Halfway to Waimea Bay, it began to rain. Not light rain. Rain like buckets of ice water blown in from the clouds hugging the mountains to the east. Rain like a fire hose aimed right at me as I drove north along the H2 just south of Mililani. The kind of rain that says get-the-top-up-on-the-convertible-NOW! The kind of rain that says there’s no way, not a chance in hell, you’re going climbing today.
I had been trying for three days to get to Waimea Bay, a beach on Oahu’s North Shore, a mere hour’s drive north of Honolulu, to get in a bouldering session on a little basalt cliff just off the beach, the veritable birthplace of Hawaii rock climbing, but it wasn’t happening. Yesterday, the road was closed for a triathlon. The day before there was no parking within miles of the beach. Tomorrow I would be on a plane bound for the mainland. It was today or never. I sped up, thinking I could outrun the cloudburst, but it stayed with me and even seemed to intensify the farther north I drove. Why was this dark cloud following me?
I knew why. It was Pele’s curse. There was no doubt about it.
Hawaiians take their rocks seriously. According to native Hawaiian mythology, lava rocks are Pele’s children, and it is considered kapu—a violation of sacred prohibitions—to take stones off the islands or treat them with disrespect. Even rearranging rocks, making rock piles, or disturbing the terrain is considered kapu, because each stone, big or small, may be imbued with spiritual life: a shrine, place of offering, memorial to a deceased ancestor, or guardian spirit. To native Hawaiians, rocks have spiritual power—mana—any given rock might contain the mana of an animal, person, or deity. The bigger the rock, the bigger the mana. The ancient kapu system was strict about messing with mana. Stepping on the chief’s shadow was a punishable offense. If you fished out of season, you could be executed. Desecrating a sacred rock or cave, which might mark the burial place of an ancestor, would be that kind of kapu. Of course, they don’t execute you if you desecrate a sacred stone these days; you only suffer the curse of Pele or, short of that, at least the wrath of the native Hawaiian people.
Sacred stones are not unique to Hawaii. Indigenous people around the world and, indeed, most of the world’s religions, ascribe spiritual significance to stones. Stones have long been used to mark grave sites, sites of epic battles, territorial boundaries. They are also places of mythological and spiritual importance. There is seemingly an endless list of sacred stones through ancient and modern history, stones imbued with religious and mythological significance. Perhaps you have heard of Stonehenge, the Moai, the Black Stone, the Stone of Scone, or Omphalos? Even if one does not adhere to a given religion or believe in the old myths, one might still expect that desecration or even disrespect of those who do would lead to some form of retribution. You wouldn’t go to Mecca and defile the Black Stone without expecting a beating at the very least. Nor would you expect to get away with tipping over a Moai or chipping off a piece of Stonehenge. But, just like people taking rocks home from Hawaii—as I had done on a previous trip to the Islands—it happens.
Soaked and not wanting to incur the wrath of the rental car agency as well, I pulled off the highway, put up the top, and abandoned all hope of going climbing. Still, I was halfway there and, despite the rain pounding on the soft top, I drove on, hoping to at least find a parking space this time and be able to see the rocks, perhaps even touch them, pull up on some holds that might still be dry, and at least get a feel of their mana. Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the rain-soaked parking lot, nearly vacant today what with the rain still pouring down in buckets, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. Looking up, I saw blue skies everywhere around—everywhere but over Waimea Bay. It was the curse alright. What else could it be?
Yes, there is rock climbing in Hawaii, but you have to be a special kind of obsessed to make climbing rocks the focus of your Hawaiian vacation, and to keep trying, day after day, in spite of the never-ending setbacks preventing you from even getting to the rocks, let along climbing them. I am that special kind of obsessed. And, to tell you the truth, deep down, I hate Hawaii. I can only take so much strolling on the beach, watching pretty sunsets, the shopping. To me, it is sheer agony to waste half a day laying on a beach, drive around aimlessly in a rental car, or wander zombie-like along Waikiki Beach with a lot of tourists in their aloha shirts, snapping selfies in front of the Duke Kahanamoku statue. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get into it. I want to do something. Something adventuresome. Something fun. Hence my ascent of Mauna Loa during my trip to the Big Island and a barefoot solo climb up the face of Black Rock, a nice little 5.11 problem over deep water that took all of five minutes to climb but made my week in Maui infinitely sufferable. I can put up with the tourist B.S. for six days, but on the seventh day I had better get to go climbing.
So, as soon as Beth suggested we go to Honolulu for a week in May, I was on the internet looking for climbing on Oahu. And there it was. It turns out there are a few cliffs and boulders on the island, and, against all odds, a small but enthusiastic local climbing population. I zeroed in on a small basalt cliff at Waimea Bay, popular with cliff divers, but with a section set back from the beach that had several short climbing routes. Not the kind of cliff you’d ordinarily fly 2600 miles to climb, but if I was already going to Hawaii, it would do. And so, I packed my rock shoes and chalk bag in my carry-on bag. Beth wasn’t enthusiastic about it, but acquiesced as long as I promised to do some “fun” things with her. I could not imagine what those things might be. What could be more fun than rock climbing in Hawaii?
Although I didn’t necessarily believe in Pele’s curse, it had occurred to me that perhaps my poor attitude about doing “fun” stuff with Beth may have been what was upsetting Pele, although I preferred to think it was the rock. Either way, I resolved to make amends by doing as much fun stuff with Beth as possible, and also returning the rock I’d taken. Making such an offering was a way to balance the mana and show my sincere regret, which I hoped would put me back in the goddess’s favor. I was going rock climbing, after all; I didn’t want any surprises.
And so, before I set hand and foot on the cliffs of Waimea Bay, I went with Beth on a stroll down Kalakaua Avenue, watched a sunset from Ko Olina, even went shopping, and also made a stop at the Wizard Stones, four large basalt stones set near Waikiki Beach that represent the four visitors from Tahiti around 400 AD who were said to possess supernatural healing powers they had transferred to the stones before returning home. Many visitors come and bring a lei or other offering to honor these healing stones. I brought a rock, a small, polished stone I’d picked up on a previous visit. I thought of setting it on the altar along with the assortment of withered leis, but then impulsively tossed it into the sacred circle. It clattered around, bouncing pinball-like from stone to stone, then seemed to bounce out, as if rejected. But it suddenly stopped, balanced on a flat stone at the edge of the circle, as if held there by a magnet. I took it as a good sign.
I headed up to Waimea Bay the next morning, excited to lace up my rock shoes and get climbing. Fat chance. A line of cars circled the packed parking lot like turkey vultures over Smith Rock, but the beach was packed. After circling for fifteen minutes without a space opening up, I tried to find parking along the road. There was nothing. We drove into town to get lunch, planning to try again later, but Haleiwa was packed with tourists. I drove out to the beach again, hoping a parking space might now be open, but it was even more packed than before. Oh, well, I thought. We can come back tomorrow.
Tomorrow dawned and we were on the H2 again, planning to arrive before 8 a.m. to beat the tourist hordes. A few miles north of Wahiawa, we found the North Shore highway closed to north-bound traffic because of a triathlon. We could drive around from the east shore, apparently, which would take longer but was the only option. Okay, I thought, let’s try that. We drove back south, got on the H3 to Kaneohe, and got stuck in construction traffic. Thankfully, I had a Plan B; there was a small cliff at Makapu’u Point on the southeast corner of the island that had a handful of short routes on it. A dingy little crag by the looks of it, but if I couldn’t get to Waimea Bay, it would have to do. So, we turned the car around and headed south. No dice there, either. The traffic back through Kaneohe was worse than rush hour in Seattle. By the time we got to Makapu’u Point two hours later, I was tired, hungry, and in no mood to hike up a rocky hill to do anything, even climbing. Besides, there was no parking there, either.
Discouraged but not defeated, we tried once more. This would be the last time; we were flying home the next morning. No more offerings; I had run out of rocks. But the night before I went back to the Wizard Stones and did some cleaning up, picking up litter, rearranging the leis, thinking, hey, it couldn’t hurt. Early the next morning, we got on the road even earlier. It was a sunny day, already in the 70s, with a few clouds hanging on the Koʻolau Range to the east but otherwise nothing but blue skies and sunshine. We put the top down, turned up the Hawaiian tunes, and hit the freeway.
That’s when it started raining.
We pulled into Waimea Bay just before 8 a.m. and parked the car in the near-empty parking lot. Because of the rain, nobody had bothered coming to the beach. I was the only dumb one, apparently. Despite the rain, I grabbed my rock shoes and chalk bag and started for the beach. What the hell? Maybe there was an overhanging wall or cave dry enough to climb on, even if just for a few minutes. We had come all this way; it would not hurt to look. Even if I could only grab hold of the rock and hang there long enough to get something resembling a pump, that would be enough.
Just then, as I walked across the wet beach toward the rocks, it stopped raining and a shaft of sunlight hit the cliff. At that moment, a rainbow appeared, arching brilliantly above the dark rock and out across the deep blue ocean.
“Come on, Beth!” I yelled excitedly, as I ran across the beach to the rocks. Beth trudged along behind, waiving me on.
I could go on and on about how glorious it was to climb on the cliffs of Waimea Bay, but I won’t bore you with the details. It’s enough to say I climbed for an hour, doing laps up and down and across the steep, featured basalt, milking that little rock wall it for all it was worth.
“How much longer are you going to climb?” Beth asked me at one point, obviously bored and hoping I would be done soon.
“I don’t know,” I said, grinning down at her from twenty feet up the wall, without any thought of being done any time soon. “For as long as I can, I guess.”
Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, the wind kicked up and the rain returned with a vengeance. Although I was still climbing in warm sunlight, I was immediately drenched in cold rain. The rock became slick and I was barely able to climb down without slipping off. Beth was already running for the car.
Pele had spoken. Enough, she said, you’re done.