Born to the Land

Molokai is a half-forgotten vestige of the old Polynesia, the only island in Hawaii where the natives form the majority and its indigenous language is gaining speakers. You don’t come here looking for a curtain of high-rise hotels along the beaches - there isn’t a single building taller than a palm tree. And that’s likely the way it’s going to stay.

My son Jonathan races down the gentle palm-fringed slopes of Papohaku Beach on Molokai’s west shore, scanning the horizon for the largest wave. He finds it, and as the wave starts thundering towards shore after breaking on the nearby coral reef, Jonathan dives into its crest. Then he disappears under the churning water for what feels to his father like an eternity.

I recall my first experience with the Hawaiian surf 30 years ago, realizing that 12-year-old Jonathan could snap his neck, as he was now likely somersaulting uncontrollably in the riptide. Suddenly, he is hurled back onto the beach, sliding sideways on his back and bowling over one of the local boys. Surprised, they both lie in the sand laughing until they can’t breathe and the bubbly white surf around them recedes.

Jonathan’s new acquaintance, Don, gives him an impromptu lesson in reading and riding the waves.

“You have to dive into the base of the wave, that way you won’t get dragged to the bottom.”

More of Don’s friends gather, curious about the white kid from the mainland. After some small talk the group melts away into clusters of young bodies diving into waves as quickly as they appear. A few grab their surfboards and soon Jonathan is getting his first surfing lesson.

Jonathan quickly finds out that a 15-second ride is a good ride, learning that the right surfboard is a combination of weight and height. Moving back and forth on the surfboard Jonathan leans forward to increase his speed, and abruptly steps back near the crest of a wave to slow down. With the surf crashing around him Don yells out, “Be a driver, not a rider.”

“Be a driver.” You could say that about Molokaians. They’re drivers. After suffering the suppression of their native culture, and the exploitation of their lands, they are now steadfast when it comes to controlling their own destiny. They have forgone the mall culture that has made deep inroads on the other Hawaiian Islands, accepting a lower standard of living for a higher quality of life, one that embraces a traditional Hawaiian culture which has mostly disappeared from the neighbouring islands.

We caught our first glimpse of Molokai as the cloud cover broke beneath our plane, revealing the tallest sea cliffs in the world, bathed in sunlight, jutting out of the deep-blue depths of the Pacific Ocean. Then, as if swallowed up by some ancient Hawaiian god intent on protecting the island from prying outsiders, we disappeared back into heavy grey rain clouds. As the plane dove beneath the clouds, one major contrast from neighboring Maui became apparent: there isn’t a single building on the island taller than a palm tree.

Molokai is the fifth largest of Hawaii’s 132 islands, shoals and exposed reefs. Thirty-eight miles in length and 10 miles wide, Molokai’s principal landmarks are two dormant volcanoes at its easternand westernends. The leeward side of the eastern volcano rises majestically heavenwards, catching the dense moisture-laden trade winds that sweep across it and taking from them the rains that nurture the lush, emerald green vegetation of its steep slopes and tropical shoreline, making the eastern third of the island pretty close to heaven on earth.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 20th, 2005 at 9:48 pm and is filed under Features. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.