not completely unselfish: I make money through charging entrance fees for spectators who want to peep through the window, and of course through the licensing rights. The floating house will become a worldwide success.

  It's crazy how many good ideas I have on Hawaii.

  During my underwater observations, I swim across the bay and find myself at the southern end of the crater. From here I have a good view of Kahoolawe. For the next two hours, I doze on the board and slip into the water every now and then. You could say I’m enjoying the calm before the storm. I don’t let the island out of sight. As hoped, I don’t see a single motorboat patrolling around Kahoolawe.

  About half an hour before sunset, I start to take action. First, I paddle back towards Maui in order not to attract attention. In the crater there are still three boats with tourists enjoying a romantic candlelight dinner. There’s no reason an over-motivated captain would have to broadcast that a stand-up paddler is on his way to the military restricted area.

  As I drift out of view between the rocks of Molokini, I change direction and steer towards
Oahu. I deliberately avoid the shortest way to Kahoolawe. Sure it’s safer for a paddler to stay close to shore, but if I were to take the shortest way to Kahoolawe, I would have to paddle along the shore for about an hour to reach Kanapou Bay. The risk of being detected is too big.

  The risk of getting caught in an ocean current and pulled out into the open Pacific, never to be seen again, is fairly remote. At least I’m hoping.

  I paddle slowly and quietly. At this pace, I can keep paddling for hours without getting tired; and I’m not in a hurry anyway.

  Two hours later, it's pitch dark. I am northeast of Kahoolawe. Since the island is quasi uninhabited and doesn’t have any lighted settlements, it’s virtually invisible. I can’t even say exactly where the island begins or ends. As an old sailor, I naturally already took this issue into consideration yesterday, and made a plan of navigation.

  I turn right and paddle south. On Google Earth, I have memorized the exact location of the islands. Behind Kahoolawe, the lights of Lahaina shine on Maui. Once the lights are obscured by Kahoolawe, I have to turn right and paddle directly towards Kahoolawe.