Love Him or Hate Him, If not for Christopher Columbus, A lot of Us Wouldn't be Sleeping in on  Oct. 10

Perhaps no holiday has smashed tradition, patriotism, and misconception as controversially up against the facts of science, history, and misconduct as effectively as the reason we stay home on October 10—Columbus Day. No matter how you choose to observe the holiday—as a celebration of a cultural icon and fearless explorer, or as a day of remembrance and reflection over the decades of pain and agony the man eventually caused to be inflicted upon indigenous people—a lot of us get to sleep in.

Christopher Columbus, according to 21^st Century historians, falls far short of the accomplishments he has been assigned by legend. The Italian certainly was not the first to advocate that the earth is round rather than flat (the first globe was produced in 1492 before he set sail headed west). 

Many have concluded that he wasn’t even the first European to set foot on North America, instead awarding that distinction to Viking adventurers. But, he was a brilliant navigator with vision, a unique idea to prove, and the determination to convince other people to invest their money in a far-fetched theory—a kind of nautical researcher who was determined, funded after a struggle, and aggressive in proving his idea to be correct, except he was mostly wrong with devastating consequences for millions of innocent people.

He thought he had landed in Asia and searched high and low during four voyages for gold and spices to take home to irritated investors. Explorer Amerigo Vespucci concluded in 1507, a year after Columbus died, that the land old Chris bumped into was a whole new continent and not part of Asia. Columbus’ futile search for gold and spices led to his downfall in the eyes of most who become acquainted with the facts of history.

Desperate to take something of value home to the investors who were becoming anxious to recoup their funding, he began to enslave the indigenous people and haul them back to Europe as servants, and violently squashed anyone who opposed him. He also inadvertently introduced some nasty illnesses into this new territory. Obviously, much death and destruction resulted, which set the tone for incredible cruelty and brutality that lasted for hundreds of years. That’s where the carefully applied Columbus-as-hero varnish that kids once learned about in second grade begins to crumble, crack, and fade.

Columbus Day was celebrated as early as 1866 in New York City, by well-meaning folks who didn’t get the memo on Columbus’ unsavory issues, as a vehicle to celebrate Italian heritage. It first became an official state holiday in Colorado in 1905. In April 1934, after intense lobbying by the Knights of Columbus who also had the best of intentions, FDR and Congress proclaimed October 12 a federal holiday (the government changed it to the second Monday in October beginning in 1970).

Children were taught that Columbus was a virtuous, brave explorer who proved the earth was not flat, and it became a patriotic duty to celebrate his landing in America. But, history has overtaken legend and, although it is sometimes unfair to view historical figures of the past through current day social glasses, more and more people began to believe that Chris would probably not pass a hero litmus test.

So began the backlash. Berkeley, California replaced Columbus Day with “Indigenous People’s Day” observance in 1992. Santa Cruz, California; Dane County, Wisconsin; Minneapolis-Saint Paul, Minnesota; Seattle, Washington; and parts of Oklahoma call the day “Native American Day” instead of Columbus Day. Hawaii, Alaska, Oregon, and South Dakota do not recognize Columbus Day at all. Several other states removed the holiday as a paid day off for government workers. But, if you work for a U.S. federal agency or a bank or one of the other state governments, it is still a paid holiday.

You may celebrate the day as a way to recognize a man with a vision who had the guts and fortitude to prove his theory against social, scientific, and fiscal odds; you may be sickened by the avalanche of misery his actions imposed upon native peoples and consider him a scoundrel of tremendous proportions; you may see the day as way to celebrate Italian heritage as original proponents probably intended; or you may just welcome the chance to ignore your alarm clock and roll over for a couple extra hours of sleep. Whatever you choose to believe, make sure you don’t have to show up for work on Monday, October 10 for goodness sakes—it’s Columbus Day.

Note: I wrote this article for the October 2016 edition of Plugged In -- the employee newsletter of the National Energy Technology Laboratory.

An Ancient Volcanic Crater Called Molokini

On a crystal clear morning in 1943, a 20-year-old rookie Navy pilot jammed the stick of his Douglas Dauntless dive-bomber forward and sent his aircraft hurtling downward toward a tiny strip of land in the waters off Maui, Hawaii.

The gunner in the back seat held tight to a support bar and prepared to fight G forces. The dive brakes on the aircraft were fully extended and the air streaming around them, mixed with the sound of the screaming engine, made an ominous howl. But there wasn’t anyone on the ground to hear it.

Just hundreds of feet above the earth’s surface, the pilot pulled a lever in his cockpit and sent a 2,250 pound bomb on a course to impact a narrow strip of rocky land sticking out of the Pacific Ocean called Molokini, and then pulled his stick up sharply sending the warplane into a near vertical climb. The bomb hit its target and kicked up rocks, sand and smoke from the ancient strip of land.

It was just one of the thousands of times that U.S. Navy planes 

assaulted the land mass during World War II, not because it harbored enemies or had any strategic wartime significance, but solely because its long skinny shape somewhat resembled the dimensions of a Japanese battleship. It was rehearsal for war and one more assault on ocean ecology and Hawaiian mythological heritage.

In 2016, a tourist with graying hair, bad eyesight, and a fear of the water adjusted his prescription vision facemask, slipped a plastic snorkel mouthpiece in position, and gazed up at the 162 foot peaks of Molokini Crater from the deck of a huge catamaran called the Kai Kanani II. He waited his turn in a line of 35 other tourists before descending a slippery aluminum ladder, snapping rubber swimming fins on his feet, slipping into the cool incredibly clear water, grabbing the edge of a worn flotation device, and flailing about in the water face down to glimpse colorful fish, sea turtles, and, occasionally, his own aquatically-talented grandchildren flutter by gracefully in the depths below.

This is Molokini of the 21^st Century—a popular tourist snorkeling destination where only a certain number of boats per day are permitted to motor out and attach to moorings in the heart of waters bordered on one side by a crescent shaped land mass that protects snorkelers and divers from currents and waves. Molokini is a partially submerged crater and is all that remains of one of the seven volcanoes that formed Maui. Experts say it last erupted 230,000 years ago.

Hawaiian mythology, however, has another explanation for Molokini’s formation. The legend goes that Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire, and a giant magical lizard that guarded the people of Maui were both in love with the same Hawaiian prince. Pele, in a fit of jealousy, sliced the lizard into pieces and Molokini is all that remains of the creature’s tail, which Pele threw into the sea.

The waters surrounding the crater have long been home to a bounty of sea life. For years, divers have discovered the stone sinkers and fishing lures attributed to early Polynesian settlers. There is also plenty of archeological evidence that ancient visitors also hunted birds, eggs and collected feathers from the rocky crater.

But, that’s not all mid-and late 20^th Century visitors found. The U.S. Navy’s wartime target practice left 50 caliber shell casings, unexploded ordinances, and ugly impact indentations all over Molokini and on the sea floor inside the crater.

The Navy’s solution to the danger was to twice take measures to detonate the war remnants, once in 1975 and again in 1984. Obviously, that did nothing good for the fragile coral of Molokini. The elimination of the dangerous wartime litter may have increased the safety of the area, but it kicked up quite a fuss among environmentalists.

Ancient Polynesian fisherman, fire gods, giant lizards, and World War II bombing runs were the last things on our minds when our family waded out to board Kai Kanani II at the beach at Makena on the southern shore of Maui.

An incredibly friendly and professional crew greeted us with a continental breakfast, brief snorkeling safety instructions, and all the equipment we needed. We covered the three miles out to Molokini Crater quickly and hit the water.

“Look up there toward the right when you get in the water,” one of the crew advised as we went down the ladder into the water. “There’s an octopus out there today.”

Probably because we wouldn’t know one from the other, the crew didn’t mention black triggerfish, yellow tang, Moorish idol, parrotfish, peacock grouper, white spotted pufferfish, raccoon butterflyfish and blue fin trevally as fish we could encounter on our visit. All are common to the crater. Some of us did run across a moray eel and a sea turtle or two.

Our grandkids darted around us, intrigued as much by the waterproof GoPro video cameras their parents rented for them on board the Kai Kanani for use in the crater as they were by the fish and coral.

Surprisingly, the crater is Hawaii’s only marine sanctuary where, in addition to octopi and fish, the underwater reserve is home to more than 38 hard coral species.

The designation came somewhat late—after the damage done by the Navy and aquatic thieves, who pilfered black coral from the crater for sale to jewelry makers around the world. Incensed people who valued Molokini’s uniqueness stood up to protest. The concerns eventually led to the designation of the area as a marine underwater reserve.

We were never rushed to get back to the boat during our snorkel adventure. Once we all straggled back, we found that the crew had set out a cold cut buffet and opened the bar.

The snorkelers, now free of their equipment, mingled freely all over the boat.

A seasick woman sprawled out on a bench with an ice bag on her neck.

The crew talked about comic book characters with a guest who wore a Deadpool tee shirt.

Children tested their sea legs by balancing on the netting that hung between the twin hulls of the catamaran’stern

The captain pointed out a nearby sea turtle that broke the surface of the shimmering water for a gulp of air before diving out of sight.

The more adventurous kids took turns diving into the clear blue water and then swimming around to the boat ladder, climbing aboard and repeating the activity over and over again. 

Laughter wafted over the deck when a parent or two got in on the action to attempt a back flip or an uncle made a particularly large splash.

When the day was over, the catamaran made its way swiftly back to Makena. We landlubbers waded ashore and waved farewell to the crew of the Kai Kanani II, savoring our brush with an ancient volcano, its plethora of little-seen sea life, and our short camaraderie with crew and fellow passengers.

A Maui ATV Adventure and the Little Magical  People Who May Have Made it Possible

Drawing by 

By Alex Dennis - https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47965494

There is a legend on Maui that centuries before settlers from other Polynesian islands came to Hawaii, magical dwarf-like people called the Menehune lived in the island’s forests and hidden valleys. Gifted craftsmen, they are said to have erected temples, created roadways and houses, and built little fishponds that were isolated and far from the coastlines. 

Some, Menehune like Ea’alulu could turn invisible. Others, like Eleu could move so quickly that he could disappear. Molowa, whose name meant “lazy,” had the power to appear sleeping while his magical invisible self could go off and do good deeds.

We just might have enjoyed a bit of their handiwork when we motored up a rugged mountainside just above Lahaina over rutted, red, dusty pathways in a caravan of noisy indestructible all-terrain vehicles to take a dip in a refreshing little pond 1,800 above the beaches far below. If Ha’alulu, Eleu, and Molowa could see us they would either be happy over the pleasure we took in our journey and their pond, appalled over the noise and dirt we kicked up in the process, or both.

It was a grimy trip from the start. The young tattooed Hawaiian man picked us up in the parking lot of the local Office Max and smiled broadly has he held open the side door of the dirtiest passenger van in America—a well-worn vehicle that would transport our little party, five adults and two kids, up the mountain near Lahaina on Maui for our ATV adventure.

Clouds of red dust billowed up from the old worn seats of the van when we plopped down for the short drive. Reggae music blasted out of the speakers. A wide-mouth plastic container was suspended from the ceiling by a little braided rope with a paper note glued to the front that said, “Tips welcome. Mahalo (Hawaiian word for thanks).” 

A ten-minute, bouncing, jostling, bone-jarring ride later, we emerged from our dirty battered transportation and were greeted by a tall, friendly guide who sat us down under the shade of a rustic shelter, welcomed us to the Kahoma Cattle Ranch, fitted us all for helmets, passed out green bandanas to cover our mouths and noses, and lectured us a bit about safety.

“Keep buckled up. If your vehicle tips over, do not panic,” he said. “Just keep your legs and arms inside the cab and let the roll bars do their job. Everything should be just fine. Oh and keep the bandanas. Don’t try to give them back to me. I don’t want em. That’s disgusting.”

On the ground nearby was a tremendous pile of filthy, abandoned tennis shoes.

“Are those the shoes of riders who didn’t make it?” one tourist in our group cracked as though the joke would be fresh to our host.

The guide patiently explained that those were indeed shoes that belonged to previous riders but they were abandoned because their owners believed that the dust and dirt of the ATV experience had rendered them useless for further wear. That made some of us glance with concern at our own reasonably new Nikes, Adidas, and Asics.

“If anyone wants to borrow a pair for the ride and save your own shoes, have at it,” the guide said. “Word of warning here: you will get dirty.”

The thought of someone else’s’ dirty, dusty, and crusty shoes didn’t seem to appeal to anyone in our group and we all seemed willing to risk our current footwear. Then, the guide escorted us out to a squadron of parked Polaris Rangers—short stubby little vehicles

with tough-looking little tires and sturdy roofs. There were two seats and a little cargo bed in the back of each ATV. We climbed in our assigned carts, two to a vehicle, and got a quick primer on the automatic transmission. Then, we were off in single file up a dirt road that would take us higher up on the mountain.

The Hawaiian Islands are basically just the tops of big volcanic mountains that were formed by eruptions of lava over several million years. The soil is red because of iron and other minerals in the dirt that oxidize or rust over time. Sometimes those hematite soils are used to create dye for fabrics or in spiritual ceremonies in the Hawaiian culture known as ‘ale.

The guide, driving the lead Ranger, enjoyed a red dirt-free trip. The rest of us, following in his wake, were not that lucky. Seven of the stumpy little vehicles kicked up a tremendous amount of red dust and it blew and settled everywhere. If not for our goggles and the bandana that each of us wore over our faces, we would have been blind and unable to breathe.

The dust was so thick that drivers couldn’t’ see the road and had to steer by the taillights or other visible items—like the driver’s shirt—on the vehicle just in front. That made avoiding potholes and ruts impossible. We bounced, slid, and skidded our way up the dusty road and at a good pace. Drivers had to keep up because if we lost sight of the vehicle in front, we would lose the caravan at best, and be unable to see the road at worst. We wound around hairpin uphill curves and scraped against the green tree limbs that lined our wilderness path. We passed through mud puddles, under overhanging vegetation in jungle-like areas, and dipped and dodged all the way up the incline.

The dusty road was interrupted occasionally as we passed over peaceful pastures of an active cattle ranch that remains inaccessible to the general public. Finally, we came to a plateau and rounded the edges of a small body of water—perhaps, but not likely, the work of our little friends, the Menehune. There was a wooden platform in the center of the little lake with a ladder extending into the water. We motored noisily past the lake and continued upward again until the guide brought us to a stop and gave the sign to exit our dusty little vehicles. We had reached the summit of our climb, and a chance to cool down and clean off by way of a long slippery water slide that emptied users in the little lake below that we had passed a few moments before. We were told that the little reservoir was fed by pristine West Maui Mountain waterfalls.

Our hosts offered cold bottles of water from a big blue cooler and sliced up fresh pineapples as a snack. The waterslide experience

bounced riders quickly down a slick white plastic half tube that was kept slippery and fast by trickling water sent down the slide’s long descent into the reservoir. Riding the slides down required a long climb up a wooden set of stairs to regain the summit.

There was a little wooden suspension bridge that carried a trail

down to the lake for those of us who wanted to visit the waters without the quick bouncy descent of the slide. Our altitude gave us breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean and the town of Lahaina far down below. A peacock wandered the area around the parked Rangers and was perfectly at home with the visitors. 

Occasionally, the bird would stop, cock its head and seemingly stare straight ahead at something we couldn’t detect. Maybe he could see one of the little Menehune!

Eventually, the sliders wearied of their watery adventure. We dried off, helmeted up, covered our mouths and noses with our green bandanas, and fired up our Rangers for the dusty descent to our

starting point. Halfway down the mountain, we came to a stop and our guide walked back through the dusty clouds. Apparently, he had been notified on his radio by his fellow guide, who brought up the rear of our caravan, that one our seven vehicles had flipped when rounding a particularly difficult bend at a speed that wasn’t conducive to keeping all four wheels in contact with the dusty roadway. There were no injuries and the tough little vehicle wasn’t damaged. Another Ranger was dispatched from the base camp not far away to pick up the riders.

Eventually, we all rendezvoused at our starting point where about

14 of us tried very hard to wash away some of the dirt at a tiny little sink and dryed off with one roll of paper towels. It was pretty much a futile effort. Then, it was back to our incredibly filthy van for a ride back to our own vehicles.

Sometimes as I drift off to sleep back home on the mainland, I get this image in my head of three little guys named Ha’alulu, Eleu, and Molowa, standing beside the peacock and pond waving farewell as we slipped back into civilization on our noisy 21^st Century transportation that day.

Drawing by H. Kyoht Luterman www.Kyoht.deviantart.com

Mahalo Ha’alulu.

Mahalo Eleu.

Mahalo Molowa.

Sorry about the dust…and the noise.

A 21st Century Family on a 16th Century King's Roadway: Adventure on Maui's Road to Hana 

King Pi’ilani stood knee-deep in the clear blue water. He raised his spear in his right hand and waited patiently for his supper to swim closer. In a smooth quick action, he launched his spear, retrieved it, and smiled at the large flopping fish impaled on its end.

It was 1599 and the muscular young royal Hawaiian was on a break from leading a large crew of workmen as they tackled the daunting task of building a roadway by hand that would eventually wrap around the entire island of Maui, Hawaii.


Pi’lani—the 15^th king in his line, or “ali’i”—was the first ruler of a completely united Maui. His roadway was intended to strengthen that unification.

It eventually passed by impressive waterfalls, magnificent ocean views, and through rich green rainforests. Some claim that at some points, users of the roadway had to swing themselves on vines to cross over more difficult places in the route. In addition to bringing the peoples of Maui together in one kingdom, the road also provided access to flowing streams that fed irrigation canals for watering taro on inland flats—an enterprise that gave Pi’ilani his economic base. Taro was a plant that yielded corms and leaves that were consumed as vegetables.

Four hundred seventeen years later, a ten-year-old boy stood nervously on a slippery rock that slightly jutted out over the deep green water of a jungle pool and beside an iconic Hawaiian 20-foot chilled waterfall. He contemplated the length of a free fall and the depth of the water and had second thoughts about his planned jump before retreating behind his 13-year-old sister.

The girl didn’t think about the jump, the height of the fall or the depth of the pool. She stepped up, leapt out, and plummeted feet first into the cool Hawaiian water.  By the time her head bobbed to the surface of the pond, her brother was back in position. This time, he abandoned all pondering. He duplicated her moves and jumped out from the rock and headed downward, landing with a splash in the cool green water.


The kids’ 26-year-old uncle quickly followed.

While beginning their swim to shore, both kids and uncle flashed the Hawaiian “hang loose” hand signal to the delight of their applauding parents perched uncomfortably on the slippery rocks that lined the pool.

It was an early stop for a 21^st Century family excursion on the legendary “Road to Hana” that largely followed the 16^th Century route carved out of the wilderness by Pi’lani and his men.

With our rented Jeeps parked awkwardly alongside the narrow roadway a quarter mile away, we had to execute a brief muddy walk through a beautiful rain forest with stands of bamboo trees to fulfill a bucket list dream of swimming in a serene falls-fed pool. It was just the beginning of a daylong adventure.

The narrow road to Hana is only 64 miles long but takes about 2.5 hours to cover without stops along the way at the many falls, overlooks, rain forests, arboretums, and other tempting layovers. The narrow winding highway passes over 59 bridges, most of which are only one lane wide. In addition, there are about 620 curves through lush green valleys and hillsides with fantastic views of the ocean, volcanic rocks, and black sand beaches.

Fortunately, our Jeeps easily handled the challenge and at no time were we required to swing over narrow valleys on vines as Pi’lani’s engineers recommended.

“What’s in Hana?” one of our grandchildren asked when told of the travel plan for the day.

“Not sure,” one of us replied. “But the fun will be in getting there and all the odd stuff along the way.”

Turns out, none of us were disappointed in the journey or in the “odd stuff.” Most of our party swam in those secluded green pools. Some jumped off those jutting rocks. All of us waded into the Pacific Ocean over black sand beaches, posed for pictures where volcanic rocks melded into the sea, peered into darkened seaside lava tubes, drove over cloud-shrouded mountains, made stops at curious little fruit stands that operated on the honor system, and partook of the food offerings at unusual local roadside commercial endeavors.

At one stop, we sipped coconut water through straws stuck through chopped holes in the tops of actual coconuts.

At another stop, we were delighted by an older super-friendly Hawaiian couple who served up barbequed pork, chicken, rice and vegetables arranged on a two-foot long strip

of halved sugar cane. They gave us chopsticks cut from local trees to use instead of plastic forks and cleared off a huge picnic table for us to use. There were no other eating utensils or paper napkins. Whatever was not consumed was simply pitched over a nearby hillside by the roadside proprietors. And, the food was delicious.

Most tourists stop their adventure and turn around at Hana, a lovely little seaside town where colorful Hawaiian lore tells us that the fire goddess Pele unsuccessfully fought her older sister, the goddess of the ocean. Legend has it that Pele’s bones are buried here while her spirit went on to the Big Island of Hawaii.

We elected to continue on the road that narrows into an unpaved surface. Rental car companies would rather you not take their vehicles over this remote roadway. Our Jeeps were more than up to the challenge.

One of our side explorations on that part of the journey took us to the grave of famed American aviator Charles Lindbergh. It is not marked and, if we had not asked a friendly local for guidance on the road, we would have missed it.


The grave is on the grounds of the Palapala Ho’omau Church, a 150-year-old-coral building about eight miles south of Hana. Lindbergh, who died on the island in

1974, spent his last days sketching out a design for his gravesite and chose a calm and serene place to rest in peace in the shade of a Java plum tree.


On the day we visited, someone had place a simple flower necklace on his gravestone.

Back on the road, on a secluded hillside, we encountered the odd sight of a shirtless man in swim trunks and flip-flops waving his arms and beckoning us to stop for ice cream.

“I got banana-coconut and vanilla ice cream today,” he said in a surfer dude kind of accent aiming his comments at the two kids in our troupe. “Come on over.”

We couldn’t resist. We parked the Jeeps and wandered over to a small hut with a veranda-like area carved into the hillside next to where our host stood. A rough-honed worktable stood on the terrace and it was covered with papers, utensils, whole coconuts and other remnants of the man’s trade, whatever that was.

Inside the hut, we glimpsed a lazy fat cat asleep on a small table and a tiny refrigerator connected to a generator. There was a small chair and a variety of art works strewn about.

We ordered the ice cream and our vendor, who looked like a man in his 50s who had abandoned his stateside stockbroker job to pursue a quieter life on Maui, asked us to wait a moment. He returned with a collection of coconut bowls and a couple mason jars filled with white semi-liquids, which he poured into the bowls. He sprinkled fresh dried bananas and shredded coconut over the concoction, which had the consistency of yogurt rather than ice cream.

“Here you go man,” he said. “This stuff is all fresh and it makes a real difference. You’ll see.”

Over his shoulder, we could see a small easel with a half painted picture of a nude woman. Next to that was a Japanese rock garden or Zen garden with rocks, a water feature, moss, and gravel raked to represent ripples in water. He scratched his head before scampering back into his hut and bringing out plastic spoons for each of our orders.

He charged us $10 for each order—$70 for our whole crew. He accepted Visa and Mastercharge and processed payment on a smartphone.

After initial hesitation, we tried his mixture. It was a cool, refreshing, wonderful blend of tastes in an interesting texture and consistency, but it wasn’t ice cream. We finished and he politely asked us to return the bowls and spoons unless we wished to purchase them as souvenirs for $10 each.

As we departed, one of our crew asked the man his name.

“It’s Zen, man,” he responded. “Have a great day.”

Zen’s ice cream hut was our last stop on the road. For at least another hour, we passed through cattle ranches, past even more incredible ocean-side scenery, and eventually made our way back to the more populated part of Maui—back to Lahaina, which served as the capital of the Kingdom of Hawaii and a stopover for ships in the whaling industry in the mid-1800s; back to the Taco Bells, Pizza Huts, and shopping malls; and back to our high rise condominium along the Maui coastline.

It was a rugged and tiring adventure of a lifetime. As we wearily pulled into the cool underground parking garage beneath our resort, some of us offered silent thanks for air conditioning. Others reflected on the good work of Jeep-makers. We were remiss in not giving a favorable thought or two to the work and foresight of King Pi’ilani and the men who carved our pathway home through the beauty that somehow remains.

Lahaina, Maui: from Whalers to Jet Boats

Hawaiian Adventure Part 1

An 1840s whaling ship

Nearly two centuries ago, wooden sailing ships crewed by hardened men and captained by ruthless skippers plied the waters off Lahaina, Maui headed for port and pursuit of Polynesian women, drink, gambling, and relaxation after months at sea. They were whalers, focused on the tough grisly job of hunting and killing whales and then harvesting them for oil that heated and lit homes, and whale bones for corsets, skirt hoops and buggy whips. They worked the South Pacific, Sea of Japan and even the Arctic and then headed to Lahaina twice a year to re-provision and raise some hell.

Their thirst for rowdy recreation led to conflicts with the missionary leaders of Lahaina who were anxious to impose some degree of law and order on the visiting crews. In the 1840s, the captain and crew of a ship called the John Palmer went as far as to lob cannonballs at the home of Reverend William Richards to express their dismay over the rules that crimped their style.

Insane Jet Boat executes a crash stop

Today, a different kind of seaman works the Maui waters, men like Captain Dan who offers “insane” jet boat rides to a drastically different clientele than the whalers of old—tourists who wander the beaches of paradise in search of thrills.

On a recent hot windy day on Maui, customers willing to fork over $82 each gathered under a brightly colored umbrella and signed obligatory legal paperwork that would allow them to experience the “rollercoaster on water” with the colorful Captain Dan.

He was of medium height, slender build, and had a full head of wind-blown sandy blond hair that he revealed often when adjusting his cap. He wore swim trunks and a long-sleeved lime-green and black quick-dry top. His bronzed skin, weathered face, and obvious

Captain Dan gives a history and geography lesson

between spins.

comfort in being shoeless and sure-footed were evidence of his decades on and in the water. After watching him ferry passengers out to his moored jet boat on a motorized rubber raft, helping transfer his human thrill-seeking cargo to the bigger boat, and explaining the workings and safety features of a jet boat, it was clear that he had been doing this job for a very long time.

Like many of the men of the early 19^th Century whaling vessels, Dan is an international man. Born in Alaska where he spent his early days, he grew up in the Middle East where his father was an oil industry construction engineer. He spent time in San Diego and kicked around numerous occupations before washing up on the beaches of Maui.

Captain Dan adjusted his weathered purple LA Lakers ball cap to ensure a tighter fit as he opened the throttles of his sleek jet boat and skimmed over the waters at Kaanapali, Maui, near Lahaina. He hooked up his IPhone to the craft’s stereo system and blasted head-banger music out of speakers that were strategically embedded into the sides of the aluminum bulkheads and aimed at the seated passengers, adding to the rush of the moment. There were squeals of delight from his passengers as the craft approached 50 MPH. With his eyes fixed on the water before him, he held up his right hand, extended his index finger and rotated it counterclockwise as a warning for his giggling passengers to brace themselves.

With all aboard clutching the long metal bars in front of each seat, Dan cut the bright yellow boat’s two engine throttles, turned the wheel sharply to the left and then reopened just one throttle sending the craft in to sharp spin known as a “Hamilton turn” or “jet spin.” Water sprayed, knuckles whitened, and thrill-shrieks of pleasure emanated from the passengers as the spin took them round and round. The boat straightened out from its spin and quickly regained considerable speed. Captain Dan reversed and brought the craft to an abrupt stop in a little more than the boat’s own length, showering water on the tourists in the last row with a move known as a “crash stop.”

For the load of tourists, it was an uncommon and invigorating experience. For Captain Dan, it was just the 10 a.m. version of four or five “insane” jet boat excursions he would make that day.

His flat-bottomed jet boat gets a lot of attention from gawkers on the beach when he puts it through its violent maneuvers. Unlike a regular motorboat, the jet boat is propelled by a jet of water that is ejected from the rear of the craft. It draws water in through an intake and a pump jet inside the boat expels it through a nozzle at the stern. Jet boats can operate on water that is only three inches deep. The concept was the brainchild of New Zealander William Hamilton in the early 1950s.

“I got that snorkel boat and that fishing boat out there in addition to the jet boat,” he told a customer recently as he untethered the jet boat from its offshore mooring and pointed to the other craft that bobbed in the water nearby. “I spend all day taking folks out on them and then all night fixing them back up.”

The charter fishing expeditions that Dan specialized in for years are a thing of the past because sport fishing off Maui has dried up.

“There’s just nothing out there to catch anymore,” he said. “I’ve pretty much shifted exclusively to the jet boat rides, snorkel trips, and whale watching in season.”

Dan’s jet boat rides feature 360⁰ spins, sharp turns, lightening acceleration, and sudden watery stops. About midway through a typical excursion, he shuts down the engines and invites his customers to take a dip in the 200-foot-deep warm ocean water.

A jump and swim at the halfway point in a Maui 

Jet Boat ride.

Most passengers take him up on the offer while he makes cell phone calls to line up an afternoon roster of jet boat customers. With everyone safely back aboard, Dan spent extra time explaining how the jet boat is environmentally friendly because it has no props that could harm sea life. He also lectures briefly about the surrounding islands, offering a quick history lesson on each one.

“That island there used to be the largest pineapple plantation in Hawaii,” he said gesturing toward the island of Lanai. “After the plantation closed, it was bought by Larry Ellison who founded Oracle. You know, he is big into the America’s Cup races.”

Dan directed his passengers’ attention to the island on his right.

“That’s Kahoolawe Island,” he said. “We aren’t allowed within two miles of it. The Navy used it as a firing range up until 1990 so there’s tons of unexploded ammo over there. No one lives on Kahoolawe.”

Dan pointed to a speck on a Maui mountain high above the shoreline.

“That’s Lahainaluna High School, one of the oldest boarding schools west of the Rockies,” he said. “In the old days, they used to light big bonfires the night before graduation day to signal families over on Lanai that it was time to pick up their kids. Then, parents would paddle over in their canoes and take their kids home.”

Captain Dan finished his talk, cracked a brief smile, and fired up the jet boat for the quick trip back to his beach umbrella headquarters.

The wooden sailing ships and the whaling men who manned them are long gone from Maui’s waters; the taverns and rowdy

Shopping district of Lahaina

streets of old Lahaina have been replaced with pricy restaurants, art galleries, and touristy merchandise shops; and people like Captain Dan and operators of parasailing businesses, snorkel boats, and other pleasure craft now rule the waves to the delight of the men, women and children who seek the thrills they offer.

Ghosts of America's Worst Industrial Disaster  on West Virginia's New River Gorge

View of the New River from Hawks Nest State park in West Virginia

Captain Ron’s long ponytail stood straight out in the wind as he gunned the jet boat and turned the wheel of the craft hard to the right, sending up a spray of New River water and a yelp from his energized passengers.

Before the tour was over, the boat would effortlessly make its way past the site of the worst industrial accident in American history, and then meander upstream to the famous New River Gorge Bridge.

Captain Ron would tell us about the several lives lost on Bridge Day over the years when people legally and willingly jumped off the span with nothing but a nylon chute to save their lives, but never uttered a word about how scores of men died carving a three-mile tunnel through nearby Gauley Mountain.

Captain Ron maneuvers us under a hulking old railroad bridge.

“They used to give me a ticket for driving like this,” he yelled over the sound of the powerful engines. “Now they pay me for it.”

We were on a tour of the New River Gorge from the foot of Hawk’s Nest State Park near Gauley Bridge, West Virginia. For the most part, Captain Ron kept us on a straight, gentle, leisurely paced course, careful of his wake so as to not disturb the occasional fisherman or unnecessarily jostle the fragile wooden docks that bobbed in front of the otherwise inaccessible fishing camp structures that dotted both sides of the wide river. He obviously knew this stretch of river and expertly maneuvered the powerful boat that had open sides and six rows of seats for paying customers.

We found our way to Captain Ron’s care after having descended from the Lodge at Hawk’s Nest State Park by way of a long, scenic, enthralling tram ride down a steep mountainside. The small tramcars only swayed a little as they conveyed passengers up and down the mountain.

Captain Ron took us over smooth waters to a point where the tunnel that had been cut through the imposing Gauley Mountain 86 years ago could be seen. He called our attention to the structure but did not utter a word about the haunting tragedy involved with its creation. Instead, he spun the boat around and headed upriver to the main attraction – the New River Gorge Bridge.

He kept the boat as stationary as possible just short of the white water that kept us from passing directly beneath the famous structure where, once a year, BASE jumpers – BASE stands for building, antenna, span and earth - are permitted to jump off the span of their own free will with special parachutes.

View of New River Gorge Bridge from
Captain Ron's Jet Boat.

“They jump on Bridge Day every October since 1980,” Captain Ron explained. “They’ve only lost three people in all that time and they say that up to 100,000 people walked the bridge on Bridge Day last year. Of course not all of them are jumpers.”

After giving his passengers plenty of time to snap pictures and take in the bridge view, Captain Ron gunned the boat to take us back to the dock and maneuver under a massive rusted railroad bridge that we thought for sure had been abandoned until a long noisy freight train passed right over our heads.

We docked, disembarked, and Captain Ron tipped his sweaty worn baseball cap in a farewell gesture. There was still no mention of the disaster that occurred just a few hundred yards downstream when desperate men risked life, limb and lung to feed families and work through the Great Depression.

It’s been called America’s worst industrial disaster and the tragedy carries ugly overtones of racism, disposable lives, and the traditional rape of West Virginia by out-of-state barons of industry.

Inside the tunnel through Gauley Mountain at Hawk's Nest

A company called Union Carbide needed more electricity for its operations at Alloy, West Virginia. It came up with a plan to divert the New River through Gauley Mountain so hydroelectric facilities could generate power to feed the needs of the industrial giant. It put out the call for men to work the drills and other machines that would cut a path through the mountain.

Workers in since the Gauley Mountain Tunnel

Men facing the challenges of finding work responded. Two thirds of them were African Americans. They joined others who were struggling in the dreadful economy. But they were never told that the mountain consisted of 99.44 percent silica and they were never given equipment to protect themselves against breathing the dust that would ravage lungs and kill indiscriminately.

They began to die from accidents first. They fell from scaffolding and were crushed by equipment and rock falls. Then, after about two months, the sickness cut through their ranks and the bodies began to pile up.

It took about two months for the men to begin dying from agonizing painful sickness. Fibrous nodules began to grow on their lungs from inhaling the silica dust. A company doctor told them they just had “tunnelitis” and gave them worthless pills. A nearby newspaper began to investigate and a local judge slapped a gag order to keep the situation quiet.

Most appalling was the handling of the dead, especially the African Americans. Betty Dotson-Lewis wrote an account of the situation on a site called “Tunnel Talk”:

Directly, a problem arose as black workers died. There was no "colored" burial site. Handley White, local funeral parlor owner in Summersville, located a field on his mother's farm and was given a contract to open a burial ground on the Martha White farm in Summersville. Handley was paid $50 per body with the promise of "plenty of business."

The dead workers were stacked in rows and strapped on the back of the flatbed truck. More of the dead black workers were put in an upright sitting position as if they were alive for their ride to their final resting place. For years rumors spread about workers buried in mass graves on the Martha White farm, but White family members deny this accusation.

The tunnel was eventually completed and has functioned as intended ever since. There are no books in the Hawks Nest Lodge gift store about the tragedy. There is no obvious marker at the site.  The amiable Captain Ron understandably focuses on entertaining tourists and keeps the mood light while on the water. There is just a brief historical marker that tourists speed by out on the main highway.

Meanwhile, like the memory of the estimated 750 men who died drilling that tunnel, Hawk’s Nest State Park seems to be fading away. Its lodge has become dingy and sparsely occupied; its trail down to the spectacular overlook of the mighty New River is broken, unkept and treacherous; and its state employees seem sullen and downcast.

“Isn’t nothin else goin on around here since the mines closed,” said one young man who helped us get ready for our tram ride. “This is all I got and it only pays minimum wage.”

West Virginia’s economy, once driven by a coal industry that many thought would never falter, has felt the sting of demise. The closure of mines that once kept the region’s economy humming has taken its toll on tax revenues and the state’s traditionally delicate budget. Clearly, the state is no longer investing in keeping this park in peak condition and there seems to be a cloud over the operation.

If there are ghosts of the workers who died here, they remain as silent about their fate as the dwindling number of people who work here. 

No doubt, the tram and the jet boat will continue as long as the tourists come and the profit margin remains attractive. But the fate of the site as a state park may be as in doubt as the survival rate was among the many men who once tried to support their families by drilling through a mountain of silica.