That Aussie Dream Job Is Mine, All Mine!

You know you're a perfect candidate for a job when not two, but five people send you a link to it within 24 hours. That's what happened this week when several of my friends forwarded me a link to the Best Job in the World, Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef.

I've had an infatuation with Australia since I did a report on the country Down Under in sixth grade. During junior high, I had the Australian flag hanging in my locker and a map of the country on my bedroom wall, which I studied on a regular basis, memorizing the capitals, states and territories as if I would be quizzed.

Somehow, I've made it to every other inhabited continent on the planet but not Australia. This is a situation that needs to be rectified ASAP -- and this gig would be the perfect way to do it. Who else is better qualified to test dive gear, monitor aquatic life, blog about the reef's goings-on, and answer questions to incoming tourists?

I'm sending in my application this month. If anyone knows someone on the selection committee that I can bribe, please let me know.

Somewhere Over Pololu (Hawaii, Day 5)

It’s not often I get to dive. Yes, I live in SoCal, but the water there is downright frigid, so I haven’t been since my beginner certification many moons ago. My volcano flight wasn’t until the next late afternoon, so I booked myself on a morning dive with Kona Honu Divers once again. This time out, we hit Koloko Arches, which had wonderful arch and tunnel formations that made me wish I’d sprung for that underwater camera. We spotted a host of critters, including a crown of thorns starfish and several eels.

After my dive, I headed north up the Kohala coast in search of the Puako petroglyphs and ran into a band of scavenger hunters. I so badly wanted to crash their party and join in, especially when I learned it was part of an Internet conference, but I let the nerds be.

Next stop: Hapuna beach, the oft-named “finest beach in the country.” Yes, it was pretty and the sand was powder white, but beyond that, I didn’t get why it receives so many accolades. I found Oahu’s Kailua far more picturesque and inviting. To each his own.

Café Pesto turned out to be a bit of a letdown. For all the hype this Italian restaurant receives, it didn’t do much for me, and you can’t blame it on the vegetarianism since the waiter recommended my pizza before I’d explained my dietary restrictions. I think I might have been able to teach the chef a thing or two about Italian cuisine.

The highlight of the day came while driving the final stretch of route 270, through picturesque Hawi and its Old West storefronts. At the end of the road sits the Pololu Valley, a majestic swath of green that tumbles down to a black-sand beach rimmed by steep emerald cliffs. The view from the top was wonderful, but The Book declared the 20-minute trek to the bottom even more photogenic, so down I went, a fine mist acting as natural coolant. About halfway down I began to ponder the return trip upwards and so confirmed the validity of The Book’s decree via a passing Aussie before continuing the descent.

I wouldn’t say it’s that much prettier at the bottom, at least not when it’s misting/raining, but I am glad I spent extra time in the valley. The beach was the first I’d stood on that was an usual color, and I found it interesting that my camera had such a difficult time reconciling this contrast, especially when challenged with a composite of just my pasty white legs and black sand. I think that shot almost fried the processors. In spite of the superstition against taking lava rocks, I scooped a spoonful of sand for my grandmother, who for some reason has begun a collection of soil from around the world, then began the climb back up the six or so switchbacks.

It was at this point that I noticed the most vibrant rainbow I’d ever set eyes on, an unbroken, iridescent arc that spanned from the valley’s green cliffs clear across the water, as if hoping to reach the Maui shore. I must have taken 20 photos of the rainbow, which appeared to glow against the gray mist, like a piece of Oz breaking back into Kansas. Perhaps one day I’ll get around to threading all the shots together.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States (Hawaii, Day 4)

My elderly, Big Isle-loving neighbors had raved about Place of Refuge, and The Book lauded the adjacent Honaunau reef, so I made that my first stop the next day. The reef delivered as promised, with tons of fish and even a lollygagging sea turtle who saw fit to trail me within yards of the heiau on the opposite shore. Easy entry meant that even scuba divers converge on the place, where they take advantage of the "two step," a naturally formed stair of lava rock that allows you to slide right into the water without getting too cut up or bashed by waves.

After only 20 minutes or so of snorkeling, I realized, thanks to the slight sting of salt water, that I'd forgotten to lather my pasty back in sunscreen and that I'd be feeling repercussions the next day if I didn't two-step it back on land.

Several people had described Place of Refuge (Pu'uhonua o Honaunau) as tranquil, serene, and emiting a calming effect over the body. Yes, there's something rather peaceful about a turquoise lagoon fringed with waves crashing on lava rock while palm trees sway overhead. But ain't that most of Hawaii, brah? I strolled among the staged tikis and examples of heiaus and longboats, but lingered over the replica of a konane game, which looked strikingly similar to Chinese checkers, minus the star pattern. If the gift shop manager is listening, you should get this game in stock, ASAP. I was surprised not to find it among the other ubiquitous souvenirs.

From Honaunau, I headed south, by now used to the feel of dried salt on my skin for most of the day. My ultimate destination was Volcanoes National Park, but The Book declared South Point -- the true southernmost point in the United States, contrary to Key West's claim -- a "Not to Be Missed!" locale, so I took the 12-mile, crumbling-road detour past some cows and windmills to see what would be seen. I didn't have time to hike the additional two miles to the green sand beach, but I knew that would only be a waste of time for me, as I've learned I just don't have the slightest desire to sunbathe or sit still when I'm on vacation. There's just too much to be seen.

This is the first time the book or any of volume of its series has steered me wrong. There ain't nothing at South Point, and it was perhaps the most polluted beach I've seen in all the Hawaiian islands. After driving some 20 minutes out of my way -- and wasting valuable daylight to do so -- I didn't even get a damn plaque to commemorate the occasion of my presence. I hightailed it out of the there, not wanting to waste another precious second at such a pointless, unphotogenic spot. Stupid South Point.

I did, however, find it necessary to make a pit stop for lunch. After snorkeling, walking, and driving way the hell out of my way, I needed a little something in the belly to keep me going, but something fast so I could enjoy the volcanoes as much as I could. I’d already scheduled my plane flight for Thursday morning, since the actual lava flow was currently visible only by aerial tour, but I still wanted to get in some precious ground time and to see such sights as the acclaimed Thurston lava tube. But that would have to wait until I snacked.

The Book declared Desert Rose Café as “probably the best food in this part of the island,” which wasn’t saying much considering I spotted only one other eatery (mini-mart notwithstanding). I opted for a veggie burger with cream cheese and mango – I hadn’t found many other healthful choices – and scarfed it down. I have to say, the combo was quite interesting, and I’d try it again, only without so much dang cream cheese. After filling up my gas tank – and spending 20 minutes on hold to verify with Dollar that I didn’t have to use ethanol, as the label on my gas tank declared, and that the brake light that kept flashing intermittently was nothing to worry about – I was on my way. Again.

I arrived at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park a little before four o’clock, leaving me with just over two hours to drive Crater Rim . It was enough to do that and only that, although I would have preferred longer to explore the many trails in the more lush, rainforest portion of the park. My camera couldn’t capture the beauty and vastness of the craters, and on the computer screen, the steam vents seem like little more than the smoke of a latent campfire, but trust me, the park is well worth visiting, even when the lava flow isn’t visible by land. If nothing else, the Thurston lava tube and the surrounding flora are worth the visit. If my condo’s flashlight had been working, I would have explored the unadulterated portion of the tube, but I wasn’t about to venture in there in pitch blackness.

Now, scientists, listen up: One of you needs to create a device that captures smell. We have cameras and audio recording devices, but nothing quite captures the spirit of a place or triggers a memory like the sense of smell. I’ll never forget the sulfurous odor of the craters, that acrid, nose-tingly scent that doesn’t quite offend but isn’t something you wanted a candle scented after. I did, however, want to bottle the smell and take it home to supplement my slideshow so they could get an all-sensory feel of the place.

The sun set not long after I left the park’s gate, and by the time I hit the road back north, I was pretty tired. I had roughly 100 miles to go, on a road that disallowed a speed of more than 65 – both legally and practically – and all I wanted was to get back to my condo and sleep. I gave the bird to the South Point turnoff as I passed and whizzed northward. In the gloam, a sign blazed off to my left, one that I’d failed to notice on my daylight cruise southward. This time, I not only noticed but read the sign, and by the time it clicked, I’d already flown past. A quick U-ie fixed that, and moments later I was parked at the bar of Shaka, the southernmost bar in the United States. (Take that, lying Southernmost House Grand Hotel!)

As soon as bartender Cyboy (real name: he’d kill me if I told you) had poured me an ice-cold pint of red ale, I whipped out my cell to call my pal Marilyn and tell her of my achievement. Moments later, after writing a few postcards and talking to amiable son Bubba (real name: forgotten), I walked out to my car to take a shot of the exterior, now all aglow in the afterthought of sunset. My Sebring didn’t respond to the first dozen punches of the key fob, so I let myself into my car the old-fashioned way, with a key. I tossed the keys on the driver seat, grabbed my camera, shut the door, and posed my camera on the car roof so that I could get a crystal-clear shot. As I pushed the button, my possessed car honked and all I got was a fuzzy neon blur. The next one came out all nice like.

When I went to open my car, I found it locked. There on the seat sat my keys, glinting up at me in mockery. Apparently my key fob had a several-minute delay, and had locked me out of my rented vehicle. After telling Cyboy the story, I plopped myself down on my still-warm barstool and once again called Dollar. After several calls, I was told that I’d have to pay for the locksmith myself, as I’d declined roadside assistance (which I didn’t recall ever being offered to me), and that the cost would be around $35. No sweat. Plus $1.50 mileage. From Captain Cook. Both ways. That amounted to just over $200, and it would take the locksmith at least an hour to rescue me. As I argued with the Dollar representative on the phone, Cyboy came outside to tell me that his buddy up the hill was on his way and would be arriving in five minutes. I hung up on Dollar and awaited my knight in shining armor.

Or flannel PJs, I wasn’t being picky. Cyboy was in hysterics as he watched the pajama’d Sean at work, and moments later, I once again had my keys in hand. As Sean went to go back into his truck, his handle wouldn’t move. “I locked myself out.” I almost burst into hysterics before he let on that he was just joking. I have a feeling he loves pulling that over on customers.
I finished the free pint of beer that Cyboy had offered me for having survived the experience, then headed back up to Kona. I couldn’t even look the Sebring in the face. I always name my cars – even rentals – but this one didn’t deserve a name. All it deserved was a kick good night.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Paddling to My Death (Hawaii, Day 3)

Just because I'm traveling solo doesn't mean I'm going to slow down... much. Sure, I take my time getting ready in the morning, usually heading out the door an hour later than I'd intended. But it's a vacation, what do you want from me?

My trusty guide book informed me that the best way to visit the Captain Cook monument in Kealakekua Bay is by kayak, and a kayak being one of my preferred modes of transportation, I decided to heed The Book's advice, even though I'd be without a paddling partner. I rented my trusty craft from Adventures in Paradise, a home-based business that looked every bit the part. As I squinted to read the day's weather forecast posted on the wall of the tin-roofed patio, the proprietor stepped out to greet me, as did a red-speckled gecko even larger than the one who'd hitched a ride on my rearview mirror the day before. Sunny skies and warm waters told me it was okay to go ahead with my plan.

As Karin helped me load my sit-atop on the roof of my car, I wondered how in Pele’s name I’d be able to unload it myself. She informed me that the parking lot at the bay was full of able-bodied boys looking for a $5 tip in exchange for easing me of my burden. When I explained that I deal in virtual cash and thus had little more than a pocketful of coins and some lint, she told me not to worry.

She was right on all counts. Before I’d even opened the car door, a Bud-sipping young’un tapped on my windshield to ask if I needed help. When I explained my lack of hard currency, he shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” my knight explained, and began unloading my Sebring of its cargo. Moments later, I was packed into my kayak, Amancio waving to me with one hand and sipping another Bud with the other.

It’s only a half mile or so across the bay to the beach where Captain Cook was killed, but by kayak – solo – it seems much longer. I took my time, alternating between snapping shots with my camera (safely tucked into its housing) and sprinting to make up for how much the tide had shoved me since I’d last stopped. The tide seemed to be moving against me, which, I reasoned, was a good thing since it’d be working in my favor on the way back.

I paddled on at a leisurely pace, watching the green-furred cliff walls drift by and marveling at the blueness of the water. I didn’t recall the ocean being so stunningly cobalt in Oahu, and I remembered that this, the westerly side of the Big Island, was known for its clear waters due to the lack of runoff from rivers and the lava rock. As I mused about the little Hawaiian geology I know and tried to keep my kayak steady for another shot, I realized the sounds of breaking waves had grown louder. When I turned to see how close I was to shore, I realized I was about to be turned over by a large wave – and pushed headlong into a crag of unfriendly-looking lava rocks, which could stand the beating surf much better than I could. I paddled frantically, timing the boat so that I just barely managed to ride a wave in rather than being pummeled by it.

A second wave almost knocked me from my seat, and when I saw that I could stand, I jumped out and began leading my boat to shore. But I wasn’t out of danger yet. The waves still forced their way in, threatening to crush me between my kayak and the rocks, and several times I just managed to push the boat out of the way before it gave me a broken nose. Coughing and trying to remain nonchalant as I dragged ass ashore, I waved to the older couple who had watched me nearly drown, the husband half-amped as if he were about to save me, then realized, “Eh, I don’t know her.”

I allowed myself a few moments’ rest before strolling down the white sandy beach to explore, rust-colored mongooses darting out from underfoot. After seeing the white obelisk and snapping shots of the sea from land, I was ready for some snorkeling, which I’d heard was some of the best on the whole island.

It was like swimming in an aquarium. There were so many fish – yellow tangs, puffers, whitemouth eels, teardrop butterfly fish – that I could hardly keep track. I hung out and rode the surf with a school of yellow tangs that I had spotted from the shore, the surge pushing me in and out of their lemon bodies so often that they seemed to get used to me – at least, as long as I didn’t try to take a picture. (Perhaps tangs are Amish.)

When I’d had my fill, I paddled back, amazed to find that the tide was once again working against me, insisting that the nose of my boat face the completely opposite direction I wanted. By the time I reached the boat launch, I was exhausted, and terribly happy – and surprised – to see Amancio waiting for me some three hours later. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” he said as he reached down to help me out of the kayak. Moments later, the Sebring was all packed up to go, and Amancio was waving me off on my next adventure.

Whoever goes to Kealakekua Bay next, please tip him. Or at least bring him a few beers.

On my way back to return the kayak, I stopped at the Painted Church, which sits high up in the hills of Captain Cook. The church is small, but quite charming -- well worth the slightly out of the way drive. I could have gotten off some amazing shots had it not poured the whole time I was there. I can only imagine how land developers must envy the view that the dearly departed have but will never again enjoy.

I’d planned to head to Honaunau next, but the weather had other thoughts in mind, so I instead heading back north to Kailua Town, where I explored the Hulihe’e “palace” (a large home that supposedly once had grand furniture but was now under renovation) and the Kailua Pier, where several fishermen were hoisting in their final catches of the day. Honaunau and Place of Refuge would have to wait for the next day.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Manta Heaven (Hawaii, Day 2)

When I made my to-do list for my Big Isle trip, I had one item at the very tip-top of the list: dive with manta rays. I've read oodles about this dive, with may sources declaring it a dive of a lifetime, the pinnacle of underwater adventures, and other superlatives. After diving with great whites, I thought that swimming with plankton eaters would be rather anti-climatic. I was greatly mistaken.

We started our diving day at Garden Eel Cove, a sandy-bottomed locale with numerous pencil-thin eels who sway in the surge like sea grass. A coral reef flocked with critters surrounded the cove, which counted for less than a few minutes of the entire dive, and we spotted several other eel relatives in the craggy nooks that were only yards away from the man-made ring of stones that would act as the focus of the night dive ahead.

After downing some sandwiches (mine was a lemon grass tofu baguette from Ba-Le, of course), during which we watched the sun fade into the ocean, we prepared for the main event. A cluster of other water crafts had invaded our mooring site, and as we donned our gear, we spotted one of our visual prey gliding through the water just yards from the line shining beneath our boat. When the first two divers into the water shouted back that there was "a big 'un right below us!" I long-strided in and immediately sank my face downwards, my flashlight bobbing about for the 14-footer they'd spotted.

I didn't have to look far. Rising from the midnight blue depths -- headed straight towards me and the diver bobbing on my right -- came the manta, his eyes seemingly intent on looking me face on. When he as at my knees, he opened his maw so that my beacon shown straight into his ribbed cavern of a mouth, his wings still propelling him towards me as if he meant to suck me in like a Hoover. He stopped, hovering, just inches from my mask, taking in both my features and the multitude of plankton that had flocked to my flashlight's beam like microscopic moths. I managed to snap a few photos with my "can't go deeper than 10 feet" camera, but I only got off one shot where you can almost make out the manta shape.

As we flippered over to the designated manta meeting grounds, an unearthly blue glow loomed up ahead, causing images of James Cameron's aquatic aliens to float through my head. As we drew nearer, we realized we weren't the first arrivals at manta central: at least three other dive boats had claimed their places around the ring. Their flashlight beams formed pillars of light that appeared to hold up the water's surface, where snorkelers splashed about, gazing down upon the underwater Druid ceremony below them. At the center of the ring lay a large milk crate stuffed with high-powered beams that created a stationery Klieg light in which a school of plankton-hungry fish darted about. In the divers' beams, silvery bubbles rose to the surface. Ring within ring within ring we awaited the guests of honor.

And waited. And waited.

After about 10 minutes of shivering on the ocean floor, Bo switched to plan B, and we and the other diver reluctantly swam off. Just when we were almost out of sight of the blue glow, in swooped the enormo manta who'd tried to make out with me earlier, followed by another a foot or so smaller. They slid through the water over our heads, sometimes tapping us with their wings as they passed, their ever-searching mouths widened to take in as much miniscule matter as possible. One diver, who'd brought along a high-powered light for his cumbersome camera, attracted them most, so I quickly made my way to his side for a ringside view. The surge grew stronger, so I wrapped my legs around a large rock anchored to the sea bed and took in the mantas, who were know somersaulting before us to grab as much food as possible.

For the first few minutes back on the boat, few of us could speak, although our ear-to-ear grins spoke volumes. Then slowly the chatter started, and we returned to our chatty selves, several of the older female divers donning red glowsticks as earrings in celebration. What could possibly top an experience like that?

Second best experience of the day: Kona Brewing Company's strawberry and spinach salad. Ever since having it on Oahu last year, I've been craving its tangy sweetness. Washed down with their pale ale, it's second only to the manta experience. And a far second at that.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Escape From Cube Life (Hawaii, Day 1)

I know, I know -- I've been slacking about getting my Hawaii vacation up on site. I've actually been working on it on my Yahoo! Travel page, but I might as well serialize it here -- where most of you look -- as well. So now, without further delay, is the first day of my trip.

Yes, this first day doesn't sound as if it were worth the 2,000+-mile flight, but stick around. It gets better.

Most everyone who knows me knew how much I needed this trip. When my sister canceled on me, I searched frantically for a travel companion. Then, when three volunteers stepped forward just days before I left, I decided I wanted to go solo. I needed to go solo. After a long night mostly spent packing and making my home somewhat presentable to the most wonderful kitten-sitter ever, I was on my way, headed to the most remote islands on the planet for some much-needed R&R.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw out my plane window. The barren, lava-rock landscape was not what I'd had in mind when I'd pictured my tropical island getaway. "It looks like Mordor," the gay husband had told me, but I ignored him, knowing his penchant for exaggeration. He was right. (One of the few times I'll admit this.) But I also remembered that the Big Island is famous for its varied terrain and climatic (not climactic, as one guide book had led me to believe) zones, so I knew that lush landscapes still awaited.

After dealing with the interminable line at the rental car company (note to Dollar: Hire more staff, please), I hopped into my Sebring, cursing the lack of amenities I was used to in Eartha KITT, my beloved Prius, and tore off for my timeshare condo on Ali'i Drive. When I learned my room wouldn't be ready for another four hours, I peeled out again, heading south on Ali'i, the Big Island version of the guide books I'd come to trust on Oahu in hand.

I wasn't the only one to choose the Hawaii Revealed series as my guide book of choice. As I strolled past the parked cars lining Ali'i near Pahoehoe Beach Park, I saw numerous pairs of pedicured feet sticking out of windows, their owners reading the familiar light blue tomes describing all the insider knowledge they'd need for their trip to the largest of the Hawaiian islands. A quick dip in the surf and a visit to the adjacent Little Blue Church (formally known as St. Peter's and described by Hawaii Revealed as the most photographed church in the island chain) and I was on my way, this time to the terraced cliffs that contain the graves of numerous Hawaiians after an inter-island battle.

Before leaving LA, I'd researched some of the more popular restaurants of the island, and one in particular stuck out: Ba-Le, which several readers had described as having a wide array of vegetarian options. I happened upon it while looking for a local supermarket where I could stock up on provisions and soon found myself back in my timeshare eating an enormous amount of pho, the first vegetarian version of the popular Vietnamese soup I'd ever found. If you're in the islands, you must hunt down the nearest location. During my week in Hawaii, I ate there at least five times, including a well-planned pre-airport excursion for food to replace my in-flight meal.

Up route 180 I went, ascending to an elevation of 1000 feet as I explored the mountainside towns of Captain Cook, Holualoa, and several other burgs that blended together as I swerved and curved through rolling greenery, not far below the local cloud forest. Then back down to my temporary hale of Sea Village I went, exhausted already from my lack of rest, but intent on getting an early start on the next day. I hadn't yet ticked off many items on my to-do list, but the week was still young.

Also visited on Day 1:
Big Island Grill

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

More Kudos for "Great Whites of Isla Guadalupe"

Just got back from my trip to the Big Island (sans Big Sis -- photos and journal to come) to find a welcome surprise waiting in my mail box. Seems that my article on diving with great whites received an Honorable Mention for feature article in the 2007 Writer's Digest contest. Results haven't been posted online just yet, but I'm pretty sure they'll be available here when they are.

Considering how heartbroken I was to leave Hawaii behind, this news definitely made the transition back to everyday life much more bearable. Now, off to plan the next trip!

Note: "Great White of Guadalupe" was originally published on AOL Travel, but since AOL is inanely removing all of its content -- nice SEO move -- my article no longer lives there. Thus, I'm now pointing to TravelExplorations.com.

Big Island, Here I Come... Solo

So, my sister flaked on me for our trip this upcoming week, but I'm not about to let that get in the way of having a killer time on the Big Island. On the to-do list:

• Night dive with manta rays
  
• Helicopter ride over volcanoes
  
• Kayak sea caves (with, hopefully, no floaty dead things)
  
• Stroll a black-sand beach
  
• Stroll a green-sand beach
  
• Stroll a plaid-sand beach
  

I'm open to suggestions. Anyone know some stellar spots to recommend on the Big Island? Oh, and anyone (who's not lame) wanna come? You buy your flight and pay for incidentals, the hotel and car are for free!

Ode to the Channel Islands

(With apologies to anyone with any literary sensibility.)

They were well underway
On a bright August day
With a bearing set for Santa Cruz.
Their craft was nigh full
From the mast to the hull
With provisions for two or three crews.

At the Sun Soleil's wheel,
On an uneven keel,
Stood their captain, of skill set unknown.
Quick to temper was he,
As they sailed the calm sea,
If they so much as cut off his drone.

But the insouciant crew --
Of each sex, there were two --
Would not let him rankle their mood.
After all, it was true:
What else could they do?
Piss him off and they'd surely be screwed.

So they hoisted the main
And cleared the head's drain
And prepped for the weekend ahead.
On their first trip ashore
"Holy shit!" they all swore
When they found a huge carcass quite dead.

After snaring a tooth
And playing the sleuth
They returned to the boat Sun Soleil.
What a tirade they got
From the doddy old sot:
"You left me alone here all day!"

"Grab the halyard, yank the sheet!
Tie the line to that cleat!"
Came the orders from morning to night.
Had they known had to sail
They'd all now be in jail
For lobbing the perv in the bight.

But their sails did not luff
For their nerves remained tough
When misfortune hit them full speed.
They bore flies by the reams,
An old skipper sans jeans,
And survived a sea lion stampede.

They had chocolate a plenty,
And bananas ten or twenty,
And they came to malign the poor fruit
For the hardships endured
Once they'd set foot aboard
The boat with a nasty old coot.

On the bow late at night
They observed quite a sight,
A gift from the heavens on high --
Quick flashes of light
Quite brilliant and bright
Like a vestige of Fourth of July.

"Anacapa, ahoy!"
Cried the four crew with joy,
As the lighthouse soon came into view.
They hopped into their dinghy --
A flimsy old thingy --
And skedaddled from old you-know-who.

But no shore trip for they,
Only "anchors aweigh!"
Due to Cap'n's pleas for more help.
For their trip was cut short --
They but made it to port --
By a harmless ol' bed of sea kelp.

Soon stolid park rangers
Became more than strangers
As they rolled back to the Sun Soleil.
Then for shore they set sail
With the wind at their tail
For the cap'n'd again had his say.

No more spinnakers for they,
As they cruised through the spray,
For a self-furling sail they had naught.
Wing and wing brought them forth
Amid salty air froth
As their dread soon begin to allay.

With the chocolate now gone,
Just how could they sail on?
But Oxnard soon loomed up ahead.
As they jumped on the pier
Disappeared all their fear
As they kissed the ground on which they tread.

They knew why they'd received
Such a little reprieve
And a trip of such great bargain rate.
Now once more ashore
They would say never more,
"This damn boat just will not macerate!"

(Full journal, with pics and video, here.)

Anacapa: Unbagged (Channel Islands, Day 3)

The few bananas still on board didn't faze us, although at least one person tried to attribute the shape and yellow color of the kayak to Chris' unusual incident. After breakfast, during which we fended off the swarm of flies that had come aboard some time during the night, we took turns paddling the sheltered coves of Little Scorpion, dipping into narrow crevices and enjoying the roller coaster-like effect of the tide in such a tight squeeze. We’d seen a few pelicans at other anchorages, but at Little Scorpion they teemed on any open face of rock, so that we began to wonder why our first day’s cove had been named for the brown seabird and not here. We also spotted a sleek, black, red-billed bird (which I’ve since discovered is a black oystercatcher), but I could never get my kayak close enough to allow for a good shot. Sea lions made frequent appearances, sometimes frolicking close enough to the kayak I could make out their bemused facial expressions.

Kayaking through caves was a bit anticlimactic after Painted Cave, but it was still quite a thrill to navigate through open-ended caverns and launch out through the other side. The water was clear enough to see twenty feet to the bottom, illuminating the purple sea urchins, multi-armed sunflower stars, ochre sea stars, and the occasional skittish Garibaldi.

After turning over the kayak to Sally, I somehow got suckered into going snorkeling. Now, normally I’d jump at the chance to flipper around and ogle sea creatures, but the decidedly frigid water temperature – just about 60 degrees – and my lack of an adequate wetsuit made me hesitate. But soon Chris had convinced me that I’d regret not going, and that even if the water was cold, I’d remember the sights more than the bone-numbing coldness, so I acquiesced. Gary chauffeured us over in the dinghy to the mouth of a small sea cave, where I overcame my trepidation to plunge into the water. When I emerged, it was to spout a mouthful of expletives as the cold shot through every limb like darts. But I was already submerged, so I followed Chris, my limbs hugging my body, into the cave.

Perhaps he hadn’t learned from yesterday’s encounter with the cascade of blubbery bodies, but Chris swam well ahead into the darkness, intent on hitting the end of the cave, sea lion stampede be damned. I hung back at a slightly less risky location, just within sight of sunlight but not close enough for it to aid me in viewing my surroundings. I clung to the barnacled cave wall as the tide swelled in and out, raising me upwards sometimes two or three feet, as I saw the dim beam of Chris’ flashlight poke about ahead. He’d found another beach and was fixed on flopping ashore, his flippers still on. I imagined various creatures trolling the floor below me, but clung fast, telling myself they’d eat him before me.

Finally he returned, and we swam around a rocky outcropping to the sea cave we individually kayaked through that morning. I spotted a spider crab dozing on the sea floor, then allowed the tide to push me forward into the cave, where the seabed rose to present a mesmerizing pattern of sand. The currents popped us out through the other end, and we explored the critters on the outside of the cave before hauling ourselves, me shivering, back into the dinghy for our return trip to the Sun Soleil.


Soon we had raised anchor and, now completely under sail power, we set our bearing for the lighthouse on Anacapa, which is actually comprised of three small islands which in total are still far smaller than Santa Cruz. Despite its size, Anacapa is a main stopping point for many visitors to the Channel Islands, due in part to the lighthouse and visitor’s center, as well as its system of moderate hiking trails. In rough waves, the four of us managed to get situated in the dinghy, while Gary navigated through the massive kelp beds just offshore. While the others took charge of bringing the dinghy on land, with the help of a pulley, I marched up the steps in search of a true flush toilet, pausing halfway up to admire the stark blue waters of the cove and the kelp pulsing in the surf.

None of us ever set foot on the true island though, because soon I was fetched to return to my friends, who had been sought out by park rangers. We soon learned that there was a problem back on the Sun Soleil and that we were to be shuttled back, now donning NPS life jackets. As a few island visitors – more than we’d seen in our previous two days – snapped shots of us refugees, we looked sadly back at Anacapa, unvisited its lighthouse, and unconquered sea arch, each vowing to return and bag the island. We received some solace in learning from the rangers exactly what it was that we'd discovered at Pelicans: a 26-foot basking shark.

Somehow, in the rough chop, we made it back aboard the Sun Soleil without getting squished between the NPS vessel. Gary told us of his engine problems, which he assumed may have been from cruising through a bed of gnarly kelp, and said our trip would have to be cut short. We reluctantly headed back towards the mainland, each taking turns at the helm. It wasn’t without irony that Sally pointed out that there were still a few bananas on board.




Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

I'll Dive With Sharks, But Not With This Freak of Nature

Yeah, I've gone overboard (pun intended) on the whole shark thang, but I've recently gone eyeball to eyeball with an even freakier ocean denizen. Seriously, this abnormality has given me nightmares in recent weeks.

After living in Cali nearly 10 years (well past my personal deadline), I finally made the trek to the world-renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium. At last count, I've been to more than 10 aquariums around the globe (including my all-time fave, the Ring of Fire Aquarium in Osaka, which had a whale shark when I visited), and the Monterey promised to deliver more splash than any I'd previously visited. Unfortunately, my visit came after the release of the aquarium's most recently captive great white, but I was still lured by the promise of a state-of-the-art institution that refiltered salt water from the neighboring bay.

Because I got a late start out of Marin County, I had about an hour to view all the exhibits, so I made sure to devote the bulk of my time to the Outer Bay, which boasts a million gallons of free-floating marine amusement behind 13 inches of acrylic window space. Sure, the hammerheads and turtles were mesmerizing, but it was the ocean sunfish -- the first I'd ever viewed in real life -- that startled me to the point of transfixion.

These creatures never should have made it this far through evolution. Their poorly designed, flattened bodies are so hydrodynamically inept that they seem to drift helplessly with the current more so than any oceanic invertebrate (See: jellies). As young'uns, they appear normal enough, with the requisite fins and gills in all the right places, but once they get bigger, Mola mola takes on a grotesque form normally reserved for burn victims. Its tail takes on cauliflower characteristics, to the point of serving little purpose. Its "facial" features seem almost amorphous, with only a small orifice for a mouth. And its dorsal and anal fins seem ineffective when the current assumes strengths stronger than that of a bath tap.

I lingered at the Outer Bay exhibit longer than usual solely because of the two ocean sunfish specimens (six and ten feet tall, by the docent's estimates; Wikipedia has a good shot of their freakish size). Through the blue-gray gloom, one made its way towards the window at an awkward angle, as if emulating some inanimate piece of flotsam, until it was only feet away. Its eye looked cartoonish, as if it had been dreamed up by some freebaser in the basement of Henson Creature Studios, a sliced ping-pong ball granted the wish of orbital movement. It was ghastly, ghostly, too much for me to handle, and I backed away into the crowd until I was safely behind the docent and a maraudering band of Japanese tourists.

The hammerheads continued to circle the tank. My pals, the sea turtles, flitted by and high-fived me with their flippers after each circuit. The 300-pound tuna -- confined to below-average temperatures due to their need to breed at NASCAR speeds when the mercury rises to the mid-70s -- lapped the tank as if making for the next Guinness record. But they all sped by in comparison to the sunfish, who, like some gelatinous monster from the '50s, glided amiably by as if they had all the time in the world. If the meek shall indeed inherit the Earth, then the sunfish is going to be signing your timesheets come the next stock plunge. Stick me in a tank with carniverous sharks anyday. I'm certain these freakazoids would gum you to death, if given the chance.

Oh, and if you get the chance when in Monterey, stop by For Garlic Lovers in the nearby arcade. Decadent halitosis-inducing edibles await.

The Shark FAQ, aka You Like Me, You Really Like Me!

Alas, I've yet to make an Oscar speech, but I had my own version of glory today when my shark article made it to the AOL Welcome Screen (once the "most valuable piece of Internet real estate," as the Mother Ship told us drones, but I doubt it is any longer). When my Oahu shark article was published in the Seattle PI back in October, I receive a handful of kudos from fellow shark-ophiles and divers. But in the space of the last few hours, I've received several dozen emails from readers who happened upon the story of my Isla Guadalupe adventure, some of which have even made me blush. The responses have inspired me to write even more so than when I handed in my bound thesis last May.

To those of you who wrote, thank you. It really meant a lot to hear your kind words and to share your shark-encounter tales and fantasies. I'll answer some of the FAQs here, short answers first:

Q. How can I go on this trip?

A. Call Patric Douglas, the CEO of Shark Diver. Tell him you're my pal and he'll treat you all nice-like. Heck, he'll treat you well even if you're not my pal. He's just that kind of guy.

Q. How long does a trip like [the one you wrote about on AOL] take?

A. It was a five-day trip -- roughly 14 hours to the island and back, then three full days off the coast of Isla Guadalupe, where we were anchored most of the time. We never went ashore, even though it was a shell's throw away.

Q. How much does it cost?

A. You can get the 411 on the Shark Diver site. Yes, it's more expensive than a one-day trip to the Farallons, but the visibility is better, the water's warmer, and the camaraderie of a live-aboard can't be beat. Meals (and alcohol!) are included, and the galley crew served some mighty good grub. (They even catered to my vegetarian needs and exceeded expectations.) Oh, and it's the trip of a lifetime, so charge that card and don't give it a second thought.

Q. Do you need a special certification for this trip?

A. Even non-certs can go. It's not tank diving, but rather hookah diving -- you breathe through a hose that goes up to the boat -- and you're never more than 15 feet deep. The hookah apparatus means you don't have to carry all that gear on your back, making it easier to maneuver in the cage.

Q. Was Isla Guadalupe really better than the Farallons [off San Francisco]?

A. I've never been to the Farallons, so I can't give a truly informed answer. However, there was at least one diver on my IG trip who had been there and he raved about the conditions of Guadalupe: warmer water, better viz, and -- most importantly -- more sharks. If you're interested in a good read about the Farallons, check out The Devil's Teeth, Susan Casey's beautifully written account of her time on these desolate islands. (Among other chestnuts, Casey drops amid her prose such mind-boggling nuggets as the fact that sharks are older than trees. Trees, dammit.) I took the book with me on this trip, and when I wasn't under water, I was usually holed up in my bunk with my nose buried deep in its musty pages.

Q. How do I become a freelance writer?

A. Good question. I'm still trying to figure that one out myself. I'm actually a freelance and full-time editor, but my love of writing has me constantly on the lookout for other outlets. If you really want some quick advice, here it goes: Come up with a killer idea. Query a publication. Get rejected. Find another publication. Get rejected again. Come up with a better killer idea. Query again. Take up papier-mache as a hobby to recycle all your rejection letters. Query again. Just don't stop trying. Some people will get your writing, while others... well, some people just don't have taste, do they?

Honestly, I don't think I could be a full-time freelancer. I just don't have the patience for querying. But as a side job, it's quite fulfilling, especially since I can focus on the writing and not where my next paycheck will come from. I know plenty of people with the stamina for full-time freelancing; I'm just not one of them.

Q. Weren't you scared? Or do you just have a death wish?

A. When I was younger, I was a tad more daring. Now that I'm older, my invincibility has a few chinks in the armor, so I'm much more cautious than I was in my salad days. I haven't jumped off a cliff in many a year, and I have no desire to relive my ambush in 'Nam (true story), but I'm still up for some adrenaline-inducing action quite often.

At Guadalupe, I was one of the first in the cage -- partly because I was excited, but mainly because I was green with seasickness after our overnight crossing and I knew the cool water would ease my pain. We didn't see any sharks on that first dive, possibly because I scared them away when I chummed up the water. Yes, your dive instructor wasn't lying when s/he said you can vomit in your regulator with no problem. (Thank you, Patric, for erasing that bit of footage.)

When the sharks were around I was too in awe to be scared. When you know your time with them is finite, you don't want to waste a second shrinking into the corner of the cage. I don't remember anyone chickening out at the last minute. In fact, we were usually fighting for rotation spots. Sharks are fantastic creatures, and seeing them up close only makes you appreciate them more.

Q. What was your first trip with sharks?

A. My first underwater encounter was roughly six years ago during a night dive in Turks and Caicos. I'd gone for a little R&R and was talked into taking the Advanced Open Water PADI certification by several other diehard divers at the Club Med where I had holed up for a week. Little did I know that the advanced course required a night dive, something I'd never imagined I'd do. I'd been afraid of dark water ever since my brother threw me into our pool on a pitch black night after telling me that the bottom opened up to the ocean after the sun went down. (Yes, for those who've heard the tales, this is the same brother who handcuffed me to a coffee table. I have only one. Thankfully.)

But I didn't mention my fear to my diving classmates, and when I jumped into the water that night, a glowstick affixed to my tank, I was certain I'd never surface again. Once I was under, however, with the pod of divers glowing like underwater stars around me, I lost all fear. I became mesmerized by the celestial lights of their own neon glows, caused by their own glowsticks and the bioluminescent organisms swirling in the Caribbean waters.

I did the prerequisite course requirements -- underwater orientation and the like -- then followed my instructor as he led us through a coral maze. It was there that he spotted what I believe was a five-foot nurse shark resting on the sandy bottom. When his flashlight beam hit the shark's face, it took off, heading straight towards me. I froze. But a foot before it reached me, it careened to the side, and its graceful sway made me forget my fear, so much so that I reached out and let my fingers trail along the last few inches of its body. If I'd had an endless supply of air that night, I might never have been coaxed back on the boat.

Q. So, you've done great whites. What could possibly be next?

Q. Oh, there's so very, very much more. As much as I loved my great white dive, my long-time dream has been to swim in the open with either a whale or a whale shark. Ever since I saw one of the latter at the Osaka aquarium 12 years ago, I've wanted to swim alongside something as large as a school bus and as docile as kitten. (Yes, I know there are dangers involved. I've just known some very aggressive kittens.) Patric's company also offers a trip with giant squid (I don't have enough dives under my belt for that yet, dagnabbit) and a deep-sub adventure to see six-gill sharks at 1,700 feet below the surface. Crikey! Oh, and there are a slew of land-based adventures on my check list, including a helicopter ride over a live volcano, which I'm planning for the fall.

Q. Do you have any more photos?

A. Hell, yeah! That wasn't even mine on AOL. Don't know why they didn't use my pics or video. This one is a shot of Patric holding the severed tuna I'd mentioned in the article, with Melanie behind him. For more pics, try this link, although it doesn't always work: Shark Album. For video, check out my stuff on YouTube. I'll post more if there's any interest.


Well, it's past my bedtime on a school night. Must go... procrastinate more.

The Sharkiest Place on Earth

After several months of waiting, I finally get to see my great white article on AOL Travel. It's on the front page today, and it's supposed to be on the Welcome Screen Monday, so I'm hoping it'll get a lot of traffic. For some reason, they used a generic photo rather than my brilliant one of a great white chomping on some bait. But what can you do?

Getting Chummy (follow-up)

First thing I've learned: Keeping track of two blogs ain't fun. So I'm going to consolidate to just this one. I'll still update MySpace with a line or two, then link off to this one, which will act as my main blog.

As a followup to my entry about chumming for sharks the other day, I wanted to post the comment from the Divester writer who sparked the original item I found on Divester. You can read his original post on my MySpace blog (Nov. 25), or right here:

Hi, Jenna. My name is Willy Volk, and I wrote the piece on Divester to which you refer. First, let me say that I enjoyed your trip report, and I'm glad you had the opportunity to share the beauty of sharks with the rest of us. However...

Chumming for sharks is irresponsible, and Jimmy -- as knowledgable as he is about sharks and their behavior -- knows this.

Although some degree of conditioning can occur between sharks and cage diving boats, this happens when operators do not comply with regulations and allow sharks to feed on bait (http://www.divester.com/2006/09/27/finding-a-balance-how-sharks-and-beachgoers-can-live-together/). I don't believe that sharks learn to associate chum with humans (and, as a result, acquire a taste for people). However, it is commonly accepted that chumming the water alters sharks' behavior and attracts them to shore -- where they face increased dangers, through fishing, and may inadvertantly attack a person (http://www.divester.com/2006/10/05/oahu-to-limit-shark-tours/). Consequently, the fact that "Jimmy was more than three miles offshore" really has no bearing on the situation. He's altering their behavior. And anyway: how long does it take for a shark to swim 3 miles?

Moreover, it amazes me that people would recoil in horror at the thought of dragging a kudu through the African bush to attract a lion, but they don't have a problem with chumming the water to attract sharks. What's the difference?

"Jimmy had mentioned how several of his competitors do it as well": Unfortunately, the fact that Jimmy and his competitors all chum for fish does not make it right.

"I don't believe he felt what he was doing was illegal": I'll bet most commercial fishermen -- and many drug dealers, for that matter -- don't feel what they're doing is illegal.

I don't have a problem with Hall taking people out to see sharks: exposure to these wonderful animals is the best way for peope to overcome their fears and understand their importance in the ecosystem. For that, I commend Hall. However, when Hall expressly denies chumming the water (http://www.hawaiisharkencounters.com/faq.asp), even though you clearly witnessed it, it makes me wonder: Why deny it, Jimmy, if it's so harmless?

Comments?

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Just yesterday I was explaining to my technically challenged mother the importance of Googling your name every few weeks. In the past, I've discovered there's a runaway and a porn star (possibly the same person) who share my first and last name, which is one reason I'd decided to add my middle name to my byline, for the sake of clarification.

So I was shocked when, Googling my full byline name just a few minutes ago, I came across a listing entitled:

Stories Tagged 'illegal' » Netscape.com

(full story)

...which goes on to detail how my recent article in the Seattle P-I inadvertently exposed Jimmy Hall and his Hawaii Shark Encounters outfit for illegally feeding sharks. When I wrote the article a little over a month ago about the trip I took in January 2006, I had no clue that this was an illegal activity, especially since Jimmy had mentioned how several of his competitors do it as well.

Follow-ups to the story counter the allegations, stating that since Jimmy was more than three miles offshore (as I can attest to), he was no longer in Hawaiian waters and therefore was not committing illegal activity. But as one commentor notes, this is also up for debate, as Hawaii claims jurisdiction to the channels between islands, even though the state has never defended this position in federal court.

I'm not a lawyer, so I can't say if Jimmy is guilty. I will say that he showed a great deal of respect for the sharks and that I found no fault with his operation. I felt perfectly safe the entire time and admired Jimmy's obvious love of the sea and its inhabitants. And after seeing the video of him outside of the cage with an 18-foot great white, I can say he truly love these creatures, even if he's a bit of a daredevil. Jimmy told me that one of the reasons he took such a risk was because he wanted people to see that white sharks are not the vicious feeding machines Hollywood has made them out to be. On his webpage, he further describes why he swam unprotected with a great white.

About halfway into my trip, Jimmy learned that I was a writer. At that point, had he wanted to hide any illegal actions, he certainly could have, or at least downplayed them. But I don't believe he felt what he was doing was illegal, or else he certainly would not have allowed me to take pictures of one of his crew tossing fish heads to the sharks just off the stern.

I had hoped my article would offset fears that many have about the ocean and its inhabitants, especially in the wake of Stever Irwin's untimely death. I did not intend to "out" Jimmy. In fact, I had hoped my article would help his business, as well as awaken people to the beauty of the animals his expedition showcases.

Back From Shark Diving

Yes, many of you thought I'd return with missing limbs -- or at least a few digits. But here I am, as intact as ever -- physically, if not mentally.

I've got some kickass video of my shark dives, but unfortunately my camera made all the files .avi, so if anyone knows how to convert to .mpeg, please share the secret. To see the crappy-ass .avi files, check here:
http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=B4B577EB2D1004A4

Aside from many wonderful sharky bits of trivia, I learned that Guadalupe is not a place for young, innocent men of a certain sexual inclination. ("The village has its own laws," says Mauricio, the PhD student who lives in the lock-less shack on the island's eastern side.) Also, my introductory scuba instructor was absolutely correct: You can indeed vomit into your regulator. The 20-hour crossing, complete with 14-foot swells, rocked our boat to the point where lunch was, most definitely, on me -- and those in the shark cage next to me. During our first day in the washing-machine lurches of the cage, I chummed enough for the whole boat. Luckily, by days 2 and 3, I'd regained my sea legs and my stomach-emptying feats came to an end.

People, you ain't lived until you've had a 16-foot white shark pass within inches of your camera lens.

Feature Article in Seattle P-I

The Seattle PI just published my piece on underwater adventures in Oahu. Check it out:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/getaways/288156_hawunderwater12.html

Not too shabby. A few edits here and there, but otherwise, the editor didn't touch much. Just wish he'd suppressed the urge to add that damn exclamation mark.