A Night in the Deep
Stories from Kona, where the lava meets the sea.
Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/MRKWZpqHzLavC4UbA
January 3rd, 2024 - Hawaii Day 8
Expanses of volcanic rock tumbled across the hillside in large fields. It reached towards the ocean with wide fingers, colliding with the sea in massive piles. In the center of the lava’s grasp, a beach with soft white sand quietly preserved an important part of Hawaiian culture. Here, at the Kaloko-Honokohau National Historical Park, a village once thrived. A solitary triangular hut, framed by palm trees, represented what would have been dozens of homes. Black rock walls, camouflaged by the piles of hardened lava, stretched out into the waves. These walls, while unassuming, were an impressive feat of Hawaiian ingenuity. Forming fishponds and fish traps, these structures were vital to the life of the village. I found the fishponds particularly fascinating. To build a fishpond, indigenous peoples first needed to identify regions where freshwater mingled with the sea. There, they would build massive sea walls to create an artificial bay. The incoming seawater would bring in young fish. Freshwater runoff contributed rich nutrients perfect for algal growth. Seamlessly, the algae fed the fish, and the fish fed the people. It was a sophisticated system with handiwork beyond measure. Each rounded stone in the walls was stacked with precision and care. No mortar was used, yet these ancient walls were more effective at holding back the sea than our modern concrete seawalls. It was a remarkable demonstration of environmental stewardship and intuitive engineering. The use and preservation of historic fishponds has significantly declined since the arrival of westerners on Hawaii’s shores. Efforts are being made to preserve those that remain, but still, I was grateful we got to see one for ourselves. Who knows how much longer they’ll stay?
Our ocean journey continued after we left the national historical park. In fact, this morning would be taking us farther than we had ever been before. As we boarded a rocking boat, I could just see it out on the horizon. A long, low white tube bobbed offshore. That’s right, folks. We were going for a submarine ride!
The submarine looked larger than what it felt. We clanked down a metal staircase into the blue glow of the submarine’s interior. The ceiling was low and the walls were tight, curving upwards just a few feet above our heads. It had the same constricted feeling as an overfilled elevator. We crammed tightly into a row of molded plastic seats, swallowed by the chatter of our tourist group. The emotions were mixed in our group. Some were excited, some were nervous. I was trying not to think about the recent headlines surrounding the Titan submarine. Just a few months earlier, the remote-controlled sub had imploded while trying to reach the sunken Titanic, killing several people in a graphic death. It’s all anyone talked about for weeks. And now here we were, sitting in a submarine too. This one, at least, was human-piloted.
Swallowing my nervousness, I fixed my gaze on the nautical world. In front of each of us, a round porthole revealed sunbeams slicing through the water. It was so blue. A flurry of bubbles spiraled upwards as the submarine began to descend. A microphone popped, then one of the crew began his practiced narration of our undersea tour. He cut through the tangible anxiety with well-timed dad jokes about fish.
“Okay, port side, here’s a good view of a school of ta’ape fish for you guys.”
I leaned forward to peer through the porthole. Sure enough, about fifty yellowish fish glided along the reef, their clump flicking left and right in simultaneous movements.
The man continued, “Now ta’ape is interesting because it doesn’t keep very well. You have to eat it as soon as possible. If you leave it in your fridge overnight, it basically turns into mush. So the next day, all you end up with is a bowl of ta’ape-oca.”
There was a collective groan as the man chuckled delightedly. Our tour continued along this vein for the rest of the trip, successfully alleviating our underwater anxieties. We coasted along the reef, taking in views of tropical fish and volcanic rocks. We passed a sunken fishing boat studded with sea urchins. The boat wasn’t the scene of a tragedy, but rather a failed attempt of someone trying to collect boat insurance money. Allegedly, the submarine tour company used to have a little inside joke with themselves. Every year, they’d purchase a plastic skeleton and sink it near the boat wreck. It was a harmless way for them to amuse themselves while pranking their passengers. However, the skeleton aroused some unwanted attention when it broke loose from the boat wreck one year. It floated ashore to a well-visited beach, where a woman mistook it as a real skeleton. She called the police, who shut down the entire beach. Shortly after that, the submarine tour guides were asked to stop putting skeletons on the boat wreck!
The most fascinating part of the submarine ride was the colors. After a certain depth in the ocean, the sun stops penetrating the water well. The weak light means that certain colors are filtered out, making everything appear brown and grey. The fish and the coral reef were actually quite colorful, but our eyes simply couldn’t see it. I was wearing a pink shirt that day. When we were in the submarine, the pink shirt looked grey.
At our deepest, we reached 105 ft below sea level. Our tour guide informed us that only 1% of the world’s population ever travels to that depth in a submersible, so by definition, we are submariners now!
After our return to the surface, we spent a few hours driving through lava fields and green hills. I’m not sure how anyone ever gets used to seeing lava fields. We’ve seen a lot of incredible sights on our trips, but there is something truly striking about a flat plain of rock blacker than the night sky. It’s a forbidding landscape, an assertion of earth’s forces over the domination of man. There were no houses on the lava fields. There was only black stone and yellow grass. Oh, and goats! For some reason, wild goats favor the harsh landscape of the lava fields. We saw them standing atop rock piles and picking their way to grass patches. One goat strode confidently down the edge of the highway, her head held high. She was a dark charcoal color, nearly matching the lava rocks that undoubtedly were her home. It was her self-assurance that entertained us the most. She was a lava goat in a lava world. She certainly didn’t need any humans to help her out!
Supper was held at a Hawaiian Denny’s, which was an interesting experience. Despite it being suppertime, the Denny’s was nearly empty. Only two or three people seemed to be working in the entire restaurant. Outside of our window, the flashing blue lights of a police car flickered against the blinds. A man, maybe drunk, was getting arrested. It seemed the officer was reluctant to put him in the cruiser, however, because the man kept leaning over the curb to vomit. They were there for our entire meal, which, admittedly, was rather interesting to watch.
Now that I think about it, the amount of police activity we saw in Hawaii was startling. On one of our first days in Maui, we saw a handcuffed man being walked down a sidewalk. On Oahu, we found ourselves in the middle of a police manhunt for a violent criminal. Now we were here on the Big Island and, once again, someone was getting arrested. What a strange coincidence!
Our night continued on a strange note. We had booked ourselves another undersea activity for the evening- night snorkeling with manta rays. I had been excited for this one for a while. The website for the snorkeling company described wondrous experiences with the massive fish, so close you could nearly touch them. I could still distinctly remember the first time I pet a stingray at a zoo as a child. I couldn’t wait to swim with the rays!
We were prompted to meet the tour company in the parking lot of a small harbor. As we climbed out of the car, a breeze wrapped around me. I looked down at my swimsuit, suddenly realizing that we had neglected to bring towels. To a freezebaby like me, that seemed like it would be an issue. The night was warm, but only against dry skin. How cold would the ocean be?
The tour company was renting Go-Pro cameras out of the back of a pickup truck. The man renting the cameras wore sandals, sunbleached hair, and a vigorous energy that seemed somehow out of place. He seemed a little frazzled, actually. What exactly was he so stressed about? Our other tour guide was a younger man with the kind of demeanor adapted towards soothing anxious customers.
“We’re going out to a different spot tonight,” he informed us. “The water is a little choppy, but we’ve seen it a lot worse. We’ve heard reports of mantas out on the western side of the island, further away from their usual feeding spot. So we’ll be going out there. The ride will be a little longer than normal, but worth it, I promise.”
We really had no choice but to trust them. We rented a Go-Pro from the back of the pickup truck, climbed aboard their boat, and off we went. Just like the submarine, there were mixed emotions from the passengers of the boat. Across the aisle, a young couple (who were clearly on their honeymoon) giggled, kissed, and snuggled. In front of us, a set of parents struggled to figure out how to put on the snorkel masks. I sat hunched on the bench, already getting cold and worried about the return ride. How I wished we had remembered towels! I tried to distract myself by watching the nighttime scenery instead. The boat bounced over the waves, sending the twinkling lights of the shore into a blur of ups and downs. The water beneath us was dark. So, so dark.
The boat’s engine was cut when we eventually reached our destination. The night around us was quiet. The crew bustled about, readying their equipment as the boat rocked. It swayed back and forth, back and forth. Beside me, Tyler groaned. He’d eaten country-fried steak for supper at Denny’s. It was coming back to haunt him.
The crew launched into their spiels as the boat continued to rock. Night snorkeling with mantas involves floating arrays of blue lights which are strung out behind the boat in a long line. The blue lights attract plankton, which, in turn, attract manta rays. Snorkelers paddle out to the light arrays, grasp onto a floating PVC construct, and attempt to float motionless in the water. If the plankton is plentiful and the snorkelers mimic floating ocean debris (rather than anxious swimming humans), the manta rays will swim right up to the lights for a wonderful, scenic dinner.
Tyler and I listened to this as attentively as we could. Tyler was definitely getting seasick. I was just nervous in general. Both of us were relieved when the time came for us to get in the water. Let’s go see some mantas!
Swimming in a dark ocean is strangely unnerving. It’s not quite that you forget how to swim. It’s more like you are disoriented by the vastness of the body of water in which you’re now submerged. Best not to think about all of the things swimming beneath you. It only makes it scarier. We paddled out to the blue lights and situated ourselves as instructed. Up close, we could see that the lights were mounted on a long plastic board with PVC “handles” on either side. We were instructed to grab the handles with both hands, straighten our arms, and lie flat on the water’s surface. I readjusted my snorkeling mask, took a deep breath, and plunged my face into the water. Almost immediately, I panicked. I’d never worn a snorkeling mask before, but I was pretty sure that this one wasn’t on right. I gasped for breath and got seawater instead. I flung my head up out of the water, scrabbled at the mask desperately, and got it readjusted. I stuck my head back in the water and tried again. That was better.
There is something extremely isolating about night snorkeling. Your senses are filled with the sound of your own breathing through the mask. Your body bobs limply in the choppy ocean. You can feel your husband being tossed around by the waves beside you but have no way to talk to him. You gaze into the blue light and search for any sign of motion in the deep, deep ocean. Occasionally, a fish flits by. That is all. After a while, your body begins to cool in the water. It’s a fairly warm night, but the breeze is still chilly. The water is still chilly. The muscles in your arms begin to tremble, exhausted by the effort of holding on to the frame. You tighten your fingers, dreading the idea of losing your grip. Would somebody save you if you drifted away? Would they even notice?
Eventually, the flick of a manta’s wing catches your attention. It soars deep below you, paying no attention to the succulent plankton hovering beneath the blue light. The white stripe on the manta’s back is hypnotizing. The manta flaps once and elegantly glides away, majestic and beautiful. It never comes up to feed. You never come eye-to-eye with the magnificent creature. You hold onto hope for as long as you can, but after an hour, you’ve only seen three mantas far away. Exhaustion and cold begin to become your reality. You begin to grow irritable with the honeymoon couple across from you who are extremely bad swimmers. They kick and giggle next to each other, ignoring the “lay flat so you don’t scare the mantas” rule. The waves toss you up and down, jostling the dinner you ate too recently.
In some ways, it was a relief to be called back into the boat. It was a woefully manta-poor experience, and it was evident by the silence in the boat. All of the passengers were quiet. There were no exclamations of excitement, no shared stories of divine manta experiences. Even the giggling honeymooners were quiet. We bounced back to shore, shivering and seasick. By the time we returned to land, my lips were purple with cold. Tyler was one wave short of losing his dinner. It was a rough night.
We concluded the experience with a tired sort of gratefulness. We aren’t sure we’ll ever go night snorkeling again. Shy mantas aside, we’ve learned that Tyler is prone to seasickness and I get too cold in a nighttime ocean. But, like all of our other adventures, it was an experience we were thankful to share with each other.
At the very least, it makes for a good story now!
An interesting article about the ingenuity of Hawaiian fishponds: https://seagrant.soest.hawaii.edu/the-return-of-kuula/
Disclaimer: header photo obtained from the website below because we didn’t actually see mantas close enough take photos of them!
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