Kalapana

Years ago, between the periods of 1986 to 1991, lava flowing from the Kupaianaha vent along the eastern slope of the Volcano National Park threatened to inundate the Kalapana Village and adjacent Kaimu Bay. The television news and newspaper reports showed scenes of slow death of a sacred, historic place. It was very difficult for me to think that such an event was actually happening. Watching the news reports brought so many memories back, and I shrank from the thought of driving there to witness for myself a beloved boyhood playground succumb to the relentless molten lava.

I remember watching in disbelief the images on my television screen of the flow covering roads, burning homes and lush landscapes. Practically each scene of devastation would flash within my mind’s eye, a juxtaposed image of laughing, playful good memories. I realized then that I have only good memories connected to Kalapana. The scenes of the creeping, red and black lava, oozing over the roads I’d driven upon, perhaps a few months before; on my way to Harry K. Brown Beach Park, or Walter’s Kalapana Store and Drive-In. Or to the fishponds near the ancient canoe landing, and swimming in the tide pools with my wife, two young sons, and newborn baby daughter. The stories of the long-time residents also touched me. Their anguish and frustration, their plans and prayers, and eventual resolve, as statements of “it’s Pele’s will” or “God’s will be done” revealed the truth of the situation. They simply had no choice in the matter. I was filled with the same feelings as those who lived there, for in my heart, it was my home too.

As I watched and read about the devastation unfolding, childhood memories welled up within me of a favorite family playground. From when I was an infant up until my early teens, my family would make the journey from Hilo for a weekend of camping, fun and sun, at Kalapana. A large group of about 15 to 20 adults, and mostly kids, would spend one weekend a month, sometimes two, camped at Harry K. Brown Park. Usually, packing would commence right after breakfast, so school was sometimes skipped on Fridays. We would all stream into the park in the late morning, unpack, and as the adults were setting up camp, we kids would invade the ponds in and across the street from the campgrounds.

We “owned” the place, in the way children’s familiarity and thorough enjoyment of something make that thing, or place, “theirs.” For the next two days, we'd roam and play freely throughout the beach park area. If any of us had leftover birthday money, or we could beg and cajole some from the adults, we’d all run up the road to the Kalapana Store to purchase our all-time favorite “shave ice.”

“Make mine pineapple and coconut, please!”

Then we’d sit outside the back door of the store, eating and laughing—a bunch of “local kids” with no shirts, our bathing suits dripping water, hot sun on our brown skin, and cool delicious, sweet syrupy ice melting in our mouths—fifteen minutes later, we’d attack the ponds again, with renewed enthusiasm and energy.

We enjoyed everything, anything about the place. We swam in the ponds, climbed the trees, played hide-and-seek in the low brush and pockets of palm trees, or just rolled around in the hot, grainy black sand, until our bodies were caked and crisped enough, to run whooping with arms flailing back into the cool water, and do it over and over again until someone came up with another bright idea. We were at that wonderful age when carefree play was the main purpose, and when the time came to pack-up to leave, we were weary to the bone with the satisfaction that no playful stone was left unturned.

In later years, when my male cousins and I were in our mid to late teens, we began our adolescent journeys to Kalapana. The family group hadn’t been going there for a few years by then, and we, in a way “picked-up the torch.” At first, we’d go there for the surf. The surf breaks at “Drainpipe” and “Kaimu Left Point” were fun, thrilling and scary. On an occasional morning “expression session,” we’d catch the left point displaying perfection. Then, on those early morning surf runs, when there was no real surf compelling enough to coax us from our warm cars, we’d head over to the Kalapana Store and Drive-In for camping supplies. We slowly began our own traditions with Kalapana’s playgrounds. It became a semi-ritual, to spend one or two weekends a month, camped along the shoreline. Anywhere we felt like pulling some rocks together for the bar-b-q, and unrolling our sleeping bags on the sand, became home. We’d spend the days surfing, swimming, eating, beachcombing and exploring the tide pools. The usually balmy nights would be spent roasting marshmallows, “talking stories” and telling jokes, or teasing each other, and laughing till our sides hurt. One of us would bring a ukulele or guitar, and we’d play some music and sing songs that we didn’t know the words for, but didn’t care, as it just gave us something else to laugh and kid each other about. In those moments we spent together, and what we shared, I think we grew to understand a little better the meanings of “brotherhood,” embraced and imbued with the energy of Kalapana.

In later years, when I was old enough to join the Army, I found myself on the other side of the world, in Germany. I remember getting a “care package” from my mother. I could barely stand going through my workday, for all I could think about was that package sitting in the mailroom, just one floor below me. By the time I'd get off work and could rush downstairs, I was practically salivating over the possible tasty flavors from home, contained in that box. My imagination ran wild. I knew it probably didn’t contain anything needing refrigerating, like perhaps “laulau,” or a container of my mom’s home cooked, and all-time-favorite, and indescribably delicious “Portuguese Bean Soup,” or please, please, please just one pork-teri with extra macaroni salad plate lunch from K’s Drive-In? No, I couldn’t be that lucky. So, with the help of a buddy, I managed to get the box up to my barracks area, and with great anticipation, I opened the package. I was not disappointed, and of all the memories that came flying at me from out of that box, there was one thing that stood out. As I lifted one of the boxes of chocolate covered macnuts, the picture on its cover held me transfixed. It was the typical commercial collage of “This is Hawaii” shots; of red plumeria flowers, a pretty, smiling hula dancer, and I think a shot of Mauna Kea, but what grabbed my attention, was the shot of Kalapana Black Sand Beach. Tears came to my eyes, as the memories tumbled one after another, and a giant wave of homesickness washed over me. I felt so small and alone, and so very far away from home. I emptied that box of candy as fast as I could, handing out a “taste of aloha” to my buddies, and to anyone who was lucky enough to be nearby in the barracks then. After the box was empty, I carefully cut the folded edges off the cover, and taped the precious collage to the inside of my wall locker door. Every time I opened that door, I’d stop and stare at the shot of my old and favorite playground, especially when I felt homesick.

A year passed, and that box top made it back to Hawaii with me, though it was a bit torn and tattered, and the picture faded. One of the first things I did when I got back, (besides practically inhaling several pork-teri with extra macaroni salad plate lunches) was to drive down to Kalapana, and park at the same spot that the picture on the box cover was taken. It was indescribable. To be home, and be there at the place that held only good memories. To be in a place, that comforted the familiar places within me, and comforted me, in unfamiliar places. To see the dappled light again, filtering down through the tall palms. To smell and taste the salty, cool sea breezes. Compelled, I got out of my car and kicked off my slippers to feel the hot, gritty black sand between my toes again, of Kalapana. I was then finally able to throw that old faded picture away.

It took over 10 months, until early 1991, before the lava had finally changed directions and stopped flowing into the Kalapana area. All the reporting of the monumental changes that Kalapana was going through had quieted down. Yet it was still another two years or so before I could bring myself to see it. It’s interesting how people can attach gender to things, even places, and at times can even become so attached to “it,” or “there.” For me, if it is truly possible to love a thing, or a place, and really feel something close to the depth of connection, that one would hopefully feel for a loved one, then I would have to say I was in-love, with Kalapana. “She” and I had shared so many good and happy memories. I could go to her for playful, unencumbered and uninhibited enjoyment. I could turn to her for comfort and reassurance during painful times, as in those moments when loved ones passed away, and I went to her shores to weep and rail at the moon at their un-timely deaths. Or when the pressures of expectations, of others, or my own, crowded in around me, her silence spoke volumes to me. As did her music in the winds and gentle swaying palms, or the ocean’s rhythmic movements along her shores, all helping to quite the storms within me.

Then one day, out-of-the-blue, I finally decided to make the journey to say goodbye. Not to my memories, but to the pain of loss. It felt that enough time had passed, and as I drove down the entrance road, I went slowly numb with disbelief. The so familiar scene, that always filled me with happy anticipation, of tall swaying palms, and shimmering blue water surging onto the black rocks and sand, was gone. From the edge of the roadway, to outside and north around the left point, and to as far as my eyes could see down south along the coast, was a solid, rolling mass of shiny black lava rock. At that moment of taking it all in, it felt like the visual definition of devastation. Yet here and there, I began to notice patches of small, green ferns and weeds sprouting tiny yellow flowers, where life had already found new homes in the sharp cracks and crevasses. I parked my car, and for a long time I just sat and stared out the windows. To the places beneath the rock, to the places in my memory that still lived; there, at the left point, where the last time we surfed it, the waves stretched our riding skills; or there, along the famous strip of black sand beach, where my cousins and I took our Life Guard Training swims; or there, in the bay itself, where the waves were so big at times, our hearts were in our throats just paddling up over them; or there, beyond where the road still winds beneath 30 feet of solid rock, to the beach park where we played like ravenous wild children, hungry for the juices of life.

I let the memories pour out on the place, sharing it with “Her,” giving it back, as a way of giving thanks through the ache of missing Her. Through slowly releasing the pain of loss, I could feel gratitude and understanding taking its place. I mourned what had passed, and mourned what will never be. For my children, who were so young when I took them to float and swim in the tide pools, and play on the black sand beaches. For my nieces and nephews, and for the loss of all the children of generations past, present and future, of what once was, Kalapana.

Some things, for whatever reasons, are harder to let go of than others. For some things, there comes a realization that you don’t have to struggle with “letting go,” but simply allow it to become something else. To become, whatever it is supposed to be. If for nothing else, life appears to be all about that, and in my perspective, boiled down to the marrow, simply means change.

“Change, is the only constant,” some say.

Sometimes, it literally slams into us. At times it comes creeping, slowly and purposefully, giving time to adjust perhaps. However it may appear, or mean individually, for me, the life-changing moments are inevitable. In a lifetime lived, there may be many or few such eventful moments. Whether through the mind of God or Goddess, or the hand of man or woman, acceptance of what has passed by along the river of Life is as inevitable as its passing. So, I can stand upon the solid rock of what is there now, and look back into my memory, to where once there were only good experiences. I can hold the memories of those moments within me now, and share them perhaps in tomorrow, or today.

Kalapana still exists, as She was then in the memories of yesterday, and as She is there now: a beautiful and mystical creature, always changing into something else. Slowly, tentatively, I’ve begun to create new happy memories, of beloved Kalapana.

(Postscript: My 13 year old daughter and I were driving home one day, when I mentioned that I was writing an essay about Kalapana, and if she would like to read it. Her response: “Kalapana? What and where is Kalapana?” Perhaps with her now, a passing on of a more ephemeral torch can begin.)

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