Getting in the Swim in Hawaii

On my third day on the Big Island I did something that few visitors to Hawaii do: I swam in the Pacific Ocean.

By some estimates only 10% of Hawaii’s tourists ever get into the water. Most are too busy with golf and tennis, volcano trips or sunbathing on a beach.

Happily, my dunking was intentional--not a spill from a boat or a fall from a pier.

I had joined 15 others on a raft trip out of Honokohau Harbor near Kona, about half an hour south of Mauna Kea on the Kohala Coast. For me the highlight was putting on mask and fins and slipping over the side to snorkel in Kealakekua Bay.

The bay has at least two claims to fame: It is featured in the lyrics to “Little Grass Shack,” and it is where Capt. James Cook was killed in 1779. A monument honors the explorer.

Our captain was a tall Californian named Mike Swerdlow who has lived in Hawaii for more than 20 years. Swerdlow is adept at what the natives call “talking story,” spinning splendid tales of Hawaiian lore and history.

As we bounced over the blue sea along the Kona Coast he regaled us with talk of the sacred caves where Hawaii’s monarchs were buried. He steered the raft into some of these grottoes--dark caverns beneath lava terraces.

Fleets of dolphins escorted us part of the time, matching their speed to ours. A sea turtle waved in passing. It was not yet the season for humpback whales, which are sighted along this route between January and April.

My raft companions included a 5-year-old girl, her silver-haired grandparents and a clutch of honeymooners. All were pale and prone to sunburn. Only two of us had snorkeled before. Swerdlow explained the basics and encouraged us with the promise of taro chips and macadamia nut cookies on our return.

The water in the bay is about 15 feet deep and streaked with cool currents from hidden springs. A small coral reef hugs the shore. The fish are friendly--butterfly fish and trumpet fish in the hundreds. I offered them a pretzel, holding it at arm’s length as they crowded in, bumping against each other, grabbing a nibble and then darting away.

Swerdlow leaned back and whistled at a white bird high overhead--an Iwalani--that paused in mid-flight and turned in his direction. The bird seemed startled that the call was not from its own kind.

As we zoomed south along this crinkled coast Swerdlow spoke in terms of millions of years as he shared bits of geology.

“Around the next corner is one of my all-time favorite rocks,” he said. “It’s a hanging rock--really old, and it leans way out from the top. It has a terrific profile. You’ll see.”

He edged the boat into the next cove and stared ahead. His smile of anticipation turned to bewilderment.

“It’s gone,” he shouted, shaking his head. “Believe me, it was here yesterday.”

We approached the base of the cliff and looked up to see pale ocher scars on the black lava wall. Then we looked down through the sparkling water and, about three feet below the surface, spied a big boulder, the former hanging rock.

Swerdlow sighed.

“Easy come, easy go,” he said.