RIP, Olympus Tough

Last night's passage was fortunately less lively than we'd be warned it might be - though it was still pretty bouncy and most of us spent some time awake in the darkness braced against being flung out of bed. Now we're at the Big Island (so called because its official name is also Hawaii, and it's twice as big as all the other islands put together).

We began the day by kayaking with Mitch along the coast, where the lava flows are even more dramatic than on Maui, with huge shattered boulders a picture of frozen violence, and lots of caves, some of which we ducked into. My partner today was Dave, who shared the paddling much better than Tom, I'm glad to say. He even, gallantly, took charge of propulsion while I snapped away with my trusty little Olympus Tough waterproof camera - in blissful ignorance of the fact that, within the hour, I would leap with it into the water for a swim off the back of the Safari Explorer, having forgotten to shut the cable cover, and thereby kill it by drowning. Sigh. (All subsequent underwater photos supplied by Dai Mar.)

The pattern was different today: lunch was lighter, and after some down-time (during which some of the gamer passengers tried SUP in less than ideal conditions, generously supplying the rest of us with exactly the shots we were hoping for) we assembled again for a very early dinner of Caesar salad at 4.30pm. That was followed by a presentation by Ian, a manta ray expert who, impossibly, was even more enthusiastic about his pet subject than Dai Mar. Using Blanca, a ray hand puppet, he taught us more about mantas than we had ever imagined knowing, and got us whipped up into a fine frenzy about swimming with them tonight. We had a 90% chance of seeing one, he told us - but, "like a nightclub in Vegas" they could touch us, but not vice versa.

We got all togged up in wetsuits and goggles (UnCruise is very well equipped and organised for all this kind of thing) and buzzed out into the bay where the 'campfire' had been lit: underwater lights to attract the plankton the rays hoover up. It was a smooth operation: we hung onto surf boards that also had lights, and were towed into place. Nothing happened for a while, apart from lots of glittering Hawaiian flagtail fish flicking about, and divers creeping along the sea floor about four metres below, their bubbles fizzing up around us like silver baubles.

Then a ray came swooping into sight, over the light, around and back - and then he was gone. Honestly? It was a bit disappointing. But of course that's nature for you, and at least we weren't one of the 10%. And later, after a hot shower and over our belated dessert at the bar, we all agreed we would rather have had that glimpse than stay on the boat and see nothing.

Green and blue - but hopefully no technicolour yawns

We began the day by rolling joints on the top deck of UnCruise's Safari Explorer as the moon set and the sun rose. Yoga session over, we were ready for a day of good food, exercise and exploring Maui. First activity was snorkelling over a jetty destroyed in a 1992 cyclone, the sunken remains of which have become a reef where, particularly, green turtles hang out. Though marine biologist Dai Mar got super-excited about the purple sea slugs - "I love these things!" - the rest of us were more pleased by seeing half a dozen chilled-out turtles cruising around, taking turns at the cleaning station where small colourful fish worked them over, nibbling away the algae. (Though the algae was green, I didn't need Dai Mar to tell me that's not why they're called green sea turtles - I learned recently at a rescue centre at Le Meridien on Bora Bora in Tahiti, that it's because they have green-coloured fat.)

We spent the rest of the morning cruising for whales again, seeing a few, and even listening for them on a hydrophone, which was educational since the main thing we could hear were engines and generators from the other boats in the bay - noise pollution in the water.

After lunch we went ashore to have a look around Lahaina, which is very like the Bay of Islands' Russell in both history and appearance: both former capitals, riotous dens of iniquity beloved of whalers, and now colourfully touristy, full of pretty buildings converted into souvenir shops and cafes (though possibly heavier here on the shave ice - a puzzlingly popular sickly sweet Hawaiian treat). It might be a bit quieter tomorrow: today all adventure sports like parasailing and diving stop because of the whales breeding. (Yesterday was also an ending, by the way: the last ever sugar cane harvest, the industry undercut by cheap labour elsewhere.)

The day ended with sociable cocktails, photo sharing, and yet another delicious dinner - interrupted again by Captain Rod, this time warning us of a potentially "uncomfortable" crossing of the Alenuihaha Channel in the small hours and the advice to batten down our hatches. That is, alas, one of the downsides of small-ship sailing...

Blow!

This afternoon's focus was "blue-water cruising for charismatic megafauna" to quote Dai Mar's address to us after breakfast, which began with the greeting "Good morning, explorers!" What that meant was sailing in large circles while Captain Rod and Bosun Sam(antha) kept eagle eyes out for what we all very soon learned was termed 'a blow' - "Whale ahoy!" or even "Spout!" apparently irremediably amateurish.

We were alongside the island of Maui, Dai Mar's home, with a line of windmills creeping along a ridge and the sea deepest blue under a clear sky. In the morning, we went out in the kayaks to explore the coast where lava flows met the water, the red-black basalt cliffs shattered and punctuated by lava tubes. Geology done, we skimmed (actually, I skimmed, or, rather, heaved, while Tom behind me - as the above photo shows - took all too literally the instruction that his main job was to steer, pft) along to a shallow cove where we could spot colourful fish in the clear, clear water.

Getting back to the boat rather hot and sweaty, it was sheer delight to be able to leap off the back deck into the beautifully warm water. I was, I must say, rather chastened that I alone flopped in awkwardly from a sitting position, while everyone else, quite a number of whom were older than me, dived professionally. And then, while I lolled on a noodle, they took turns to climb up to the second deck to leap in from there. The star, though, was steward Marqus, who triple-somersaulted from the top deck. Impressive.

Although it's early in the season, we had no trouble finding whales, with quite a few hanging out in the bay. They were humpbacks: Hawaii is their bedroom (mating and giving birth), where they come from Alaska, which is the dining room. They don't feed while here. They do, however, put on a bit of a show when they feel like it, and we saw breaches, fin and tail slapping, all close enough to be exciting, with everyone on deck. We spent the whole afternoon doing this, spotting spouts and taking photos - or, alternatively, chilling out and napping.

There was some unscheduled excitement at dinner, which Rod interrupted to tell us that when they had the window open up on the bridge, he and Sam had heard someone shouting "Help!" in the darkness. They sent out a skiff, and found a distressed woman in the water, far from shore - apparently a would-be suicide who had changed her mind. They got her warm and dry in private out on the back deck, and sent for the Coastguard "to give her the help that she needs". A marine rescue! Well done, UnCruise.

And finally, Dai Mar gave us a low-tech (whiteboard) talk about sharks, giving us the facts and figures and convincing anyone who needed it that they are to be treasured. Did you know that you're more likely to be choked to death by your window blind cord than eaten by a shark?

Lovely Lana'i

We woke to tall orange volcanic cliffs towering above the boat. They looked unstable, and in fact I did see a small rock fall, sounding like gunfire and making white splashes in the blue sea. Five of us did yoga with Amanda on the top deck, struggling in my case with both being out of practice, and the motion of the boat, which made the balances even more challenging. But it was a peaceful way to start the day, and reminded me to breathe deeply as I sat through the tedious but unavoidable and very American safety lecture before our first snorkelling session - though, to be fair, Dai Mar and Mitch did do their best to make it funny too.

The sea was on the cool side - I keep forgetting that it's winter here, despite being in the tropics - but tolerable, and the snorkelling was sufficiently good to be distracting. It helped that Dai Mar is a marine biologist and easily excited by the sea life, which was quite catching. Pyramid butterfly fish? A deep-sea reef dweller, everywhere but here! We were more spontaneously thrilled later to see dolphins riding the bow wave in fabulously clear water - but Dai Mar made sure we knew that this was the rare pantropical spotted dolphin, and special.

We were on our way to Lana'i, which was until 1992 mostly owned by Dole. They have now taken their pineapples to countries with cheaper labour, and the island is since 2012 98% owned by Oracle man Larry Ellison, who is gentrifying it. A long curved avenue bordered by tall, narrow Cook Island pines took us to the ambitiously-named Lana'i City - a town of around 3,500 people. It centres on Dole Park, which is full of pine trees and surrounded on all four sides by neat, painted wooden buildings, one of which is a cinema that Larry has made state-of-the-art (showing, appropriately, Moana while we were there). It reminded me of Cape Cod - it felt much more American than Pacific. 1950s America, though, with kids trailing home from school, riding their bikes on the footpath, one girl yelling out "Hello, Uncle!" to a man mounting his motorbike under the trees. Good eateries, galleries and museum - and 13 varieties of Spam in the grocery shop.

Our driver, Isaac, was funny and garrulous (it's called 'talking story' in Hawaii), sharing tales of his slightly wayward youth - regular detentions in the prison featured - but claiming no crime on Lana'i. When a new policeman arrived and growled at the locals for encouraging theft by leaving their keys in the ignition, people said, "But dude! You're from Maui!"

We took a walk along a tall, sheer cliff (about which we received no safety warnings) to look out over Sweetheart Rock and its ancient and mysterious wall, where Mitch told the tragic love story that explains it. Rich orange rock, low sun, sparkling sea, a bright red cardinal, an ugly cane toad... Nice place. Not many tourists get here - but we did, thanks to UnCruise.

Not cruising on UnCruise

The UnCruise difference began for us with a bit of the same. Not their fault: had we read the itinerary more closely, we would have known that the first day of the cruise was actually land-based, showing us Molokai. Specifically, the Halawa Valley which we drove to with so much carping yesterday (driver over-compensation for driving on the other side of the road can be terrifying for the passenger when that road is very narrow, with huge drop-offs).

Hans knew the road, so that was good. We stopped at the high look-out before descending to the valley, and announced our arrival to the inhabitants below by shell-phone: a conch resoundingly blown by Alex. Down at the end of the road, we were welcomed in traditional style by Pilipo Solatorio and his son Greg, both in sarongs and leafy headdresses, with a formal challenge, gift and hongi ceremony. This is the sort of thing that UnCruise specialises in - close contact with local people and a peep-hole into their lives. And they certainly shared.

Pilipo, while telling us about the history of the valley (dating back to AD650, it's the oldest settlement in Hawaii) gave us a candid and personal account of his own life there, his upbringing and beliefs. He pulled no punches, and was so genuine that he was several times brought to tears, which elicited the same response in many of his audience (not me, obviously). He gave a vivid account of the 1946 tsunami, 111 feet high, that swept more than a mile and a half up the valley and wiped out the settlement - there was a huge sucking sound, he said, and the noise of boulders banging together, and, watching safely from the hill, "nothing we could do but cry".

We were to have walked up the valley to the waterfall - Dai Mar's 'extreme mud hike' - but official anxiety about the river crossings after the heavy rain, and less openly acknowledged fear by the landowners about possible litigation risks despite the waivers we'd signed, meant that we were confined to barracks. Pretty much literally: it came on to rain so hard, and for so long, that we couldn't even go down to the beach for the fishing demonstration, and instead spent most of the time under the tin roof of the shelter, sitting around long tables while Pilipo, Greg and their families improvised to entertain us. 

This they did effortlessly, demonstrating food preparation, including turning tasteless cooked taro into po'i, shiny and glutinous and equally tasteless (though they ate it eagerly) which Greg did admit also worked well as a depilatory wax. There was singing, making flowers from palm leaves, more history and culture, lots of laughter and a few more tears, and then we made our way back again to the boat.

But wait! There's more! We headed out that night to the museum, where more locals had laid on a great feast for us, which was thoroughly delicious, especially the initially unprepossessing creamed taro leaf and squid dish. It made someone at my table almost weep in appreciation, truly. Then there was graceful hula dancing by a beautiful lady, some singing and drumming, and a musical instrument demonstration by another man who, talking about his culture, also ended up in tears, along with some of the cruise passengers (not me, obviously). To experience such openness, passion and sincerity really was quite affecting, though, and one of my fellow cruisers said in wonder, "Well, that was a lot more than I expected," as we filed out at the end to return to the Safari Explorer.

Getting the blues about not getting the blues

Rain again this morning didn’t prevent the day’s main activity – riding a mule down 26 switchbacks from the top of the seaside cliff to the peninsula of Kalaupapa at the bottom, 518 metres below. That’s 5 kilometres of teetering down rough steps full of potholes and swimming with rainwater and orange mud, under dripping trees and large cobwebs complete with spiders at their centres. It was almost a blessing that the low cloud blotted out the view of the often sheer drop, though there was no doubting that it was there. The ride took about an hour and a half, the mules occasionally slithering but generally admirably sure-footed and hard-working. Well done, Tita!

At the bottom, Norman met us for a tour of this unique National Park, administered by the Hawaiian Department of Health and inaccessible by road. It was originally established in the 1866 as a leper colony, the poor victims of this awful scourge (now officially known as Hansen’s disease, and curable) dumped - sometimes literally - from ships in this remote area with no ceremony and little support. Until Father Damien came along, that is, eventually (and recently) earning himself a sainthood for his selfless work with the victims. There are only 14 former patients there now, well outnumbered by government workers of various sorts – but the graveyards contain the headstones of 8,000 people, victims equally of the disease and the public’s fear of it. Adding insult to injury, two tsunamis swept away many of the markers.

It was an interesting place to visit, and the scenery, as the cloud lifted and the sky cleared, was certainly dramatic – but our enjoyment was somewhat hampered by the non-arrival of our lunches because of weather-related delivery problems. In such a place, though, it felt churlish to complain – and probably the mules were glad of our empty stomachs as they toiled underneath us all the way back up to the top again.

Then began the main purpose of this visit to Hawaii: a trip with UnCruise Adventures, who operate in Alaska, on the Columbia River, and in Baja and the Caribbean too. They’re small-ship operators with the focus on local activities, and our first began before we even got to the ship. Molokai Plumerias grow what I know and love as frangipani, and we walked into an orchard to learn how they’re grown, transported and shipped, and had a go ourselves at threading a fragrant lei: 50 blooms per necklace, since you ask, up to 1500 for the fancy spiral version.

Arriving at the ship, there was a long line of smiling faces to negotiate on the way to our comfortable cabin, home for the next seven nights. The staff, all youngish, super-upbeat Americans, are friendly and full of enthusiasm. “You thought this was a vacation?” asked the unusually-named expedition manager Dai Mar at the briefing. “It’s an adventure!” Having said which, he then tried very hard to dissuade people from opting for tomorrow’s “extreme mud hike” up the Halawa Valley, with singular lack of success, despite the Baby Boomer majority amongst the passengers. It could be interesting…

Hello to Molokai

This morning there was a gleam of sunshine and a suggestion of colour in the sea – but too little, too late, because we were leaving Turtle Bay, and Oahu. It’s not that far back to Honolulu, only an hour’s drive or so from the (usually) rampaging surf of the north to the tame beaches of the south. We left hopeful surfers sitting on their boards out from the beach where the Pipeline should have been powering in, but wasn’t. The results board for the Triple Crown stood still empty, the rectangle awaiting the name of the eager winner of the $100,000 grand prize far from being filled in.

From there to the bustling tension of Honolulu Airport was more than just miles – from laid-back freedom to rules and bossiness and no personal rights. But the flight to Molokai was blissfully short, and the atmosphere quite different, much more Pacific: a bit ramshackle, lots of turquoise paint, no crowds, lots of space, and clearly its own time-zone.

The Hotel Molokai is typical: basic, simple, the sliding door secured with a chain, the internet not working, no aircon, friendly but vague – and, we discovered later, the restaurant is brightly lit by white LED lights, the live music loud, the tables formica, the steak overcooked and the (warm) white wine served in a Stella Artois glass. Sophisticated it’s not, but then they don’t aspire to that. They do, however, still charge $204 per night for these doubtful delights…

We took a drive to the end of the road, eastwards, 28 miles to the wild, verdant and steep Halawa Valley, along a route that skirted the coast with its ancient rock fish pools, cattle with egrets sitting on their backs, quaint little churches including the one dedicated to St Damien (more on him tomorrow), taro plots and rivers. 

The road wound, climbed, dropped, got more and more narrow, with hangovers and drop-offs, rock fall warnings and oddly stilted warnings reading Limited Sight Direction. It was white-knuckle stuff in parts, especially after the road became a single lane for the last section; and eventually stopped dead at a gate and a sign saying End of State Highway – beyond lay a dirt track to the beach. So we retraced our route, rewarded by a remarkably intense and fast sunset, barely 15 minutes from go to whoa.

The disaster of dinner was mitigated somewhat by our being whisked back into town to Kanemitsu's Bakery, along a dark alley to a window where we tried out the Molokai Hot Bread speciality: an oven-warm flat loaf of soft bread, split and filled with any combination of butter, cinnamon, cream cheese, blueberry and/or strawberry. It was pretty good – not quite so sure about the sugar-glazed, luridly purple taro donut, which had a peculiar aftertaste. It’s meant to be very good for diabetes, apparently, which is kind of neat: problem and solution in the one package.