Land’s-End Eye to Sacrality

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Gary Lynch.

Occasionally, through clear air within 200 miles of California’s Vandenberg Air Force Base (“Welcome to Space Country”), we can see the marvel of rocketry as it spears the sky, a white-hot ferocity crossing half the Pacific in half an hour.

One bright, breezy, pre-9/11 day, with a bag and surfboard, I’d left Jalama Road and cycled seven miles northwest, tracing the prairied curve of Jalama Bay upon weedy, gravelly Southern Pacific track. Aiming for a day or two of surf and solitude, I first spent a Moonless night on Vandenberg’s south fringe.

Near 1 a.m., cold and tentless, I rubbed my eyes amid rotting kelp at the foot of a low sandstone bluff. I’d been stirred by the muted (like wearing earplugs) rumble of an unarmed intercontinental ballistic test missile that had been spit from an underground silo near Point Sal, 21 miles north, the propellant an aural oddity over the crack of south-swell shorebreak 10 yards from my toes. Coyotes howled at the shrinking fireball as it sped west to Kwajalein Atoll, where it would plunge, 4,200 miles from me, fulfilling its journey across the starry-black canvas of stratosphere.

Ten miles opposite, at the bay’s south tip, for hours there’d been another flare, this one intimate and solacious. Point Conception, aka Humqaq, a burr on California’s hip, had shone a tiny white dot, an atmospheric—and metaphoric—oblation to ocean. Like the Point Sal silos, Humqaq was a springboard. It was (and is) the “western gate” per its legends and spirit flights to infinitude, anciently revered in the nearby Chumash villages of ‘Upop and Shilimazshtush. For the Chumash, Humqaq was a southwest-pointing land’s-end eye to sacrality, a portal for the hereafter, for glowing eternity, a rainbow bridge—not a divide—to Shimilaqsha: realm of the dead. The point hosted a great shawil (feathered pole shrine), used on the winter solstice, when an antap (shamanic priest) led mourning ceremonies and honored the Sun.

Silently from my sleeping bag I honored the lighthouse. Flashing every 30 seconds, the dot was said to be seen by sailors 20 miles out. For them, it was a wan lure toward the soothful south, the crowded comfort of culture, to many ports, to softer seas. I was on the other side, just, but the aura was palpable. A kinder, gentler coast? Just turn the corner. Many of us have. Conversely, I know lifelong southern California surfers who’ve yet to breach holy Humqaq.

Two eves later, after I’d flipped course (a pit stop at Jalama Beach—equidistant from my two reefy destinations—was followed by a southeasterly bike slog), the swell had waned but remained and again I was supine, this time on a sandy beach in Cojo Bay, just east of Humqaq. Much closer to its winking dot and railroading at dusk, timing my trespass into Cojo Ranch, I detoured to glimpse the iconic lighthouse and the hunchbacked treeless tongue of ruddy ice plant and beige sandstone, its three sheer sides ribbed from wind, waves, and eons of erosion.

Humqaq pokes the Santa Barbara Channel atop the Southern California Bight, a 350-mile-long anomaly in the West Coast’s general orientation. A broad inversion, a retreat from the non-pacific Pacific, the Bight is a dynamic web of currents, seeding one of Earth’s most diverse marine environs. Currents flow north and south, paralleling the coast at various depths and in opposite directions. Humqaq is where these currents—and our cultures—collide.

The Bight, hosting five surfy counties and a piece of north Baja, cups the eight Channel Islands, the cuatro Islas Coronado, the dos Islas de Todos Santos, and thousands of surfers from Gaviota to Cabo Banda. Geographically the southern fringe of California’s central coast, which runs to San Francisco, Humqaq marks a radical, 90-degree shift pelagically, climatically, and ecologically, shearing the warmer, densely populated Bight beaches from colder, more turbulent, far wilder shores. Santa Barbara County’s coast, which Humqaq cleaves, could be deemed yin (north—darkness, passivity) and yang (south—light, activity).

But this would be wrong.

Humqaq’s backyard is a bucolia that on 2017’s winter solstice—ironically, as mentioned, sacred for the Chumash—was sealed via two septuagenarian techpreneurs who gave US$165 million to the Nature Conservancy so it could buy the Cojo-Jalama ranches. Now the Jack and Laura Dangermond Preserve, it is a biodiverse permanence—1,400 plant and animal species; 60 rare, 24 endangered. And, like Camp Pendleton, a precious view of pre-sprawl Bight: coastal live oak, wooded canyons, creeks, mountains, sunny prairies, cattle, abundant wildlife, and reefs that sometimes spark. Hence my trespass up the tracks into Vandenberg and down the tracks into Jalama-Cojo, the latter for decades fiercely private acreage prone to concrete (including a spaceport and a liquefied natural gas terminal).

Today, the Chumash soul breathes easy.

The Nature Conservancy manages these 24,000 acres of idyll, including eight miles of beach where I’d makeshift-camped, Humqaq-focused, point-pondering. (Fifteen years later, the reef I’d surfed became part of the 22-square-mile Point Conception State Marine Reserve.) Bids to pass the point are often delayed or denied. In October 1542, Humqaq was dubbed Cabo de Galera (“Galley Cape”) by Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, the ambitious Portuguese/Spanish conquistador, one of the first Euros to chart Alta Cal’s coast. For a month, he was unable to round storm-lashed Galera, its name on Spanish charts until 1602, when Spaniard Sebastián Vizcaíno sailed past and renamed it Punta de la Limpia Concepción (“Point of the Immaculate Conception”) for that day’s Feast of the Immaculate (per the Virgin Mary) that still occurs each December 8.

Point Conception: a divide. Saved.

Humqaq: a bridge. Salvation.

Grin it Green

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

Clouds move and the Sun again shines; the light is soft, dreamy. I glance at the gently glittering Pacific and marvel about how, decades ago, in the phosphate boom, this tiny island mutated from a wild, verdant paradise to a scarred stain of ruin and obesity and diabetes. In the end—today—wealth failed Nauru.

For millennia, Nauru nurtured a vibrant Micronesian face of farming and ocean fishing, the people physically fit and active and subsisting on fresh fare. But with the phosphate gravy train came sedation—local food production stopped, replaced by imported, processed foods. And fat—75 percent of Nauru’s 10,000 residents are obese. Forty percent of its adults are diabetic. Recent efforts urging islanders to exercise included a daily three-mile walk around the airport’s perimeter. Few did. Due to security concerns, the scheme was nixed.


After independence in 1968, Nauru’s economy soared on phosphate. For $21 million, Australia sold its mining rights to the new island government, sparking riches—yearly mining revenues exceeded $100 million. In the 1980s, Nauru was the world’s richest country per capita. But removing 43 million tons of phosphate in 30 years wreaked severe environmental trauma—more than 80 percent of the isle was strip-mined, the once-jungled eden scraped bare and left to bleach in equatorial sun. The island is reforesting itself, however, evidenced by aerial images from the early aughts to today.

Berlinda and I drive past other blank storefronts, now bathed gold by the low sun. More rusted shipping containers, more incoherent graffiti, more trash, junked cars, rust, rebar, and cheery signs, one urging you to KEEP AIWO CLEAN AND BEAUTIFUL; another, its a cartoon tree face saying to a bush: KEEP IT GREEN, CLEAN, & NATURAL!

“Do you get bored here?”

“I keep myself busy at work,” Berlinda says, “so when I go home, I’m tired.”

“It’s amazing that, for such a small place, you have so much work.”

“I look after the foreigners here, and we have rental cars. We have fishing charters. It’s not that difficult to manage. I have my bosses, Sean and Kenneth, so most of my questions are directed to them.”

She turns onto the dusty airport frontage road, takes the curve, and soon we are backtracking north, tracing the craggy coast, its coral heads and boils and no hope of rideable waves. For a surfer, dynamite would benefit Nauru. The windswell arcs around the island’s south, clean and offshore but sad and shapeless.

“Look at the waves!” Berlinda says.

It is the only time I see her smile.

Reef of Water Flowers

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

Sunday. Which foretold a Sabbath-like afternoon of picnics at parks like this. Poking 60 yards into the lagoon, the concrete slab was used by pre-World War II Japan primarily to load sugar onto ships for the 1,400-mile voyage to Yokohama. From 1924 to 1941, sugar was CNMI’s economy, led by Haruji “Sugar King” Matsue. His empire crashed, however, when Japan lost the Battle of Saipan.

For decades, Matsue’s old dock was used (mostly by kids) for fishing and for leaping into the lagoon. This afternoon, the atmosphere thumped with rap and rock music from the cars parked in the shade of trees. There were squealing children running amok, jumping wildly from the dock, splashing around, chasing each other up and down the bright white beach. Adults drank Budweiser and grilled meat and generally lazed about in portable chairs at wooden benches. It was a scene identical to many at that exact moment throughout the West Pacific.

No one seemed to notice the clean, wedging right-hander 600 yards out.


Life or Surf

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

Early July. In the wall-less dock shed sat an obese young woman. Her name was Paloko and she ran the village council’s hotel.

“You are our second tourist this year,” she said as she studied my passport.

A man behind her saw my surfboard and asked me what I was going to do with it.

“You will be the first to surf in Tokelau,” he said.

You will be the first—nonsense. Such was the silly human conceit, the ilk of ego that corralled localism, the my-wave, the me-first. Though I had no proof nor cared about others surfing there, I’d been intrigued while watching The Solar Nation of Tokelau, a 43-minute documentary produced by Germany’s Ulli Weissbach. At the 19:23-minute mark, on the right side of the frame, Tokelauans are seen transferring a day-bagged surfboard from the barge to Nukunonu’s dock. I could not reach Weissbach for questioning, but I suspected it belonged to Shane Robinson, a Canadian solar engineer featured in the film.

Indeed, the board was his.

“Unfortunately,” he told me by email, “there’s no surf on the atolls. Unless you don’t value your life.”

Funafuti Freestyle

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

Five men in a dinghy. Five meters of Fijian hardwood painted bright orange and yellow, a striking contrast to the cyan sea. Eti, our captain, built this boat with his brother.

Pushing the dinghy is a modest 40-horsepower Yamaha. From the jetty, we slide to nearshore glass to bait balls and flying fish to banging back-breakingly across the deep, 11-mile-wide lagoon, then through a deep, narrow pass and into the deep, sharky ocean. Rough and torn with current. Soaked in saltwater we be.

This pass has a right and a left; both are wind-thrashed and unsurfable for the whole of our stay. Aside from a few sandy islets, home to sea turtles and coconut crabs, no land is visible.

We have no oars, no VHF, no compass or GPS, no EPIRB, no cell phone. No way to summon help. No backup motor. No spare parts. No tools. No fire extinguisher. No swim fins. No lifejackets. No first aid kit. No lights. No shelter. No horn, whistle, mirror, or flares. A very flimsy homemade anchor. Eti and Selau, the mullet-haired deckhand, are chain-smoking above two red six-gallon fuel tanks that are stowed beneath their legs. Eti speaks a bit of English; Selau speaks none.

While motoring along the surf line, Eti tells us that, five years ago, on a typically windy day, a day just like this, Selau and a friend were fishing here when their outboard died. The sandy islets dissolved into the horizon. The men drifted southwesterly for six weeks and 900 miles, surviving on rainwater and fish before shipwrecking on a reef at Vanikoro in the Solomon Islands, where they were spotted by a local. Selau and friend were shipped back to Funafuti on a Kiribati-bound freighter.

Three years before that, Selau spent two months and more than a thousand miles adrift. He was alone and headed the opposite direction during the summertime westerlies, missing Tokelau and Samoa and eventually crashing ashore at Pukapuka in the Cook Islands. There too he was rescued by a fisherman. The local government had him flown to Rarotonga and eventually back to Funafuti.

“He no more drive boat,” Eti says with a chuckle. Selau smiles sheepishly and lights another cigarette.

A few minutes later, Eti steers us up to a bend in the reef that shows a clean, uniform, head-high left. Satellite photos first lured us here, but the setup looks better in person.

Fronting the wave is a motu which blocks lagoon windchop. Terns and noddies whirl above. A pleasant place to surf. But before we settle in the quasi anchorage, Eti accidentally rips the fuel line from the Yamaha. He reattaches it and frantically yanks the pull-start rope.


Aside from being blown out to sea, we’re dead in the water. Next stop: Solomon Islands.

A worried Nico looks at Daniel.

“How long should we wait to jump overboard and paddle ashore?”

Ablution Azure

By Michael H. Kew

Photo: Philippe Bacchet.

This, an odyssey through time, represents volumes of my pre-travel life, knowing this existed.


Storybook longing over seductive tropical images and tales of Oceania preceded baptism in French Polynesian seas.

Yvon, an experienced traveler, emerges from belowdecks.

“Ah, this is paradise for me,” he says. “When I was a kid, I read every book I could find on the South Pacific, and this is what I wanted to do. I wanted to disappear out here someday. (laughs) My wife doesn’t like the tropics, though. Otherwise, I’d be here all the time. Go with my fly rod and my surfboard; find some island that had good surf on it, good bonefishing….”

His vision vanishes as the fantasy unfolds: an azure right-hander sprouts from the depths and heaves over the pink coral reef.

At dusk, cracking a Hinano, Chris reflects:

“I think it’s every surfer’s dream…I see the same kind of waves that we all used draw during math class in school. The teacher’s talking up at the front, and you’re drawing little palm trees hanging over with these lines peeling around the point. I get to see waves like that in real life, on a regular basis, with nobody out.

“And the colors here, mate….”

Chris. New spot, first wave. Photo: Kew.

Photo: Luis Marden.

Photo: Kew.


By Michael H. Kew

Palaha Cave. Photo: Kew.

One could say it was cruel, nigh criminal, for lonesome Niue to be fruitless in its deep blue galaxy of vigor, the isle a static green nebula orbited by oceanic star clusters—the surfy fertility of Fiji, Tonga, Wallis & Futuna, the Cooks, the Samoas. Niue is Oceania’s sole surfless nation. The area is rife with frustrating atolls and islands, yes, but with few airports or handy anchorages, the dearths are invisible, arcane, latent from inaccess.

Beyond the northwest’s slew of relatively gentle sea tracks, most of Niue’s sea was also unreachable. Near the village of Hakupu, one of the east coast’s few paths descended into Anapala Chasm, a deep, vertical-walled karstic gap in a pockmarked terrace that faced southeast, straight into the loud wind and swell. The vibe was a vast and dangerously dizzying froth of surf and chop that slammed against the fringing reef, the shore not a shore but a harsh and knifelike minefield wed to coralline flats and blowholes and caves. This characterized 75 percent of Niue’s coast.

“Much as we saw of it consisted wholly of coral-rocks, all over-run with woods and bushes,” Captain Cook remarked in his notes about Niue. “Not a bit of soil was to be seen; the rocks alone supplying the trees with humidity….the continued beating of the sea has formed into a variety of curious caverns…which the foaming waves have formed…into a multitude of shapes.”

Limu Pools. Photo: Kew.

Marée Haute

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

Wallis first pierced my brain in August 2002, when I bought a copy of Surfing magazine’s “Explorations” from Hansen’s Surf Shop in Encinitas, California. Today, branded (paid-for) media content is common, but in 2002 “Explorations” was, per its press release:

the first cover-to-cover advertiser-driven publication in the industry…a special collector’s edition of Surfing magazine that documents the oceanic journey of the Indies Trader, a 72-foot vessel employed by international boardriding apparel company and industry leader, Quiksilver.

“Explorations” featured a two-page route map of the Crossing’s first glorious sailings. In March 1999, the boat left Cairns, steamed up the Coral Sea, swung east to French Polynesia. Then, Indonesia-bound for summer, it motored west along a different South Pacific route, pinged with an unplanned two-week stop at Wallis before continuing to Fiji for the 2000 Quiksilver Pro.

I’d first heard the word Matautu in the mid-1990s while watching “Forgotten Island of Santosha,” the part where the crew was stalled in a place called Matautu, presumably the seafront village on the southwest coast of Upolu, Samoa. In May 2003, at New Caledonia’s La Tontouta International Airport, I saw Mata Utu written on the blue Aircalin arrivals/departures screen. Curious, and recalling “Santosha,” I approached the French woman at the counter.


“Is capital city in Wallis,” she said. “You know Wallis?”

A decade later, via email, I made contact with the island. His name was Pascal, a Lille expat who managed Evasion Bleue, a small dive company. His was the only tourist-geared business in Wallis & Futuna. Google-Earthing Wallis’s uneven oval barrier of coral, it was clear that, if I wanted to surf there, I needed a boat.

Hi Michael

No problem for transporting you by boat to the reef. We have 2 boats, one for scuba diving and an other one for taxi boat. I have well understood that you are a surfer and not a kiter. But some of these guys are surfer and kiter. They do stand up paddle too. Usually they are surfing in the Honikulu path or Avatolu path. Never in Fugauvea or Fatumanini. It’s too far and you find the biggest waves on Honikulu or Avatolu. I’m not sure about the season for surfing and the guys surfing in Wallis doesn’t want to give any informations. Do there is a competition between surfers?

Christophe, Daniel, Pascal.

Three years later: a dark Sunday morning amid robust rain. Christophe, in blue jeans, a white Aspen (Colorado) ball cap, and a white T-shirt that says “New York” on the front, drives me to Pascal’s. Centre do Loisirs (Leisure Center) is on the ruddy beach sand of Halalo, in Wallis’s south, where 14 skiffs are low-tide dry-docked. West-facing and tucked behind a 600-meter-long petroleum tank groin, the small palmy harbor offers refuge from the strong trades.

In his late-50s, tan and fit and wearing a black Aqua Lung springsuit, Pascal seems happy to see us. He has agreed to a brief tour of the southern lagoon, including a stop at Honikulu Pass, where there was a hollow, flawed left, the wave the Crossing crew scored.

Pascal remembers our emails and shakes his head, smiling.

“I am sorry, Michel, but today is very, very bad day to try for surfing. Tide is really low and wind is really bad.”

He gestures toward his white speedboat fitted with a blue bimini.

“But we go, eh?”

Once past the groin, eyes to the gale, Pascal turns left and throttles south, at full-speed across deep gray chop toward two islets. Above the noise, he and Christophe and Daniel yell back and forth in French, pointing at the low black mounts of Nukutapu and Nukuaeta, probably remarking how silly it was to be out on the lagoon in this weather—especially Christophe, with his aversion to saltwater.

Two kilometers from the groin, we zip aside l'îlot St-Christophe (“My place, eh!” Christophe yells to me, grinning, squinting), locally called Nukutapu, the site of a topside Christian altar. A sandy cay separates Nukutapu from much larger Nukuaeta, a pleasant spot for a picnic on a drier, brighter day, free of black squalls and blinding rain, this scenery 10 shades of gray, alien from all photos I’d seen of Wallis as a bluey-green Eden, a bigger, flatter kin of Bora Bora. And as for surf potential, Wallis would best Bora Bora, which has just one pass; Wallis has four.

As we idle in the deep channel off Ile Fenua Fo’ou, just a sliver of forest, a handful of ragged, bowly windblown lefts lurch over the shallow east elbow of Honikulu, a tricky slot for mariners due to its narrows and strong currents. For surfing too it looks dicey—the exposed reef, the dark chop, the waves sloppy and severe.

“No, Michel?” Pascal asks, eyebrows raised, knowing my answer.

“How do you say ‘high tide’ in French?”

Voodoo Bats

By Michael H. Kew

Batty full moon, Pemba. Photos: Kew.

Wind shook the garden. A lull in rain. Briefly, we sweat beneath equatorial sun.

Mkubwa showed me more plants that could treat cholera, diabetes, hypertension, asthma, insect bites, constipation, diarrhea, flatulence, insomnia, heart disease, nausea, blindness, toenail fungus, arthritis, erectile dysfunction, sore throat, warts, vomiting.

“Anything for hangovers?” I asked.

Mkubwa’s young brother hacked some sugar cane and handed it to me. I chewed a while.

“Here in our village,” Mkubwa said, “we have special doctor. If you use special doctor, you have to believe in him—to believe he can fix you. You have to get some magic from your religion. It is in the mind.”

With a wet, sugar-sticked finger, he tapped the left side of his bald head.

“Your brother is a doctor?” I asked.

Mkubwa laughed. His “special doctor” was an old man—a shaman. Pemba was known for such sorcerers and subjective wizardry embraced by most Tanzanians. Pemba’s witch doctors—waganga in Swahili—had visitors from across Africa and even Haiti, internationally known for its voodoo. Waganga could dose good luck, kill curses, cast spells, cure illness. Ultimately, witchcraft proved iffy as many Pembans, still sick, had tried waganga first crutch.

Sucking on sugar, I looked up. Northbound rain smeared the sky.

A shy man named Shoaib motorbiked me back to Wete. It was Friday—worshippers prowled the streets. Men would gather for a congregational prayer called ṣalāt al-jumu’ah (Friday prayer), supplanting the usual ṣalāt aẓ-ẓuhr (noon prayer).

Back at Ismail’s guesthouse, where the power was out, Shoaib asked me if I wanted to “drink many beers” with him at Wete’s police station.

“Police bar.” He grinned.

Though I shouldn’t have, I declined, citing the premise of getting illegally drunk with African cops, followed by a dangerous ride home in rainy darkness, plus my wish to wake early and fresh the next day for my return to Seattle via Dar es Salaam.

Late afternoon, amid another lull, I walked from Ismail’s in search of dinner: green oranges, boiled peanuts, stale cassava chips. At one vendor, because I was white, a belligerent first demanded my bills, then the coins I received as change. The vendor hissed and shooed him away. It was a busy lane, full of otherwise nice folks at their fruit stands and trays of flyblown fish.

Alone on Ismail’s dim rooftop patio, I ate slowly. Through a gap in the mango trees, I watched fishermen tend dhows in dense, sheeting rain. It was 5:15 p.m. Behind me, from the echoey stairwell, Ismail made a cameo. He was headed to his mosque for ṣalāt al-maġrib (sunset prayer).

“Be here at 6:45,” he said. “They will be ready!”


Dog-faced Pemba flying foxes were Africa’s biggest fruit bats, weighing more than a pound, wingspans to 30 inches. Of black and bright ruddy fur, by day they roosted, inverted in large groups. By night they foraged—figs, mangoes, papayas, tree blossoms, nectar, pollen, leaves. Ecologically the bats were crucial for pollination and seed dispersal. After decades of hunting, reports in the 1990s suggested the bats risked extinction and hence were considered endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. Since then, the bats’ population boomed from 200 to 20,000.

Through a distant dusk slinked voodoo drumming and Swahili sing-song. Near my ears were loud crickets. The bright moon rose in the eastern sky and brushed it into a rich pastel of blues and orangey pinks.

Six:47 p.m. From the stairwell, Ismail appeared.

“See, Michael? Right on time!”

The bats looked primordial, hundreds of wings flapping north.

“When I was young, many mango trees here,” Ismail said, looking pleased, watching the bats as he did most evenings. “But now they are cut for make rice fields. Rice is nice, yeah? Everyone loves rice.”

As darkness gathered, there came a sweep of cricket-buzz psychedelic charm, the silhouettes of dhows anchored in the lagoon, the islands to the far west, the mango trees, the bats against the fibrillated gray, the clouds pressed into crimson sky.

“The bats sleep on the day and they wake up on this time,” Ismail said. “At 6:45 every night, they are going north, flying back at 5:30 the next morning.”

“What if one falls from a tree?”

“People will go and take it. Sometimes the bats are sleeping on a branch and the branch will break, so they all fall down and hit their heads and die. People will come and take all of them for eating. Taste like chicken!”

He grinned and pointed up.

“Look. They finished now.”

Chuckling softly, as he often did, Ismail felt his way slowly, blindly, back down the stairs. The power was still out­—no lights anywhere in Wete. Ceding to the esotericism and obscurantism of Pemba, I leaned back—ears pinged with cricket chirp, eyes with the flood of darkness, mind with what might lay on the other side.

Pemba coast.


By Michael H. Kew

Tamog. Photos: Kew.

In Colonia I find a cabbie, his seats empty.

“Been raining in the south so no sunset today,” Tamog says, smiling, sensing money. “But we can go if you want.”

In the drink holder is an empty Bud Ice can. Tamog seems tipsy but from betel nut, he says, not beer. We sit inside a small, abused four-door. There is a green pen behind his left ear. His stubbled face is soft and round, his nose wide and flat. His hair is in a frizzy top-knot. He is glassy-eyed and congested, sneezy, sniffy. He wears baggy white mesh shorts and his blue Jokers team basketball jersey—number 21.

Outside Colonia are dense jungles of banana, areca palm, coconut, breadfruit, pandanus, mango. The sky again bursts and we pierce curtains of rain, forming streams where the road rises. In flatter areas the water ponds in potholes, unable to soak into the saturated soil. Tamog, 37, is intimate with these jarring avenues.


He tells me to “hold on” as he guns the car at high speed up a steep, overgrown curve that looks more like a hiking trail.

“Whoo-hoo! Yeah!”

We hit a hole; the back bumper smacks hard off the dirt.

“You see the road is no good!” Tamog says, hunched forward, gripping the steering wheel. “So not much people are making it out here.”

“Is this your car?”

“No, it’s my taxi company’s car. Don’t tell them about this road. (laughs) I have my own car, but I don’t like to use it for taxi in case it break down or something like that.”

His side of the windshield is badly cracked.

“From coconut! Somebody else was driving, though. Hey, you surfing Yap, yeah? We have many sharks here, but nobody dies from sharks. Lots of people die from coconuts falling onto their heads. If you get killed by a coconut, tradition here says you did something wrong to Mother Nature. Mother Nature is mad at you. So you have to respect Mother Nature, you know?”

Considering that many Pacific islands are public dumps, I mention Wa’ab’s lack of roadside trash.

“In our culture, we respect the land,” Tamog says. He raises a finger. “Excuse me—” A fierce, wet sneeze. Sniff-sniff. “So, yes. Our land is very important. When the people came to Yap first, all the different groups had to fight over the land. The ones who won became the highest caste. The ones who lost some of the battles, they got middle caste. And the ones who lost most of the wars had no land and had to work like slaves for food and things like that. If you are born here on Yap Island, you are normally born high or middle caste. I was lucky because I got to be born in the middle caste. I like middle caste. Not so high, not so low. When I was in school I noticed that some of my classmates could not eat together or play together because they were in low caste. You could only eat with your caste level. But Yap is changing very slowly.”

Yesterday in Colonia I asked a native Wa’ab woman if she could spot an outer islander in a crowd. Outer islanders are taller, she said. Different features, lighter skin, longer faces. And they’re dirtier. They’re not known for being as clean as us.


“I don’t know about all that stuff. But one of their crazy customs is for the women there, when any man walk past them, they get down on their knees until the man passes. If the man sits, the woman has to sit too. It’s really weird.”

“Have you spent much time in outer Yap?”

“I went to outer islands for six months. I went there because I join a contract for putting up solar systems. Every night we get drunk! They like tuba, from coconut. It can make you really drunk. It’s not like sakau or kava. The thing about it that most people don’t like is the smell. The smell is strong, and it looks like milk. But, man, it’ll kick you.”

We are kicking, spinning, fishtailing in mud, smashing across potholes. Tamog is repeating: “We don’t wanna get stuck in here!” He whoops like a cowboy then, unprompted, keeps talking.

“On each island there are groups of people, and each group is a ‘bar.’ So, me and my crew, being visitors, we could go bar-hopping around the island. But when the people in one group finish their tuba, that’s it. They cannot go to another bar, or the other bar will beat them up. And when I get drunk, I used the island taxi. You know what it is? A wheelbarrow.” (laughs)

As his dispatch radio spurts Yapese garble—cabbies shouting back and forth—we approach a dubious mud track leading to our vista point: an open space of red dirt and pandanus trees. Here on Wa’ab’s leeward side, the vegetation is browner and drier. Acres of dead grass.

“The car is not four-wheel-drive, but the driver is! Hang on!”

We bang up to the anticlimactic top. No sunset—there is a wall of darkening gray against the flat Philippine Sea. Crickets trill and there is a soft breeze. Tamog stuffs his mouth with betel nut and gets more stoned and pensive as we stand there, absorbing dusk.

“Are you going to Yap Day?” I ask.

Big arms across his chest, bloodshot eyes gazing at the dim sea, he shakes his head then spits.

“I hate Yap Day. Every year, a different part of our islands hosts it, and the best time for me to enjoy Yap Day is when we host it. My island is Tamil. Next year we will host. This year it is happening on Gagil and Maap. It’s a competition between village teams from all over Yap. When Tamil hosts the Yap Day, it’s the best one.”


“Because it’s my island.”

He points at the sliver of moon. Other than Yap Day, he says, Yap youth are unmoored from tradition, enthralled by modernity and the outside world.

“In elementary school, when we finish each day, we rush home and work fast, do the homework. Then we all get together and run and race to the men’s house because we want to jump into the lagoon and swim and play games. See who can dive the deepest, who can hold breath the longest. Things like that. Or we climb up the mangrove tree and we jump so we see who can climb highest and jump the farthest into the water. Now, this new generation, you know what they do? When they finish class, they use cell phone, PlayStation, computer. They don’t go to the men’s house anymore. That’s a big difference.”

His radio crackles. He reaches through the window and replies to the tinny voice, asking questions, making plans. He looks tired. He sneezes twice—hard.

“The idea is to teach the kids and for them to not lose our culture,” he says as we descend the hill, Colonia-bound in the dark. “They learn from the older people. When the older people die but teach no tradition, nobody will know it. We must know it—forever. But you know what? I’m worried, man. I really am.”


Fever Dreams, Prismatic Truths

By Michael H. Kew

Back to the skiff. All photos: Kew.

The captain was late. After breakfast I small-talked with Samuel, the confident deep-voiced cook who wore red Bintang boardshorts, a navy blue blazer, and a white skullcap. He said his Indonesian beer trunks were bought in Pemba, “but I not use this [pointing at the Bintang logo] because I am Muslim praying every day.”

Midday, Mohammed arrived with Califa, a small chain-smoking man with few teeth and a steady grin. He spoke no English nor Portuguese. There was a sweet nature about him. He wore a baseball cap on his bald head, a blue collared shirt, a fanny pack, and ripped shorts. He was a good captain, Mohammed inferred, as he’d fished around Ibo his entire life.

The clouds split, the sun dazzlingly bright on the crumbling, washed-out coral rag walls of ruins. We walked down the old cement ramp to the lagoon where Califa’s cluttered, heavy white fiberglass panga, weak with an ancient 25-horsepower Yamaha, floated in a foot of green water. Sections of the hull were translucent from unpainted repairs. The boat contained no safety items nor comforts.

“The continent,” Mohammed said proudly, squinting and smiling, his long skinny arm and finger pointing at the low, flat mainland five miles west, the terrestrial piece of Quirimbas National Park, home to elephant slaughter (ivory). Between islands, small, clean swells slid from the Mozambique Channel.

Equidistant from Ibo and Matemo, we passed Songosawi, a submerged reef with an exposed curl of beige sand on its west tip used by tourists and locals for picnics, snorkeling, relaxation. I saw whitewater two miles east of the sandbank. Passing terns squawked over the wheeze and whine of the Yamaha.

In the distance, Matemo was a long, thin black line. We skimmed over delicate sparkly wavelets in the shallows, morphing blue as clouds dissolved and the threat of rain marched east, away from the lung-shaped isle, which enlarged as Califa steered us toward it. I could see uneven groves of coconut palms and thick green vegetation atop bright white sand that sloped into turquoise water, lightening into shallow sand flats of classic hue. It could have been a bonefisher’s paradise.

Twelve miles from Ibo, Califa beached the panga on a finely ribbed sandspit that produced two-inch-tall, perfectly shaped tubes—a warmer, bluer, micro-Pelican Point (of Walvis Bay fame). He stayed with the boat. Mohammed and I avoided small black urchins as we walked slowly toward the calm, leeward north beach of Matemo, quivering in the heat, a mirage as the sun boiled our backs. Nothing was said as we approached 24 abandoned, decaying wooden villas among casuarina and the trunks of headless cocopalms. Until 2013 the beach was an upmarket South African-owned hideaway, its private air-conditioned verandas facing this surreal scene where fishermen in dhows plied between islands, the knifey silhouettes of their sails iconic of the Swahili Coast.

Mohammed did not know why Matemo Island Resort had closed, but he pointed left of a coconut tree. “That one local,” he said. “Local people land.” He pointed to the right. “That land private. Racist South Africans. Local people have no go there.”

When it was open, full-board rates started at US$450 per person per night. Later I emailed a woman named Laura who worked for South Africa-based Mozambique GSA, the resort’s former booking agency that managed 12 other luxury resorts in the Quirimbas region, plus several in the posh Bazaruto Archipelago and southern Mozambique.

“During routine maintenance, some quite bad structural damage to the main area was found,” she wrote. “Rumor has it that the builders may have used saltwater while mixing the concrete. The individual chalets were prefabricated, so no problems with them. There are no plans to reopen the resort in the immediate future. They [property owner Anantara Hotels, Resorts & Spas] say there is no demand, a point-of-view I strongly disagree with. We found the resort to be very popular for families, while the Medjumbe Island Lodge property [26 miles north of Matemo] was more for honeymooners. And it was generally cheaper than the Bazaruto resorts, even with the light aircraft transfers from Pemba.”

Sans tourists, Matemo’s north beach was pure tropic idyll, nice for a Sports Illustrated bikini-issue shoot, clean and silent but for birdsong and breeze. Ghost crabs hid in holes they dug in the still-damp white sand. It was a breeding site for sea turtles. Uniform scatterings of dry green seaweed denoted the great tidal shifts, and at dead low the brown flat reef extended far to the northeast, its edge open to swell.

The wind was nil, the light flat. Sun seared my skin. I had no water nor sunglasses. A barefoot white-stubbled man in wet gray clothes walked up the beach toward us. He had fished all morning. Atop his head, with his right hand he balanced five basket traps lashed together. In his left hand was a white bag of small fish. He was friendly and his teeth bright white, contrasting his darkness in the fish-trap shade. We greeted him with salaam and he briefly chatted with Mohammed. He told me the man was 70 years old and had never left Matemo.

A cluster of small thatch huts occupied a clearing just above the high-tide line. Nearby, hundreds of tiny flyblown silver fish were drying on the sand; the stench was overwhelming. After five days, Mohammed promised, the fish would be delicious.

Matemo is the second-largest of the Quirimbas and 100 percent Muslim—village life revolved around fishing, farming, prayer. Compared with atmospheric Ibo, Matemo was more desolate, quieter, windier. Its people seemed wary of a wandering mzungu, adrift from the alienation of a dead resort.

After a mile we walked into a village, one of the isle’s four. Freshly washed clothes were draped on plants to dry. Roosters crowed. Wind fluttered the trees. As with most leeward parts of islands, Matemo’s solar-powered north was arid and dry, its flora desert-like. There were sisal and cacti; errant thorns lay in the hot yellow dust. There were parched grasses and dying trees; hungry bony goats kicking the dirt, looking for scraps. In the village of thatch-roof mud huts, Mohammed knew several people. He spoke with them. They mostly avoided eye-contact with me. I was a ghost.

Suddenly a group of five boys and four young men gathered and insisted I take their picture with my small water camera. Mohammed said people there normally don’t like to be photographed because “maybe they see them on TV and they no like.”

TV meant computer.

“Or they ask money before you take picture.”

“I didn’t bring money.”

“Is okay. You take picture.” Grinning, he mimed holding a camera and pushing its shutter button. Click-click.

One in the group, a shy, grinning young man named Momade in a white collared shirt, asked me to email my photos to him so he could upload them to his Facebook page. He gave me his full name and email address from an old scratched phone, but later I could not find Momade on Facebook.

His village appeared clean, vibrant, and happily off-grid, a daily rhythm of fishing, low-tide reef foraging, dhow repair, dhow building, vegetable farming, coconut collecting. There were no cars—few motorbikes. Matemo was flat and scorched but a lovely outpost of serenity and sweet souls. Perhaps it was for the best that the resort was shut. That land private. Racist South Africans. Local people have no go there.

Long, dazed walk back to the skiff, the sand white-hot and eye-stinging, like snowblindness. Terns whizzed past our heads. Thirst gripped our throats. Communication was hard—best to be mute and let nature speak to us.

The tide had dropped in the time we’d been away from the panga, the sandbar now a vast marine barren. Through the haze I saw whitewater and knew the top of Matemo’s reef had surf. To Mohammed I suggested we boat out for a look; he didn’t understand even as I urged—“Ondas! Ondas de lá!”—and pointed from my board to the whitewater. He said Califa refused, citing fuel concerns, and it was still a long ride back to Ibo.

The wind and chop had increased so we banged straight into it. We passed a patch of shipwrecking reef near a small canoe holding two men with a fishing net. They stared at us. Their friend, wearing a snorkel mask, stood on a coral head, holding a crude spear gun. Their lives and sustenance revolved around tides. For surfing, low was ideal.


Nearing Songosawi, there came another hallucination: defined turquoise rights breaking along the edge of the distant, prismatic coral flats—blues and greens and brownish pinks.

“Kissongosawi,” Mohammed said, yawning as we passed another sea turtle. “Name of reef.”

Atop the shadeless shoal, five sweaty men dozed, a break from fishing. Califa beached our boat aside theirs. From the sand's slight rise, I could clearly see the mirage—soft but well-shaped, consistent, long rights—to the northeast. A 1.5-mile-long trapezium of exposed coral surrounding the wave was blocking wind chop. Smallish swells slipped from the southeast and wrapped nearly 180° around the top of the reef, the wave faces brushed by trades, the spindrift a magical sign of life. After my directive pointing and a few choice words—“Sim, boas ondas lá!”—we boated to it.

L'amour Pentamerous

By Michael H. Kew

Chanel, 1920. Photo: Getty Images.

Chanel, 1920. Photo: Getty Images.

Ylang ylang—the word twice bewitches. In Mayotte, life is bound to this widely grown bloom, its name a Tagalog corruption for “flower of flowers.” Our driver, the gracious Attoumani, wished for me to see—and smell—the pride of his island’s essential oils export. We rumbled down steep, narrow red-dirt roads and pierced the cloaking tangle of green, dropping into drippy rainforests at the base of Mont Combani and its yawning valleys where ylang ylang trees lazed in the sun.

Squatting at a creek crossing was a group of women and kids washing clothes and draping them on bushes to dry. “These people are probably illegal from Comoros,” Fassianti said as we passed scowls and stares.

“Where do they live?”

“In secret.”


“Their lives. Secret. They don’t want government to see them. They will get sent back to Comoros.”

“Though we’re basically in Comoros?”

“This is France.”

Soon we strolled and paused amid the heavy languor of afternoon in a place nothing like France. Neocolonialism irked me. But 98 years ago France’s Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel was onto something—clear was the sublimity of the evergreen, everyellow ylang ylang tree. In 2017 touring the plantations in central Mayotte was a dance with redolence. The fragrance was intoxicating, addictive, dreamlike, and it reminded me of my spell in Comoros 10 years prior. My souvenir then was a 30ml bottle of pure ylang ylang oil. For years I savored it. I told Fassianti that if I ever moved to Hawai'i, my yard would be full of ylang ylang trees.

“My mother grows them at her house,” she said softly, smiling. “The flowers are our favorite smell.”

Fassianti, 2017. Photo: Kew

Fassianti, 2017. Photo: Kew

Vital in haute gamme (high-end) perfumery for its floral top notes, ylang ylang oil has a fixed demand that can’t be faked by synthetics. Launched in 1921 by Chanel and her French-Russian chemist/perfumer Ernest Beaux “to be the ultimate symbol of luxurious simplicity,” the Chanel website says, “No. 5 has since become more than a fragrance. It is an olfactory heritage: an idea of femininity, a masterpiece of chic, passed from generation to generation.”

Helming her elite empire, Chanel (who lived 1883-1970) was one of the world’s richest women, due mostly to the Comorian ylang ylang flower oil she fused into Chanel No. 5. An Indonesian endemic, in the 20th century ylang ylang was sent to then-French Comoros (including Mayotte) and to then-French Madagascar. Crops flourished. Today, annual flower production is about 100 tons—Comoros produces 50 to 65 tons, Madagascar 20 to 25, Mayotte 10 to 20. Most of the oil goes to France.

Left wild, the gray-barked tree soars to 100 feet and year-round is frothed with the wavy, richly scented blooms; each have six long, narrow yellow (green when immature) petals up to four inches long. When cultivated, the trees are held to five or six feet tall, making the flowers easy to reach. The branches are trimmed and trained to grow downward into bizarre tentacle-like candelabra to place the flowers at eye level. The plantations looked like vineyards—their stunted twisting woodiness, their orderliness, their pastoral aesthetic.

Pollinated by night moths, the flowers are dawn-picked every three weeks. L’essence is stripped by fractional steam distillation—each fraction is one of four oil densities, all with unique aroma profiles. One batch can take 10 to 20 hours, starting with a copper still, 200 pounds of flowers, and 15 gallons of fresh (usually rain) water. Out comes one to two liters of oil, the first distillation being the highest grade. The process is repeated thrice more, with declining oil densities, quality, and price.

Marilyn Monroe, in 1954, when asked about what she wore to bed: “Just a few drops of Chanel No. 5.”

Monroe, 1961. Photo: Douglas Kirkland

Monroe, 1961. Photo: Douglas Kirkland

The Four Princes of Serendip

By Michael H. Kew

All photos: Kew.



TRUE STORY: A skinny 6’6” Kyle Albers is kneebound, puking water into the seaside bungalow’s clogged, unflushing toilet on the opposite side of Earth.

“Hey, Kyle,” someone says. “We’re going for lunch. Should we get you some fish curry? Beef?”

Yesterday Albers’ gastrointestinal tract was assaulted by the all-you-can-eat buffet on the ground floor of a Kuala Lumpur hotel. He had heaped his plate with assorted Asian fare. Some hot, some cold. Fish curry, rice, noodles, chutney, naan, mango, lychee.

Outside across the dusty dirt lane is a flyblown tin shed echoing with utterances of fishermen who all night were at sea, 15 kilometers out in small fiberglass boats, using torchlights to prep bait atop the black Bay of Bengal. It’s a primitive and dangerous occupation. Two months ago, not far from here, 51 fishermen were swamped and slain by a midnight storm.

This morning the boats returned to the steep white-sand beach with skipjack, trevally, yellowfin, and mackerel, most to be sold to restaurants and hawked in the nearby Muslim town. Tonight some of the fish will be cooked and made into curry, a national dish. It’s tasty.

Not for Albers.

Bleaaaarehhhh…(cough-cough)… clurrgh….

Echoing Albers’ bilious gutturalism are the caws from a raucous gang of black crows near the bathroom’s small window. The bathroom’s pink tile walls amplify the loud birds.


Outside, directly above Albers, one juvenile and three adult tufted-gray langurs lounge on the moldy red-tile roof flecked white with crow guano. The leaf-eating monkeys are surrounded by blowsy acacias and fronds of coconut trees below a big blue sky typical of late summer. The palm fronds and acacia leaves are lightly puffed by an offshore wind which carries the universal tropic scent of burning trash directly into the small square bathroom window above Albers’ longhaired head. The casual observer will notice his hair pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid bile splash exposure.

Fish curry? No.


Which, I learn whilst reading a two-month-old issue of The Island outside the room next to Albers’, does not jive with the 70 Buddhist percentile of Serendip’s 20 million humans—no killing of animals, which are sentient beings and human souls reborn from past misdeeds.

Cows too are sacred. So sacred that the newspaper’s editorial that day discussed Bowatte Indarathana, a 29-year-old Buddhist monk who in May 2013 soaked his robe in gasoline and set himself on fire at a Buddhist festival in the nearby town of Kandy. This was to protest Serendip’s slaughter of cattle for human consumption despite the fact that monks eat much meat. Indarathana belonged to a hardline Buddhist group that was campaigning against the Muslim halal method of killing animals (swift, deep incision with a sharp knife to the throat, cutting the jugular veins and carotid arteries of both sides but leaving the spinal cord intact). He had also been calling for an end to proselytizing by Muslims and Christians and followers of other faiths.

Hater? Perhaps.

Ninety percent of his body scorched, Indarathana died the next day. Suicide success. This led The Island’s editorialist to start his column with: “The biggest problem at this moment is not the Western encirclement (of Serendip) nor is it the holding of the northern provincial council election, but the phenomenon of out-of-control Buddhist monks on the streets…We did not come through 30 years of war to end up with anarchy and mob rule.”

Albers cares not. He has food poisoning and the swell is up and he is unable to wax his current whip, a self-shaped 9’11” tri-hued keel twinnie he calls Megafish, which is exactly what it is—a fish identical to the keeled self-shaped (his 100th!) 5’3” he’s also hauled to Serendip, but stretched 56 inches.

Near my old newspaper sits a copy of Kelsang Gyatso’s Introduction to Buddhism: An Explanation of the Buddhist Way of Life. Simon Murdoch brought it. He’s enrolled in religious studies at Santa Barbara City College. Skimming through the book I learn about sangha and karma and dharma and soon I am enlightened by the Four Noble Truths. So enlightened that I stand, walk into Albers’s bathroom, and tell him that he is experiencing the first Truth stemming from the principle of dukkha, a concept central to Buddhist thought which deals with physical and mental suffering, that all sentient beings must endure some suffering and pain throughout their lives.

“Hey, Kyle. This might be you.” Holding the book so he can see it, I tap page 29. “Do you have bad karma?”

Pale and irritated, he raises a slow glance up to me, away from the porcelain.

“Dude. Get out of here.”

Aloud I read a passage: a mental intention that is a determination to perform an action is a mental action or mental karma. thus, bodily karma is bodily activity initiated by a mental action.

“See? Your mind told you—a mental action—to eat that fish curry, and now you have bodily karma from eating the curry, because maybe you weren’t supposed to eat that fish. Puking is a bodily activity. An action. Karma means ‘action.’ It’s Sanskrit.”

Albers looks at me again before lying flat on the cold concrete floor and shutting his eyes. “Maybe the fish was just rotten,” he says feebly, resting his pale right forearm on his sweaty forehead. “Maybe the fish had bad karma.”

“Possibly. Maybe the fish was a bad human in its previous life.”

“Can you please close the door? I need to sleep.”

Albers is below the toilet which was installed by a man who works here, a man who is part of Serendip’s Theravāda branch of the Buddhist majority. This man built the walls too. Set the concrete floor. That little square window with the cackling crows. The shower and its hair-clogged drain. The thin wooden door and the cheap plastic towel rack. The too-small sink with its too-small faucet.

It is unlikely this Theravāda Buddhist man will set himself aflame to protest cow-killing (beef is served in his restaurant). But he feels safe and warmly at home on his small Indian Ocean island, with the sight of each Buddha temple and bodhisattva shrine along the road, deep in the rainforest or atop stony mountains or along gentle rivers or in the bustling center of town, decorated with candles, flowers, water bowls, and incense, venerating his moral code nearly 2,400 kilometers from where Siddhartha Gautama, the original Buddha, slid from the womb and inhaled Himalayan air circa 5th century BC.

This Theravāda Buddhist man makes a world-class fish curry. Would taste fine regurgitated.


Kyle Albers.



WEDNESDAY NIGHT. Mundane machete murder. Chopped was a 69-year-old Hindu priest. Crime scene was a kovil (temple) in Kilinochchi, 350 kilometers north from us in Serendip’s wooded tip. Likely Buddhist, no suspect was found, his motive likely religious re: the then-looming elections.

That was three days ago. Post-breakfast we will pierce the jungle and emerge onto a steep beige-sand beach fronting a handsome sand point. Civil unrest will not be present. No politicking or murderous freaks.

Today, four years from the doomed fall of the Tamil Tigers—four years of Serendip’s longest peacetime in 30 years, four years after the isle’s bloody, bitter civil war was spawned by ethnic tensions ‘twixt the minority Tamil (Hindus) and the majority Sinhalese (Buddhists)—the island’s heavily militarized north province held its first democratic elections for a semi-autonomous council. Winning with 78 percent of the vote was the Tamil National Alliance, once a political front for the Tigers who’d fought for their own state. Now, of Serendip’s nine zones, the north is the sole pan-Tamil, freed from the island’s Sinhalese ruling class.

“We want a settlement for the Tamils,” an elderly woman told the BBC in an article I found online. “That’s why we came to vote this time. We’ve been waiting so many years—now we want peace.”

Hopefully it works. In our serene and mostly Muslim town, there was no election except the elect to depart. On this sunny Saturday morn, Newport Beach’s Jared Mell leaves Serendip for one Indian Ocean island that is 85 percent Hindu among 17,508 islands in a country that is 88 percent Muslim.

“Time for some real waves, man,” he says. He’s neither Hindu nor Muslim. He was up late, drinking everything. No sleep till sunrise.

The charts tout a big non-denominational swell beelining for Bali, coinciding with Mell’s first hungover step back onto the hot black tarmac of Ngurah Rai International Airport. A few days later, another 2,000 kilometers north, the rest of us here will reap the same swell, woefully stripped of size. Longitudinally screwed.

We’ll call it the Tamil Tease.

Because, since colonially clipped from England in 1948, Serendip’s south Sinhalese government birthed all sorts of things that greased them at the expense of the Tamils, widening the ethnic rift. These things weren’t fair nor logical. For starters, the Indian Tamil tea plantation grunts, previously imported by the Brits, were barred citizenship. With help from an authoritarian government (which is still in place) of Sinhalese nationalism, a ‘Sinhala-only’ language law was passed. Tamils got mad. Tension and riots ensued. More than 100 were killed in widespread violence. Reverse anti-Tamil riots left hundreds dead and more than 25,000 Tamil refugees moved north.

In 1970 came the banning of Tamil media and literature importation followed by a new law that favored Sinhalese enrollees in universities, cutting the number of Tamil admissions. Later, Buddhism was deemed the country’s religion, further oppressing and irking the Tamils. While assuring freedom of religion to all citizens, the 1978 Constitution offered “foremost place” to Buddhism and required “the duty of the State to protect and foster the Buddhist Sasana (broad teachings of the Buddha).” This led many young Tamils to push for a separate Tamil state called Eelam and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam group was born.

In June 1981 things really soured when a mob of Sinhalese police and government paramilitias launched two days of Tamil annihilation, destroying the Jaffna Public Library, one of Asia’s biggest and most significant, housing nearly 98,000 irreplaceable manuscripts, scrolls, and books. The chaos was sparked by the killings of Sinhalese policemen at a Tamil-sponsored Jaffna rally.

Two years later came Black July, an anti-Tamil pogrom and riots as a response to a Tamil Tigers ambush that slew 13 Serendip Army soldiers. For a week, gangs of Sinhalese attacked Tamil targets—killing, looting, burning. Three thousand died, 150,000 became homeless. Throngs of Tamils fled the island. Of the youths who stayed, many joined militant clans and hence began the major civil war between the Tamil Tigers and Serendip’s government that would not cease for 26 years.

When the dust settled, more than 100,000 people were dead from attacks that included massacres, bombings, robberies, military battles, and assassinations of civilian and military targets. The government and the Tigers were accused of human rights abuses throughout the war, with much focus on its final stages, when thousands of civilians were trapped in a thin strip of land in the north of Serendip.

The whole thing went against the grain. Religion is a silly reason to fight. It’s contrary to natural inclination. Like a fish with no fins.

But, wait—what’s that supposed to mean?

But, wait. Ellis Ericson, what’s up with this board you made, the one Mell is stuffing into his tattered boardbag before he leaves us for Bukit bliss?

Technically it’s not Mell’s board. Technically inspired by Derek Hynd’s finless theories, technically it belongs to Ericson, its creator who technically told me this in an email several weeks later: “It was a one-off, just an attempt at some of the friction-free boards I’d seen Derek riding. It kind of worked, but I’m still learning, so I’m sure his work better. I’m not making them for anyone—just myself. I want to be clear on that as Derek is making the best friction-free boards out there. So much R&D has gone into them and I have a lot of respect for his board-modification and building techniques.”

Jared Mell in a Bali dispatch, also some weeks later, before he visited Rome and Istanbul: “Ellis’s finless worked great. I had the best time going straight, sideways, backwards, diagonal, upside-down. Whatever which way I could think of. The board is similar to one of Derek’s but it’s more of an all-around version that can go right or left. Derek’s boards seem to be focused on the one wave he is going to surf, which is great if you can get them made all the time.”

The one wave we are going to surf today is waist-high and perfect, smashing onto the outermost promontory granite boulders before cleanly spooling along the point over a soft sand bottom, ending as a shorebreak closeout 300 yards north. It operates in close proximity to an Africanesque wildlife sanctuary which my guidebook says is “the Jungle Book brought to glorious life,” home to 46 species of reptiles (including saltwater crocs), 44 species of mammals (including elephants and the world’s highest concentration of leopards), and a lot of other things. At the beach, all we see are birds.

Jared Mell.



THE LION STARES. Eyes wide, he seems rapt to roar. Like he’s about to walk, lion to Lyon.

His lifted right paw rests on a brown knuckle of stone. His orange mane is big, his whiplike tail swayed right. Washing his body is a low gold light from a sunrise or sunset. Above his head is 1881 and below his paws are the words lion lager, odd since lions have never lived in Serendip. leopard lager would be more apt. Or little egret lager. Or lesser bandicoot rat lager. Or whatever. At least the old Brits brought beer to the Indian Ocean.

Ceylon Brewery was Serendip’s first, built in 1881 to install a boozy piece of home for the Brits while they gazed over their tea plantations in the hilly burg of Nuwara Eliya, 115 kilometers west of where Santa Barbara’s lionish Connor Lyon had side-slipped on his self-modified, finless Spence displacement hull across his 26th wave of the afternoon session that had led to a chromatic dusk.

With its subtropical highland climate and spring water, Nuwara Eilya was a sweet spot for a brewery. Nicknamed “Little England,” the town was an ark for the British civil servants and tea planters, an insular sanctuary where they could improvise Union Jack leisure like hunting, polo, golf, and cricket.

Not a big beer drinker, Lyon does like a good pint, generally of California craft beers. But those are on the other side of the world. Tonight in Serendip he’s drank two large Lion Lagers before the one he’s now holding, all three bought from the empty Rasta-themed bar down the lane, just past the empty beach and the empty tin fish shack. The carbonated yellow liquid in his brown glass bottle behind the big male lion label is lukewarm. Lyon thinks Lion is better than Bintang, the other Asian beer he’s tried. At best, lukewarm Lion is “mildly refreshing,” he says. At worst, I counter, it’s another limp beer on another hot island. But that’s a topic for another tale.

Seven p.m.—dark. Crickets with mosquitoes and other pests that bite our feet. Lyon is lounging on a white plastic chair in front of the room where Kyle Albers was once vomiting. Drinking the beer and thumbing through a copy of Slide magazine, Lyon’s manelike hair remains damp from the late surf session. The hair covers his ears, clogged with saltwater, but he can hear the male muezzin reciting Salat al-‘Isha, the Islamic early-night prayer, his Arabic words drifting from the speakers on the minaret atop the nearby mosque. We can’t see the mosque; it’s somewhere over the hill, south, in the dark.

The muezzin’s voice is hypnotic, spooky. Soothing in a weird way. It’s the fifth and final of the daily ritual Muslim prayers, starting with the first chapter of the Qur’ān, the core religious text of Islam, translated to:

In The Name Of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise Be To Allah, Lord Of The Worlds. Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Master Of The Day Of Judgment. Thee (Alone) We Worship And Thee (Alone) We Ask For Help. Show Us The Straight Path. The Path Of Those Whom Thou Hast Favored; Not The (Path) Of Those Who Earn Thine Anger Nor Of Those Who Go Astray.

Allah is Arabic for “God” who in Islam is the prophet Muhammad (full name: Abū al-Qāsim Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd Allāh ibn ‘Abd al-Muṭṭalib ibn Hāshim) from the Arabian hamlet of Mecca. He launched Islam 4,794 kilometers and 1,391 years from where Connor Lyon sits with his warm beer and wild hair and magazine and bugs and the small mosque summoning him through the darkness of twilight.

But like 91 percent of Serendipians, Lyon is not Muslim.

“I ain’t religious, dog.”

Serendip mosques seem a bit quaint, though Islam has existed here since the 8th century and is represented on the national flag, the one Lyon admired three hours ago as it flapped in the offshore breeze in front of a small roadside restaurant. (Its fish curry was superb.)

Called the Lion Flag (more lions!), the Sinhalese ethnicity is repped by a yellow lion clutching a sword over a red rectangular background with a fig leaf in each corner. Around the background is a yellow border and to its left are two vertical stripes—one orange, one green. The orange represents Tamils and the green represents Muslims, the majority ethnicity around the beaches we’re surfing. To us, they’re nice, friendly folks—fishermen, farmers, merchants, taxi drivers—but not everyone agrees.

Back in the late ‘80s, because Muslims were believed to back the Sinhalese government, the Tamil Tigers began attacking Muslim towns, forcing thousands from their homes, torching buildings and killing residents. In August 1990, during this very same Salat al-‘Isha prayer that Lyon hears, the Tigers murdered 147 prostrating Muslims in attacks on four mosques in Kattankudi, 93 kilometers upcoast from where Lyon has just now sank his third Lion Lager of the evening. In October 1990 the Tigers expelled 95,000 Muslims from Serendip’s north, calling it an “ethnic cleansing” to help reach the Tigers’ goal of creating Eelam, their monoethnic state.

Perhaps they should’ve built a brewery up there and made Liberation Lager or Attack Ale. Something like that.

Me: “Should we go get more warm beer?”

Lyon: “Hell no. Shit tasted wack. Like, double wack.”

Recently Sinhalese nationalists flipped their ire from Tamils to Muslims and, led by Buddhist monks, they’re attacking mosques and Muslim-owned businesses plus churches and clergy.

Allah Ale? Islamic IPA?


Buddha Beer? Sinhala Stout?

Connor Lyon would sink those. But he’s not. He’s going to bed with a lion-sized headache.

Connor Lyon.



SMASHED UNCONSCIOUS AT CHURCH. Why not? It’s what they do.

Throughout 2013, in a gambit to “protect” Serendip’s Sinhalese and their Buddhist beliefs, two Buddhist-extremist groups terrorized Catholic Christians with arson, church demolitions, mob attacks, and physical assaults. The Bodu Bala Sena (“Buddhist Power Force”) and the Sinhala Ravaya (“Sinhalese Echo”) led nearly 50 anti-Christian incidents, mostly on churches, though individual folks were also marked.

Before flying to Serendip I read an online news story containing a quote from a prominent Buddhist lawyer: “Such attacks show there is a political agenda that aims to unite the Buddhists. Everyone should have the freedom to change religion in this country. We Buddhists are the first to be harmed in our culture and religion from these petty actions. Whoever is behind (these incidents) should not be supported. As a Buddhist I feel embarrassed because real Buddhism is not about attacking and killing.”

Awaiting my daily pre-dawn curry breakfast from the sweet Buddhist ladies in the guesthouse kitchen, I read a story in a new issue of The Island, my preferred Serendip newspaper. Out west last week, a Bodu Bala Sena monk and his four thugs stormed into a Catholic church and used a guitar to knock out the pastor who, along with his mother, required hospitalization. The Buddhists then trashed the sacred grounds and freaked everyone out. It was the year’s 45th anti-Christian incident up to this quiet late-September morning which finds Simon Murdoch slowly stirring cane sugar into his ginger tea at the breakfast table while antisocially reading Gyatso’s Introduction to Buddhism: An Explanation of the Buddhist Way of Life.

A fly lands in Murdoch’s tea. Serendipity?

Serendipity, as manifested by the fly: death from drowning in delicious tea. Serendip is famous for its tea.

Serendipity, as defined in the Oxford English Dictionary: “The faculty of making happy and unexpected discoveries by accident.”

Serendipity, as invented by England’s effeminate Gothic fictionalist and Whig Party (liberal/anti-Catholic) politician Horace Walpole, the fourth and last Earl of Orford, the youngest son of British Prime Minister Sir Robert Walpole: in his letter to a friend on January 28, 1754, little Horace mentioned “The Three Princes of Serendip,” a Persian fairytale in which the princes, he wrote, “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of…this discovery, indeed, is almost of that kind which I call Serendipity, a very expressive word.” The fairytale’s location was indeed Serendip, the old Arabic name for Sri Lanka.

A chimney-sweeper by day, by night the friendly and mustachioed Murdoch, a Mormon, sleeps at his self-made Tent Palace on his parents’ leafy property in Santa Barbara’s Hidden Valley sect. The Palace is an impromptu and functional example of youth groove. It is cozy and colorful and festooned with sarongs and tapestries and floored with rugs, soon with one Murdoch purchased yesterday from a smiling roadside vendor who probably would have liked what Murdoch has got going on back at home.

His 12-person nylon tent is five kilometers from his beloved Sandspit, 73 kilometers from Supertubes and 14,902 kilometers from the hazardous wave he finds on our second-to-last day. It’s a foul mix of those two California spots, though it breaks more often and with far fewer surfers in much warmer water and the residents nearby are Muslims with no cars or cash.

Serendipity, as shared by Murdoch: engaging the long view from a northern headland and, in the hazy south, seeing tubes spit. It is to be the fourth point we surf in the last two days, though geologically this place is a collection of brown boulders that ease shoreward into a sand-bottomed cove. The paddle-outs are simple but the wave, which French-kisses rock and pounds bare sand, is freakish. Each wave requires careful skill and cavalier risk.

This morning, Murdoch endangers a leashless 5’3” round-tail quad that 816 days prior was shaped for me by Ryan Lovelace. It is maroon with a splattered bluey-yellow-purple-red bottom, birthed in Gregg Tally’s garage of White Owl Surfboards fame. The board was later ping-ponged between a few friends and countries, much like the way it ping-pongs through the boulders when Murdoch blows a take-off or gets pinched in a sand-sucking tube.

After one session the board is wrecked. Tomorrow, after a second session (this time with a leash), Murdoch will gift it to a stocky dark Serendip surfer of ding-fixing repute, prompting this letter from Lovelace in California: “In the past year, Simon had definitely breathed some new life into that board, drawing his own lines and putting a fresh spin on a board I’d seen surfed a zillion times. Watching Simon surf it at home was a joy, and I was a bit heartbroken that it got left in Serendip, although why it was left and who with couldn’t be any happier of a continuation for that board’s life.”

On the bottom of that board, in the center of Lovelace’s yellow resin-dot logo, is a debossed half-inch-wide om symbol. Lovelace used a wooden stamp to do this—it is his last movement on each shaped blank. Om is a mystic syllable, considered the most sacred of Buddhist mantras, uttered at the start and end of most Sanskrit texts, prayers, and recitations. Lovelace does not say om before and after he shapes a board, and it is unlikely Buddhist and Hindu terrorists say om when they attack non-believers, like when insane Islamic terrorists yell the Takbīr, the Arabic term for the phrase Allāhu Akbar (“God is greatest”).

Serendipity, after Simon Murdoch hoots through his 12th tube of the hour: ecstatic, he slides off the green shoulder and into the deep channel. He yells to the non-drunk Lyon and the non-food-poisoned Albers, both paddling frantically, each about to get kegged on the set’s next two waves.

“Dudes! Why weren’t we surfing here during the whole trip?”

Somewhere in Bali, the fourth prince smiles.

Simon Murdoch.

Stellar Spans

By Michael H. Kew

Yaquina Bay Bridge, Newport, Ore.

WITHOUT ICONIC BRIDGES fusing mystique and architectural allure to trips up and down Oregon’s U.S. Route 101, you’d see scant coast. Few motorists realize it was just one architect—Conde Balcom McCullough—who engineered the connective grandeur.

Born (1887) in the Dakota Territory, McCullough’s storied career began at Iowa’s Marsh Bridge Company, where he worked for one year before taking a job at the Iowa State Highway Commission. In 1916 he moved to Corvallis to work as an assistant professor of civil engineering at Oregon Agricultural College (now Oregon State University). Three years later, he became the head engineer at the Oregon State Highway Department’s (OSHD) bridge division, where he immediately began planning hundreds of bridges for Oregon’s new web of roads. McCullough stayed with the OSHD (now the Oregon Department of Transportation, or ODOT) to 1935, then again from 1937 until he died from a stroke in 1946.

In this early 20th-century career, drafting his bridges, many with Gothic spires, Romanesque arches, and Art Deco obelisks, McCullough felt his coastal links must be built soundly and efficiently and with architectural elegance enhancing the endemic beauty. The ambitious government-funded project to build Roosevelt Coast Military Highway, named for President Theodore Roosevelt, was a perfect conduit. Construction began in 1921. In 1926, the road was dubbed U.S. 101; in 1931 it was named the Oregon Coast Highway and spanned more than 360 miles of dramatic scenes from the Columbia to California. (In 2002 it was listed as a National Scenic Byway/All-American Road.)

Before 1921 most coastal towns were isolated from each other, separated by waterways and rocky headlands and heavily forested hills. Thanks to McCullough, gaps were bridged—literally. His big six (over the Rogue River at Gold Beach, Yaquina Bay at Newport, the Alsea River at Waldport, the Siuslaw River at Florence, the Umpqua River at Reedsport, and North Bend at Coos Bay) nixed the coast’s last ferry lines. The OSHD formed a parks division and, by the end of the 1920s, developed public waysides along the new coast route. In 1935 the OSHD launched a bureau to hype “the scenic and recreational attractions of the state conducive to bringing motorists to Oregon over its highways.” This program fed coast tourism which, in 1936, the year following bridge completion, increased by 72 percent in the face of the Great Depression. Ultimately, McCullough’s Oregon projects—hundreds of bridges, including more than 30 arched spans—coincided with the rise of automobiles and their grand effects on America.

In 2001 Robert W. Hadlow, Ph.D., a Portland-based historian at the Oregon Department of Transportation, wrote Elegant Arches, Soaring Spans: C.B. McCullough, Oregon’s Master Bridge Builder. “McCullough pictured the bridges that he and his engineers constructed along the route not merely as structures carrying traffic, but as ‘jeweled clasps in a wonderful string of matched pearls,’” Hadlow said. “That string of pearls was the Oregon Coast’s collection of headlands and coves, beaches and cliffs. McCullough’s bridges, especially the large ones, complimented these features. None of them were ordinary clasps. They were all jeweled.”

Hadlow remains smitten by 3,223-foot-long Yaquina Bay Bridge, Newport’s classic span of steel arches, decks, grand stairways, and observation platforms. “It has everything one might want to see in a McCullough bridge in terms of architectural ornamentation,” Hadlow said. “Like his other bridges along the coast, the Yaquina Bay Bridge combines classical, Gothic, and Tudor elements with those from the then-popular Art Deco and Streamline Moderne vocabularies to create a visually pleasing structure both individually elegant and complimentary to its environment. One observer saw the Yaquina Bay Bridge as ‘arching across the water like a ballerina taking several smallish-but-impressive leaps—one a great soaring, breathtaking leap, followed by a succession of smaller leaps to the opposite bank.’ For me, the Yaquina Bay Bridge is the one at the top, like the finale at a fireworks show, or the final movement of a beautiful symphony.”

Yaquina included, 11 of McCullough’s U.S. 101 bridges are in the National Register of Historic Places, the other 10 being: Wilson River, Depoe Bay, Rocky Creek, Ten Mile Creek, Big Creek, Cape Creek, Siuslaw River, Umpqua River, Coos Bay (McCullough’s personal favorite, posthumously renamed the McCullough Memorial Bridge), and Rogue River.

According to Hadlow, McCullough wanted his coastal bridges to instill “aesthetic excellence” for both visitors and locals. McCullough hoped his work would help to boost traffic (which occurred instantly), generate substantial fuel tax revenues, and enhance touristic commerce in the towns—everything the Oregon Coast depends on. “Once the last big bridges opened in 1936 and the road was complete, tourism skyrocketed,” Hadlow said. “Since then, tourism along U.S. 101 has been an important part of the state and local economies. Even today, travelers marvel at the many wonderful bridges McCullough and his engineers designed and built along this route so many years ago.”

Conde B. McCullough in 1935. Photo: Oregon Historical Society Research Library. 

Woodsy at Wolf Tree

By Michael H. Kew

Joe Hitselberger. Photo: Kew.

LATE FEBRUARY. Weeks of springlike warmth are at last slain by La Niña, reviving winter and sending snow levels a-plunging. Eight miles south of Newport, wheeling east through sleet, I pass a wealth of wooded and riparian habitat—views of waterfowl, of leafless alders, of conifers laced white.

A few miles later I park in front of a remote red barn that looks nothing like a brewery. I’m on the edge of a 600-acre working cattle ranch.

“Most people who live on this road don’t know there’s a brewery out here,” bearded-and-beanied Joe Hitselberger says as he gives me a sample of his mildly tart, wild-yeast kriek, brewed two years ago and called Beaver Kriek per the Beaver Creek Valley this ranch occupies. “Here,” he continues, eyeing the lush landscape, “there are so many ingredients for beer.”

Aside gently bubbling Bowers Creek, a Beaver Creek vein, we’re standing at the end of a private graveled lane piercing the bucolic ranch that’s been his family’s since the late-1980s. Technically the barn/brewery lies within Seal Rock, an unincorporated area between Newport and Waldport. It’s where Hitselberger, 37, innovates.

What’s a wolf tree?

Merriam-Webster defines it as “a very large forest tree that has a wide-spreading crown and inhibits or prevents the growth of smaller trees around it.”

Or: a tree spared during the ruthless age of logging virgin rainforests.

Hitselberger is also a steward forester for the Oregon Department of Forestry. “At the coast,” he says, “wolf trees are usually Sitka spruce. We’ve got groves of juveniles everywhere, so we pick from them, mostly out of convenience. The smaller trees put more of their energy toward growing rather than producing cones, so they’re easier to get tips off of.”

In 2013 Hitselberger began with 20-gallon batches. Today his shiny outdoor coolship and indoor 7Bbl Portland Kettle Works system birth all sorts of unique liquids, kingpinned by his pride-and-joy flagship.

“It’s a true Northwest-style beer,” he says, handing me a small glass of malty, amber spruce tip ale, Wolf Tree’s unique year-rounder. It’s used as a base for more sprucey specialties like a barrel-aged oud bruin and a richly complex gruit that won an Experimental-class gold medal at 2017’s Oregon Beer Awards.

“Spruce beers are fun to make,” Hitselberger says, grinning. “Each April, we have friends come out here and we pick 3,000 pounds of tips so we can make spruce tip beers year-round. Compared with the volume we want to produce, it’s hard for other breweries to replicate what we do because of the availability of tips. It’s hard to buy them.” (He recently sold some to Rogue Ales.)

The world’s third-largest tree species (behind Douglas fir and coast redwood), Sitka spruce are native to a narrow coastal belt from southeast Alaska to Mendocino County, Calif., where Hitselberger gets his wine barrels. But Alaska, where Sitka is the state tree, was where he found his brew muse. In the early 2000s, employed as a wildlife biologist in Juneau, Hitselberger first tasted spruce tip ale. “I drank a lot of it from some of the microbreweries up there. I got hooked. So I started homebrewing.”

One of his first non-spruce tip recipes became Camille’s Golden IPA, named for one of his dogs. Part of the beer’s proceeds are donated to Heartland Humane Society in Corvallis.

Yes, Wolf Tree is kind to four-legged friends.

“A brewery is a good complimentary business to a farm,” Hitselberger says. “Our cows eat the spent grain, and we grow a lot of ingredients here, including hops. Our spring provides really good brewing water. We’re getting more and more into coolship beers, and what’s fascinating with that is it’s unique to this valley. Our beers have interesting flavors. We do a lot of wild styles and eventually our beers are going to pick up a kind of signature from the brewery just because of the yeasts we use and how things are in close proximity.”

Animals—elk, owl, dog, bear—grace all Wolf Tree bottle labels. All were drawn by Julia Goos, an Oregon Coast Community College art teacher and beertender at the Wolf Tree Taproom located upstairs in the squeaky-clean Wilder Corner Building, mere yards from the OCCC campus and a new housing subdivision. “We built a pretty big customer base before opening our taproom,” Hitselberger says. “Having a strong customer base outside beyond the taproom is good, though, because we don’t rely on all our revenue from it.”

Since August 2017’s Eclipse Weekend, the taproom has allowed direct public access to Hitselberger’s fresh rotating creations which he estimates to be 50-percent farmhouse style, 50-percent conventional.

“The coast is interesting for beer,” he says. “Ninety-nine percent of our products leave this area. People in the Willamette Valley are more interested in these kinds of beers; most people in Newport have never heard of us. (laughs) You’d be more likely to find someone in Portland who’s heard of Wolf Tree.”

Light snow resumes. It’s a Sunday. The taproom beckons. Spruce tip ale will fill my future.

“You’ve got to be unique in this business,” Hitselberger says before heading back into the barn. “Making beer in Oregon, you don’t want to have any brand fatigue and you want to keep making interesting things consumers want. Spruce tip beer alone is compelling enough to grab peoples’ attention. It’s different, and it tastes different.”


Wolf Tree Brewery Taproom

4590 SE Harborton Street, South Beach (Newport)


Light One Candle

By Michael H. Kew

Saipan. Photo: Kew.

JULY 1944. Of the 71,000 US troops who landed on Saipan, 3,000 were killed; more than 10,000 were hurt. Of Japan’s garrison of 30,000 troops, 921 were captured. The rest died. Some 5,000 others, including the Japanese commanders, killed themselves.

I wanted to see what they last saw. With an hour of daylight left, I drove to Banzai Cliff. It was serene. No sounds but wind and slight muffle of surf sloshing against the crags. I watched seabirds swoop and swirl above the chop.

A red convertible Mustang broke the vibe. A group of brightly clothed Chinese got out and smoked cigarettes and took selfies and laughed. It was irritating. Disrespectful. I was unsure if they’d grasped the gravity of the place. Another few groups of visitors drove up, parked, walked to the clifftop overlook, took selfies, smoked cigarettes, and left. Nobody read the memorials. Some played loud rap music and peeled out, burning rubber.

Left in the dust of the soft gold of sunset, the grounds of Banzai Cliff felt sacred with the moving and haunting tragedy of the memorials—stones and obelisks and Buddhist figures pleading for world peace. It was a pilgrimage site for most Japanese tourists, particularly during Saipan’s Japanese-tourist heyday. Other Japanese memorials nearby were park-like, beautifully landscaped, clean, quiet. Goodness knows Saipan was loud in 1944, its three-week summer bloodbath.

Etched in stone at Banzai Cliff:

This memorial was erected on behalf of all people for the purpose of consoling the spirits of those many victims who lost their lives in the battles between Japanese and American forces in the Central Pacific during the Pacific War (Greater East Asia War) and as a prayer that our world be free of all such conflicts. —May 2008, The Head Temple of Nenpou Shinkyou Shousouzan Kongouji

I saw no Japanese visitors at Banzai Cliff. Annually since 1988, members of Japan’s Shikogakuen Mission visited to lead a Peace Ceremony to honor the war, the dead, and to pray for peace. Launched in 1945, Shikougakuen was a religious group that built the memorial on Banzai Cliff in 1988 not only for those who died there, but for people who died in wars worldwide.

Darkness fell. A white cat ambushed my feet. At the adjacent Japanese Memorial, carved on the monument, I found the touching words of Rev. Seizan Kawakami, Shikogakuen Mission’s founder:

Better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.

Bridge to Eden

By Michael H. Kew

Photos: Kew.

[“You defiled your sanctuaries by the multitude of your iniquities….” (Ezek. 28:18)]

[And He said to them, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.” (Luke 10:18)]


Pulsating, it rose in crescendo and veered to a different timbre. The melody soaked the scene, resonating from the light with hues more potent than the notes themselves. Lifting, dropping, vibrating like a climactic omen. The place shook in unison before and beneath. A small vestige of shadow appeared in the color.

Bright white burst into silence, and all fell in awe as He exhaled…expelling the source of that orgasm of sound.

The flameball arced through the heavens, swift as lightning, rolling in a thunderous shriek of anger, shock, and pain. Its source reeked of a new emotion: hate.

Writhing and steeped in spite with remnants of glory and brilliance, spinning off into the darkness, strata of divine obedience and empyreal beauty fell from Lucifer’s being. His transgression? No tempter for him, no blame—only one to account for and to. And his body touched the cold dirt of earth, raped of the light of praise, strength, solace, love.

Black, hollow, empty. A shell of what he had been, Satan slithered into the inky depths of his newfound netherworld. Leering to the heavens, the night flickered with sparks, which faded, one by one, as a third of all God’s siblings followed in Satan’s fate.


* * *


[And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being. (Gen. 2:7)]

Blackness out…midnight. A forested setting…parchment paper and a small oak table. A spartan, intimate setting: wood fire, one door, one window, one chair. Wan, flickering candlelight bathes the shack perched cliffside two thousand feet above the sea. Burning logs wheeze and murmur in the stone hearth, flame playing faintly onto the room’s uneven, undecorated wood walls.

A dim alcove in nature shelters an ancient, pious man and his thoughts. To anyone else, this would be a cozy nook. Happy place. To him, this is a lonely place—a narrow place, a desolate place, a fearsome place…a place to confront himself within God through the written word.

Aside a ceramic cup full of red wine, he sits and writes earnestly with a quill, its loose strokes producing a rhythmic scratching which blends into the woodstove’s sporadic fire-pop and the wind’s moan in the chimney. The man grips his quill tightly, a mortal and immortal lifetime of emotion and observations flooding the page. This is a formal documentation, one he hopes mankind will read and digest. But not tonight.

His cursive handwriting is long and pronounced and somewhat regal, as one would expect from a man of his stature. Yet today, nobody knows who he is, this man of antiquity.


I am Adam. I am a carnal being. The land in the east and the blessing of God created me. The bone of my bones created her. I called her Woman, as she was taken from Man and became the mother of all living. So it began.

By consuming the forbidden fruit, God’s command was breached, and He sent us away. Elsewhere, I tilled the dirt I was taken from. We could not re-enter Eden as God used a flaming sword and cherubim to protect the garden.

I recall life after banishment. It was our inaugural cognizance of good and evil. I crept back to the land God made for me, but His presence, like wind, swept the borders of that place. As I drew nearer to it, I felt upon my skin the heat and warmth which afforded my soul extreme suffering. I could not bear His presence. I knew that if I could enter, I would be consumed from the inside out. That unholy seed, sown and sprouted from Satan’s insubordination, barred me from the good land and life the Architect had designed for man. I obtained knowledge of death, and embraced it. It comes for me now—I can hear it in the night, as a ravenous wolf outside the door of my heart and even this very place.

Yet, at nine hundred and thirty years of age, I am ready to disperse as dust once more. We challenged God’s very omnipotence. I dwell on this. Mine is a dusky, old life today, a pyramid of skin, heart, and memory in concert to project a lucid recollection of blissful times, perceptive and enlightened. Unsentimental sexuality was never part of the program, though it is axiomatic today. Wanton behavior belies winsome intent.

[“And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, ‘Of every tree of the garden you may freely eat; but of the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.’” (Gen. 2:16-17)]

“Be fruitful and multiply”—yes, the divine command to procreate. Assertively sexual, Eve’s was never strange flesh—she came from me, after all. But it was she who was fool to temptation. The serpent spoke but twice, which was enough to corrupt the balance of Eve and I and our Creator. Upon the serpent’s encouragement, she gave me the fruit from the sun, seduced the faithful to fornicate, and it was good. We swallowed the fruit’s aphrodisiacal jelly and succumbed to lust. We seized the moment and experienced it intensely—this was the Earth’s first coital affirmance, and then there was Cain, though he came after much disgrace and internal trauma. As we then knew sin, we also bore Abel, Seth, and several others.

We believed God to be withholding the knowledge of good and evil from us. We desired to be like God, though we were of him as we were created in His image.


Pausing to re-ink the quill in the well on the desk, he knocks the wine glass onto its side; the drink spills, pooling on the flat surface, dribbling like blood onto the dirt floor and his bare feet.

The dust at his feet is from whence he came. These feet have stood the demands of time—they have sunk into the sands of Eden, burned from the exiled fire of Hell, and survived the test of a lost soul drifting from century to century.

He unhands the quill, leans back, sighs, slowly gazes up to the window behind him. God is here, the man thinks—He created this environment for a purpose. No, this man is not senile or desirous, and this is far from mere serendipity. It is an unsought and valuable circumstance.

Wind shrieks beneath the door, cooling the man’s feet, wet with wine. The whistling pane of cobwebbed glass reveals the cold, stormy darkness. Its gusts jar the ambiance—each begins with a low, subtle hiss, quickly accelerating to peak velocity before subsiding. The seeping wind stirs the smells of the room. He inhales the dankness of the place, its musty air, the candle, tobacco, the smoldering sap and woodsmoke. This is how God decided the man should spend his final days.

Vexed and woeful, he looks back down at the pages before him—perhaps twenty lie scrawled with ink; a stack of blanks await his word of the hand of God. God never left him. He had left God. He was unwillingly purged from his creator. God loved him immensely, deeply, unwaveringly. His unconditional emotion lay the foundation for a divine, rewarding existence. Eden was bliss.

The man’s white robe flows loosely over bony arms and sunken chest, drooping to his feet. His appearance is unkempt but fiercely focused as he smoked from a thin pipe of ivory given to him by an Ethiopian bushman in the thirteenth century.

The man’s face is pale and creased yet full of wisdom and the look of distance. His thick brows veer sharply atop each eye, joining on the bridge of his nose, a bulbous knob for blind perception. His hair, smooth and brilliantly ashen, fairly greasy and worn long, flows from the monkish shawl, meeting his beard at the heart from which he writes.

His heart beats heavier than most.


My secret of the universe is borne from a devotion to God and Eve and my emergence in Eden—our original nest. We were heirs to natural bounty and we had everything we needed. We knew not good nor evil until the fruit was eaten.

Nothing could harm us. Storm-free, the nightly starscape was engorged in detail, every dot on it tropically sharp, like nightside sailing across the middle of an equatorial sea, navigating with stars. Our time unfolded, blessed with a complex beauty, and our dress was nudity, of which we did not realize. Later, our genitals were sheathed with fig leaves. This was the “garb of Eden.” Yes, we were starkers but hid ourselves once shame prevailed. It was then when we were no longer like God. We sought wisdom but found only toil and vanity.

To absorb Eden was a lesson in patience, but that was all we knew. It was an unconscious beat. Serenity, water, and soil evoke the environs of erotic sin, and the serpent Satan knew all of this when he approached Eve:

[Now the serpent was more cunning than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said to the woman, “Has God indeed said, You shall not eat of every tree of the garden?” And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden; But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden God has said, ‘You shall not eat it, nor shall you, lest you die.’” Then the serpent said to the woman, “You will not surely die for God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave to her husband with her, and he ate. (Gen. 3:1-6)]

Eventual temptation and lust of the eye led to our carnality, which became eternal hell and vast consequence. This is how I have lived, tortured and silent. Cast from the presence of God, I bear an overwhelming, everlasting sense of loss from this fall. Essentially, Eve took me from Him. The serpent spoke, she listened, and here my tired soul weeps. His evil legacy, it has become mine. Its knowledge burns, scalding my soul to this day and possibly into my eternity.


Skin sags under green eyes, faded from extended reflection upon the world he was thrust into by his past choices. A witness to time, coursing away and beyond his obviously finite place in it, Adam had seen cultures shift, oceans rise, lands collide and separate, societies birthed and deceased, warfare of religious and economic decrees. He had seen it all but few, if any, knew this.

God had blessed Adam in spite of the curse he and Eve had caused to fall on his family and an entire world. He knew God still undertook for them all, despite the curse.

So he wrote.


* * *


[He who is of God hears God’s words. (John 8:47)]


Kate’s feet throbbed. The outskirts of Torrance were still many blocks away. Her black-and-white saddle shoes, a size too narrow, cramped further by sweaty white cotton socks, made walking painful. They were the only size of appropriate shoes her mother could find at K-Mart last night; on Friday afternoon her neighbor’s dog chewed her pair of oxfords to bits. An avid surfer, sandals were her normal footwear, but St. Mary’s prohibited them on campus.

Kate was sixteen years old. She’d missed the bus ride to school, and with no car or bicycle, walking was her lone option. Mother never gave her rides. But the school was only a few miles from her house, she reasoned, and sitting in a bus wouldn’t afford time to break these shoes in.

It was 8 a.m. on a chilled Monday in November 1997. The sidewalks were littered with orangey brown leaves of birch and maple, dead after two seasons of fluttering in the wind. Today’s wind was crisp, the cloudless sky a pastel spread in the swelling sunlight—dawn was an hour past. Rustic scents—the heart of autumn—captured her as she walked past homes and storefronts…woodsmoke twirling lazily from chimneys, fresh pumpkin and apple pies in Safeway, the potpourri and cinnamon spiciness of Sadie’s Candle Shop display.

At breakfast, her mother had again scolded her for not locking her bike, burgled from her garage last week. Because she knew Kate to be careless and immature, there was no talk of a driver’s license. The girl was on her own—sixteen was old enough.

Her long, curly blonde hair drawn into a ponytail, Kate shuffled down this bustling urban rush-hour avenue, shivering in her school uniform, a navy blue pleated skirt and white middy with a long blue neckerchief that matched the color of her eyes. Trucks and cars blared past, headed in the school’s direction. Kate considered hitchhiking, but last month’s news in Lawndale had featured her cousin Renee’s fatal hitchhike abduction case; the perpetrators were at large.

Like her walk, life limped. She hated the shoes, the school, the town, her mother’s dereliction and their grubby home, the rowdy neighbors, her lack of friends. Other people looked spirited, so healthy and alive. Kate felt neglected and effete, dazed and lethargic.

Time crawled since she’d last surfed. A few weeks ago, Patrick, the handsome nineteen-year-old up the street, was arrested while driving drunk; his truck was impounded. His father kicked him out of the house. Patrick was gone.

Despite her lifelong proximity to Redondo and Hermosa, Kate befriended no other surfers. None of her classmates knew the beach. A Navy mechanic, her estranged father lived and surfed on Guam; he gave Kate her first surfboard—a battered 6’2” Nectar—when she was twelve. But he was in Micronesia, not California.

Nothing was here for Kate, particularly her alcoholic Catholic mother. Reticent and unapproachable even on the sunniest of days, Mother was the one who paid the mortgage, bought the food, drove the car, and went to work as a telemarketer six days a week. Hers was a dismal template of how Kate did not want to live her adult life. She ached for a more loving path, an auspicious path.

Now…just a few more blocks to school. She kicked whatever pebble crossed her path, scuffing the damned shoes. Town’s edge evaporated behind her as she passed the last building, an Italian deli with dirty windows and an aura of failure.

Behind the deli, she approached the vast bridge spanning Clark Street, where she was hit with wind—a penetrating, stirring gust. But this autumn cold snap was so ineffectual, Kate thought, appropriate to her inviolate mood, exempt from catharsis. Lost in discomfort, she hugged herself for warmth and walked, eyes to the ground. Must be a better way, she told herself. I need to get out of this place… to get out of myself.

The pain in her feet was severe, each step indeed one closer to confined torture, heeding priests and nuns, faced with a doleful crucifix in each classroom. It was a loveless place, and she felt like a convict of a defeated, loveless life. Eventually her small fists clenched and the tears fell.

Her nose was runny, her eyes puffy and wet. Her face, pink with cold, was a picture of incongruity—natural classic beauty scarred by aimlessness and immutable malaise. She shivered and sobbed. The bridge, longer than she’d ever known it, became a path to academic prison.

She paused and glanced over the railing: cars below sped to other places—to better places. The cars weren’t headed to St. Mary’s or to Kate’s broken home. She wanted to be in one of them, driving away from here. She wanted to leap from the bridge and land in a truck, sitting next to a smiling surfer boy on his way to the beach. If mis-timed, she would splatter on the pavement and be done with everything. Death didn’t seem like such a bad thing, after all. She knew God, and even Heaven awaited. Hell may be somewhat like Torrance. How could she escape?

Suddenly the wind seemed to shift. It went strangely warm and a sweet aroma wafted through it…the scent oddly familiar. A phantasmic sound pulsed, a voice: calm, soft, seeming to be at one with the fragrance—a perfect match.

“You are my child now. Your place is with me.”

She stopped and looked around but saw no one. Was the wind, now strangely dry and heated, playing an aural trick on her? Was it the noise of the traffic below?

The voice spoke again, soft and confidential.

You are my child now. Your place is with me.

Again she looked—besides the passing cars, she was solo on the sidewalk. Nobody else could have heard this. Then the wind cooled; the scent evaporated with it in the change. She resumed walking, listening. Nothing but traffic and the chilly breeze. Was she delusional? Perhaps her Torrance-bound life was far too much to sanely bear.


Kate dripped into a daze for the first couple of hours. Mid-morning’s recess between Biology and History found her on the asphalt outside observing seven uniformed classmates engaged in a loose, lopsided match of volleyball. The sun was bright, the sky huge. The girls’ faces glistened with sweat despite the chilled air; their grins and giggles and back-and-forth leapfrogging exhausted Kate. Alone, she eyed the cracked pavement.

A hand came to rest on her left shoulder. It was Mother Francis’s.

“No volleyball with your friends?”

Kate looked up at her. “My feet hurt, Mother Francis. My shoes are too small, and I walked to school today.”

“Sorry to hear that. Perhaps your mother could buy you shoes that fit?”

Kate shrugged and pointed down at the shoes. “She bought these. It was all the discount store had—all she could afford, I guess.”

Mother Francis glanced away, wincing as if she scorned poverty despite being a nun. She came from Texas wealth, daughter of an oil magnate who now lived in Palos Verdes Estates, a brief drive from St. Mary’s. Her mother was deceased, but in the past five years, her entire family had relocated to southern California—her two brothers to La Jolla and Rancho Santa Fe, her two sisters to Malibu and Laguna Beach. Contrarily, Mother Francis chose Torrance not for its ambiance or quality of life, but for St. Mary’s School—raised in a strict household, the Catholic church became her escape. Postulancy was consecutive.

“God spoke to me this morning,” Kate whispered.

This drew the nun’s eyes back down to hers. “And what did He say?”

“’You are my child now. Your place is with me.’”

“Repeat, please.”

You are my child now. Your place is with me.

Mother Francis was nonplussed then relaxed, assessing…filtering…Finally and authoritatively, she spoke.

“There is a verse in chapter four of the gospel according to Mark. It says: ‘If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear. Then He said to them, Take heed what you hear. With the same measure you use, it will be measured to you; and to you who hear, more will be given.’”

Kate closed her eyes. Take heed what you hear.

“God is telling you something important, Kate. Listen to Him and write it all down. Actually, what He said to you reminds me of something I read last month—it’s from a book I had borrowed from our rectory.”

“What’s it about? Can I read it?”

“It’s about the Garden of Eden, and, yes, I suggest you do. It’s in Narratives on Mankind—quite a deep and controversial book. I’m surprised we even have it here, and it’s certainly nothing to advertise, Kate. You’ll find it next to The Story of Civilization, a set of volumes by Will Durant. You can go to the rectory now. Tell Father James I sent you.”

Kate stood. The rectory was across campus. She ignored her feet and went.

Father James was at the door. Tall and gaunt, he looked how a Catholic priest proverbially should—robed, bespectacled, graying, pale, wiry, whiskery. His balding head resembled an eggshell, and he was barefoot, with long toenails. Eagerly affable and smiling, it was obvious he had spent much time alone.

“Mother Francis said she had sent you,” he said. “I’m Father James. Please, come with me.”

Wide and uncluttered, the rectory felt comfortable to Kate. Its light was diffused, its expensive-looking carpets thick and dark. Elaborate drapes adorned each window, and the walls were virginal, cornered with ornate pillars of dark wood. Vaulted ceilings disguised the air of heaviness—the place was vaguely snug but unmistakably clerical.

They ambled toward the back of the building, to two hidden oak bookshelves flanking a desk with a computer.

“Mother Francis says you’re looking for Narratives of Mankind.”

“She said I should read it because God spoke to me today.”

“Oh, yes?”

“He said, ‘You are my child now. Your place is with me.’”

“Excellent! Then you should find some references to His statement in this book. There are many voices in the world besides the Church’s, you see.”

He stooped and fingered through the titles on the bottom shelf, his spinal outline embossing the thin robe.

“It’s an amazing piece of literature. Hmmm...let’s see…here it is!” Father James unveiled a thick book of small font, with few pictures. He briefly eyed its featureless cover, then handed it to Kate.

“It’s a most interesting read. You may sit at this computer”—he stirred the air above the computer with a bony forefinger—“and read for as long as you like. I’ll be in the front room if you have any questions.”

She settled into a hard, creaky chair. The book’s pages smelled faintly of mold, and its words were barely legible, as if each page had been exposed to the sun to obtain this degree of fade. She flipped through the book and stopped randomly on a chapter titled “Eden” sandwiched between a dissertation on Greek religious philosophy and a long verse about gnomes by Tolkien. Here, she thought, this seems harmless enough—the first sentence was only three words.

This chapter unfolded from the mind of a deceased man named Adam, who wrote of Eve and the Garden Of Eden. The story was short and sad, almost pathetic, but Kate connected with it. The author wrote as a child of God in His habitat of forested, tropical bliss: The serpent, the temptation, the sin, the sex, the exile, the sorrow, the regret.

A warm breath of air washed over Kate’s face; she shuddered and dismissed it as a hot flash in this stuffy corner of the rectory.

Eden—what was it? She went to the room’s opposite wall, where the atlases and maps were. She looked at everywhere equatorial—Southeast Asia, the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, Central America, Africa. There was Aden in Yemen, Edéa in Cameroon, Ed-Dueim in Sudan, but no mention of Eden.

Surely it must be a real place. Adam wrote of it. Perhaps it was an obscure village too small to warrant a dot on the map, or an island that both time and cartography forgot.

She walked over to the reference computer and typed Eden. A list of businesses…Eden Project, Eden Electronics, Eden Foundation, Eden Studios, Eden Bridals, Eden Camp, Eden Foods. She scrolled further: City of Eden Prairie, Minnesota. City of Eden, North Carolina. Scotland’s Eden Court Theatre. New York’s Town of Eden (“Garden Spot of New York State”). Australia’s Port Eden. Cumbria’s Eden District of England.

None of these places were tropical.

Then there was the Libertarian Society’s site, replete with its version of Eden’s flag (though there never was such a thing). The Society’s members sought to “create the independent, sovereign nation of Eden so that (they) might live freely and peacefully without fear of government intervention into their lives, whether that government is tyrannical or benevolent.”

It seemed idyllic to Kate, but more so if that description had included a loving mother, an interesting school, and a nice beach at her doorstep. The image of Eden in Narratives Of Man was that it was a libidinous outdoor boutique of curious animals, lush greenery, fresh fruit, and endless sunshine. It was God’s halcyon nudist colony, but with only two people in it.

At its core, Adam’s scripture was a mnemonic device. It was an act of writing only he could have done as an exilic expatriate. Kate related to this, although she remained trapped in dreary Torrance, was fully clothed, and had no man to offer fruit to or to conceive offspring with. She felt that God could be as close to her as He was to Adam—indeed, God had spoken to her that morning—but she wanted to actually find Eden before the agony of teen life threw itself over the rail of a cement bridge on the outskirts of town.


* * *


[The Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden, and there He put the man whom He had formed. (Gen. 2:8)]


Vernal 2004. The search for Nirvana beckoned. Curiosity and unease suffocated nubile Kate in her Arcata apartment, so she fled it one gray morning, hauling her surfboard and travel/camping gear to San Francisco’s international airport. During the long Greyhound bus ride south, she listened repeatedly to Peter Gabriel’s “Passion,” soundtrack to Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ.

This was a metaphysical quest driven by her crepuscular mantra—happiness and peaceful understanding eluded her. The St. Mary’s era had segued into an anti-Catholic college stint rife with solitary dereliction, terminating with a degree in computer science from northern California’s Humboldt State University. There she drank wine alone and excelled in academia, plotting her future not in religion nor surfing, but in the burgeoning field of technology.

Still, Kate’s early twenties lumbered with a strained soul, seeking something but manifesting nothing. Formal education was done and her future was unknown. Restless, she craved a sojourn of purity. Dreaming hopelessly and soothed by the promise of simplicity, tropical idyll also seduced her for a utopian pursuit.



Kate and the old white man next to her were the plane’s only tourists—everyone else was black and looked local and spoke no English. It was a small aircraft, perhaps fifty seats, and it smelled of mildew and sweaty feet, foul to the fragrant plumeria flower behind her left ear, a gift from a blind lady in another airport.

She pressed her nose to the window. From above, the destination sparkled like a storybook isle. In fact, it was.

Though this trip had a historical dimension, time had the trick distortions of a dream. This was not a real place—the gift of airplane slumber and quiet fantasy tuned Kate for the island’s reality. It was unmodern, sunny and slow. It was off the radar, sunken into the periphery of an ocean theater long revered for its treasure, piracy, mystique. Misery and bliss were common themes.

It was a tortured culture, a displaced colony of lepers and slaves and exiles governed by harassed figures of European regime. It was highly functional but hardly hospitable in those days, more of a location for sea wars and infamous corsairs than enjoyment and seduction. Unsmiling men sought these shores not for paradise, but for tangible loot. In the end, it was an escape.

In reality, this place was beyond dreams. Uninhabited until two hundred years ago, it lay rooted silently in an equatorial sea which isolated all else. History’s first recorded exploratory voyage to the island revealed a bounty of fresh fruit, water, fruit, tortoises, coconuts, and birds—a shipmate said the island was “some earthly Paradise.”

Indeed it was a paradisical refuge from Kate’s bleak world. Mother was forgotten, friends were nonexistent, all school and society lost to the wind. She sipped from a bottle of water. The man next to her drank deeply of the flight’s free rum, claiming it to be the “very nectar of the gods.” For Kate, the heady scent of drink spurred college memories of hangovers, depression, sickness, vomiting.

The mental visuals could not taint her first glance at this place on the edge of nowhere in a brilliantly blue tropical sea.

A great mass of exuberant vegetation defined this place, a place of verdure, a place of repose. From a distance, the peaks appeared as velvety verdant summits wreathed in cloud, veined with streams and waterfalls, avoiding the traditional geography of a traditional place. Its white beaches were rockless and pretty, fronted by postcard lagoons, backed by humid, mossy woods saturated with layers of life, home to millions of insects and birds and small mammals. The inland parts were steep and impassable and appeared to have never been touched or interfered with. Few lived on this island; fewer visited.

Islanders who did live there were relaxed, unambitious, soft-spoken, with skin as black as licorice—so black it looked purple. They were stoic, even among adversity. They were affable and polite and lazy, dragging their feet as they walked. They had wide, flat noses and full lips covering horrible brown teeth. Smiles came easily and frequently.

The men were well-fleshed and unshaven, and the women were voluptuous, with enormous breasts. Dreadlocks and reggae were common. Islanders wore sarongs, sandals, shorts, T-shirts, hats, flowers behind their ears. Their faces carried that air of smugness intrinsic of islanders worldwide, knowing they are buffered from the world’s dysfunction by vast fields of seawater in all directions. They saw themselves as immune, untouchable, unimpressionable. Long gone were the days of raiding buccaneers and conquistadors in their big wooden ships, planting flags, corrupting natives.

Kate’s seatmate was John, who would not say where he was from, though he did say he was born on the island they were flying to. His relatives were all dead, and he had no friends. He was seventy-three. “But I feel much older.” Kate was twenty-three.

He was a gaunt, graying man with a sweaty face and dandruff on his lapel. He picked his nose with long, dirty fingernails, and his skin was scarred and wrinkled as if he had spent much of life outside. He grinded his teeth when he spoke, barely opening his mouth. His wiry lips looked like those of a fish, and his bushy, upturned eyebrows gave him the look of deviance. His eyes were bloodshot and fearsome, his pupils strangely oval, not circular, and his breath smelled like rot. Around his neck was a polished crucifix. He wore white tropical dress clothes, like Jimmy Buffet or Panama Jack, but the garments were wrinkled and soiled, and he reeked—almost offensively so—of musk aftershave, like a woman wearing too much cheap perfume.

He said he was an ex-religious philosophy professor and had saved his retirement fund to see the world “before I’m worm food.” This island was his last stop.

“What’s a lovely little girl like yourself doing traveling across the world alone?” he asked, grinning, radiant with rum.

“God told me to.”

John said, “God also has sent me to my birthplace to commune with Him and—”

He fell silent and looked out the window.

Kate confessed about hating her pious mother who forced her into Catholic school for twelve miserable years. It stifled her social and sexual development, Kate said, and caused her to despise her hometown, her teachers, and herself. She remained a virgin and had never been intimate with a boy or man. It was a sad existence that could have easily ended in tragedy. And here she was, halfway around the world with no itinerary or ties to anything.

They fell into conversation and, with John’s prodding, steered from requisite pleasantries to religion and the human condition.

“Women are bitches,” he said. “They lure us like they have a hook and bait for a fish. Of course, there are a few good women out there, but I’m wary of the black widow variety. Their sting is fatal to us, and then they devour us. As Nietzsche said, ‘God created man, then created woman; that was His second mistake.’ Nietzsche also said warriors should not mate with milk maidens.”

Close to landing, the island’s features became clear through Kate’s window. Coconut palms bristled from granite boulders at water’s edge; lushness filled the voids—cinnamon, casuarina, takamakas, banyans, hibiscus, orchids, vanilla, breadfruit, mango, bananas, pineapples, passion fruit, papaya, Nepenthe pitcher plants, bougainvillea. The sea was another world, undermined with colorful corals and millions of fish. She saw it wholly as a supernatural creation habitat of epic grandeur, conducive to abundant beauty, organic wealth, and God’s love.

“The world is an erotic arena,” John said. “Every living thing has sex to procreate. Men love sex all of their lives. Women eventually lose their heat and desire, and men look other places for it. Men get addicted to sex, and their brains fall into their loins. As Zorba the Greek said, ‘God made us this way, and it is not fair.’ He said we must love and enjoy women. It is also a game—it’s a hunt, and you women are the prey. Except as Hemingway said, ‘The female species is always the most dangerous prey.’ Women are the most delicate and most dangerous species. They like their inner feelings and are driven by love and mating.

“She picks superior genes to mate with, except when her brains go down to her loins—a nymphomaniac with brains in her pants becomes a prostitute and loves the nectar and ignores the consequences. Those women breed the bastards of the world and enjoy their pleasures and must endure their eternal miseries. The smart ones go for a rich prick, thinking they might as well get paid for it. They are never happy, like the monks who abstain, and many become homosexual.

“But temptation is always around the corner, and we blame it on the devil. By the way, has anyone ever told you that your curly hair looks like a bunch of snakes?”


He stopped talking. Kate leaned toward him and peered into his eyes.

“Why are you coming here, to this island?” she asked.

“I will die in its dust.”


* * *


[And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. (Gen. 2:25)]


Mid-afternoon. Eric sucked on a cigarette, his eyes darting uneasily at nothing, fingering his thick black dreadlocks while slouching on the cement curb outside of the airport’s arrival terminal. His truck was parked in the small lot ahead. It was as if he was there waiting to meet someone yet nervous of their appearance.

As she walked outside through the terminal doors, the shock of Kate’s white skin and long blonde hair made Eric stand suddenly, smashing the cigarette with his foot, as if he were greeting the presence of royalty or a distinguished military officer. Eric was a tall, strapping man with a narrow, fierce face, two blazing bloodshot eyes, a square jaw, and stained teeth. He was unkempt, barefooted, and wore black cargo shorts below a filthy red, yellow, and green-striped tank top that read “One Love” across the front.

He looked like the dusky, serious Rastafarians Kate saw onstage at a famous reggae music festival she’d camped at on the banks of the Eel River in California. Late on the third night of that three-day event, a well-known Jamaican singer took a keen interest in Kate, and although their mutual attraction soared, she abstained and withdrew with the zip of her tent flap.

Eric resembled that man, which is why Kate noticed him immediately.

“Need ride?” he asked, eagerly.

Kate had lost John in the immigration line. She stopped and looked at Eric, lowering her luggage onto the cement.

“You speak English?”

“Yiss,” he nodded with a toothy grin. “Where you go?”

“I want to camp. In a forest, near a beach.”

Baffled by this, Eric said, “Why you sleep in trees when you come my house?”

“Because I want to. Do you know where I can camp?”

“Yiss. There a place not far. We go.” He motioned her toward his truck, then pointed at her surfboard bag on the ground.

“What that?”



“You know, for surfing—for riding waves on the sea….”

She slid her bags into the bed of the tattered pickup. Its tailgate was missing.

“Will my bags be safe while we drive?”

“Yiss. No fall out.”

Hunched over, elbows against his ribs, Eric gripped the steering wheel and squinted through the dirty windshield. He drove around pigs and chickens, slowly and distractedly, which was of minor consequence on the empty coastal track. It was potholed and bumpy, flanked by dense foliage.

He was a demure young man of twenty-six who spoke limited but adequate English, which he learned his from minister, a British expat. Eric’s local language was called Kreol, widely thought to be an inferior dialect since it was essentially a slave-era adaptation of French. But it was his true voice as he was born and raised here, not France, spending his life outdoors fishing and farming with his family, who lived on the island’s opposite shore. He had a wife named Tinaz (“she very fat”), a daughter named Sharen, a son named Mohammed Ali.

“Are you Islamic?” Kate asked.


“Why did you name him Mohammed?”

“Me very much like the boxing.”

Eric’s truck had a radio-cassette player; there was a pile of tapes in a brown paper bag at Kate’s feet. She fished out Israel Vibration’s Israel Dub and inserted it into the player. Eric raised its volume and they drove without talking for several miles.

The lane weaved in and out of dense sea-level palms and pandanus trees bordered by steep and impossibly lush mountains of green. It skirted waterfalls and the shores of three photogenic bays; the tide was out, and wooden fishing skiffs sat dry-docked on the flat white sand of each one, lending the place a look of neglect.

Kate saw the clear warm water of the lagoon and a broken line of whitewater out along the barrier reef. Further along, they passed a series of small, pretty coves fringed with coconut palms and granite boulders. Scenics dominated; during the drive, she did not see another car or human.

The road deteriorated to dirt. Forty minutes had passed. Eric stopped the truck in a turnout at a curve on the road’s right side.

“Here I take you. Camp.”

It was a slim patch of dirt backed by a forest of tall palms and strange plants. Unseen birds sang from within. It was an oddly familiar fairyland, a place Kate knew she’d dreamed of or read about.

Eric pointed to the left. “Sea is there. After the trees.”

She looked around and was pleased—the spot was secluded and serene. The valley was enchanting. The beach was footsteps away. Here, she thought, being alone and idle will be easy.

“How much do I pay you for the ride?” she asked, despite having none of the local currency.

“No pay. You my friend.” He smiled. “Maybe I see you again.”

He shook her hand and she stepped out of the truck, quickly gathering her gear from the truck bed and placing it on the ground. Then she leaned into the passenger window and smiled a relieved sort of smile.

“Thank you, Eric. I do hope to see you again.”

“How long you camp?”

“I don’t know.”

“You not scared alone?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He rattled away, leaving a cloud of dust and then ultimate stillness, with birdsong and muffled roar of waves. Lethargic, Kate stood on the dirt and gazed at the turquoise lagoon scintillating between the trees in front of her. I’ve made it at last.

She peered into the valley, then up at the mountains and sky. Dusk was near. She needed to find a campsite before darkness prevented her. The valley was already dim except for a strange vertical column of light in the middle of it, like someone shining a spotlight from the treetops. It was bright enough there to make camp and eat a supper of trail mix and dehydrated fruit.

Fruit bats circled above. Kate hesitated, then shouldered the luggage and trudged toward a transformation of spirit. The grove was primeval and alive—yes, she had been here before. The valley instantly evoked an atmosphere of visceral divinity, as if she had penetrated a time warp to an earlier period on the planet preceding the genesis of man.

She walked into the wide shaft of light and looked up, but was blinded as if looking straight at the sun. She rubbed her eyes and instead admired the forest around her, a place of magic: the understory was blanketed in ferns and philodendrons, jackfruit and vanilla; granite boulders were everywhere, splotched with bluey-green algae, moss, and lichens; a hidden stream gurgled nearby; a whistling black parrot, with dark gray feathers and hooked beak, loitered in the palm above her head; geckos and tree frogs clung to its huge boles and fan-shaped fronds. What type of palm is this?

They were tall, ancient trees, the biggest nearly a hundred feet, and some with large, bilobed nuts. A few lay scattered on the ground; Kate picked one up and it was heavy, perhaps fifty pounds. Another had a large crack in its side, from which oozed a white, gelatinous substance. Malnourished, she tasted it timidly with the tip of her tongue—it was sweet and mild—then she devoured the jelly, sucking it vigorously out of the nut until there was no more.

She dropped the nut and looked up at the palms surrounding her. There appeared to be male and female trees, both with erotic reproductive shapes. The male trees had large catkins, resembling penises, while huge nuts on the female trees, clustered beneath ten-foot-wide fronds, resembled a woman’s pelvis.

Her eyes lowered to the forest floor. The rug of dead leaves was good for her blanket and inflatable pillow. The air was so hot and steamy that she would definitely sleep nude. She stripped and stood in the warm light, feeling euphoric and liberated and intensely sexual. In her shadow she could see the outline of her breasts and nipples, the curve of her hips and buttocks, shoulders, and back.

The wind whipped loudly through the treetops. She kneaded her breasts and rubbed her clitoris and pubic area, realizing she had never before so desired the company of a man. Her heart beat furiously and she began to sweat as a tingling sensation shot through her entire body. Her panting grew heavy with soft moaning.

The desire to be penetrated ensued as a visceral ache, like an unfulfilled promise, a deep wanting, a deep torment. Heat and energy flooded the insides of her hips. She sensed an opening of her sacrum, a yearning to be complete and whole. It was an urge to create, to connect, a coil wrenching tighter and tighter inside her pelvis.

The air temperature rose and a flowery, fragrant wind whipped her hair, roaring loudly through the palms like a storm.

Then: a voice.

“You are my child now. Your place is with me.”

Light vanished and she was alone in darkness. Kate’s arousal was quelled by the silence of trees; her eyes adjusted and the valley looked surreal with its spookish silhouettes and panes of filtered moonlight. The wind was dead, like time had stopped.

Cessation of movement seemed prescient of the night to come. Is this a result of my suffering and privation? It was an unprecedented lucency. God had again spoken, returning her to that black day in Torrance.

She breathed deeply and slowly, feeling her heart relax, inhaling the tranquillity of night beneath this cathedral of palms—a celestial canopy. The bliss was palpable; the valley was a seductive place. Kate felt immune. The palms were prescient, the starscape hallucinatory.

It was early April. Time was telescoped in the middle of nowhere—an elusive world from a fairytale. She lay on the blanket, attempting and failing to sleep beneath the valley’s strange, late twilight. Here, moonlit nature afforded clarity to the sounds of the earth—a solace, murmuring.

Supine, she gawked at the male trees and their phallic catkins outlined by moon and stars. The urge to mate overwhelmed her, and she resumed masturbation, envisioning a man; his lips on hers, his sweaty, hairy chest and abdomen rubbing against her sweaty breasts and belly, his penis penetrating deeply. She felt the natural inclination to move her hips, like an animal. A fleeting thought struck her, how she could feel so electrified from the mere fantasy of a man’s touch.

The sensation was explosive and wavelike, commencing within as uterine contractions, coursing outward through her stomach and legs, sparking throughout her entire body.

The wind returned and intensified, rattling stiff palm fronds with an immense scratching sound. Directly above Kate’s head, a male tree leaned into a female tree, colliding in an apparent tryst of love-making, its catkins jouncing against the female’s nuts. Arboreal fornication in God’s land, Kate reasoned. All was possible.


* * *


[And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. (Gen. 1:4)]


She woke from postorgasmic sleep. The midday atmosphere was windless and dank, misty and pungent with tropical forest decay and ocean air. Naked and rested, with newfound strength, Kate walked to the water and saw that the beach was virtually unphotographable. Film could never do it justice, and it did not deserve a name: it was too perfect. She squinted at the white sand, glary in the dazzling sun, and the lagoon shimmered hotly, like a plate of glass.

Judging from this beauty, furious weather was unknown. Tree trunks were unscuffed, the beach sand pure and trackless, the lagoon a placid, greeny-blue pool of fish and coral—everything was pristine and inviting. It was the epitome of tropical paradise.

Surfing sprung to mind as Kate noticed waves crashing onto the lagoon’s barrier reef. But the waves had no form, breaking simultaneously over shallow coral. Kate decided to walk further and find a wave worth surfing. She returned to the campsite for her surfboard and sandals, but nothing else—she would walk nude.

Sun scorched her pale skin. Energized by its light, she walked steadily and confidently along the dirt lane she had driven on with Eric, and within an hour she approached a rift—a narrow tunnel—through the tangle of trees and vines. The ground was gouged with wheel tracks and hoofprints heading out to the lagoon. She passed a rickety wood cart attached to an dozy, sulking ox. Flies buzzed around its eyes and ears, snot oozing from its nose. Its fur was ruffled, faded, dirty; its left horn was broken, and the rope through its nostrils seemed painful. A wiry tail swatted Kate as she walked by.

Emerging from the jungle, she studied another arc of white-sand beach, hot and tranquil, its only sound that of the waves peeling around both sides of a narrow reef pass a quarter-mile from shore. Behind the surf, two dark men sat in a large wooden canoe low in the water, apparently sinking. They carefully paddled through the pass and across the lagoon toward shore; the vessel was packed to its gunwales with large fish, perhaps tuna.

These were the first humans Kate had seen since Eric. Shirtless and shaggy, wearing wet floral-print sarongs, they looked middle-aged, with knotted hair and gray beards. One man hopped from the canoe as the other tossed a small stone anchor into the knee-deep water. Both men grabbed a fish by its tail and trudged up the sloped beach toward Kate and the ox cart. They seemed impassive to her nudity. She said bonzour—Kreol for ‘hello’—as they staggered past, arms and faces glowing with grease and sweat.

The ox was unflinching as the men lunged heavy fish into the cart one-by-one. Its wheels and frame were rusted, and the wood appeared rotten, inept to support the weight of the men’s catch.

“What kind of fish are those?” Kate asked.

“Deese good feesh,” the first one pointed. His voice was extremely hoarse—talking seemed painful. “Deese good fo’ eat.”

“Where are you taking them?”

He shrugged.

The men walked slowly back down to the canoe. Kate watched the waves. An hour elapsed before the canoe was emptied and the cart was crammed with a slimy, shiny heap of dead fish. They were big and plump and all looked alike. Drooling, the ox was indifferent. It was sedate and unmoving. It winced from the rope looped through its nose.

The men mounted the front of the cart, whipped the reins, had the ox reverse its direction, and limped back into the jungle toward the road.

Orevwar,” the tall one croaked—Kreol for “goodbye.”

Kate waved at him, wondering if there was a town nearby, but it was of no real concern: this beach was heavenly. Its lagoon was clear and warm, lapping up onto soft, powdery white sand between spectacular granite rocks. Palms and takamaka trees bordered the beach, providing shade from the fierce afternoon heat.

The surf was good.


* * *


[And God will swipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away. (Rev. 21:4)]


She straddled her surfboard atop an incandescent mirror, her back and shoulders warmed by sun dropping into mountain silhouettes. Meditating, waiting for waves, her legs dangled in an exotic aquarium: snapper, angelfish, butterfly fish, chromis, fusiliers, wrasse, trumpetfish, pipefish, needlefish. Flying fish dashed across the surface, chased by barracudas.

On one wave, a large turquoise parrotfish surfed alongside her, as dolphins sometimes did in California. With every turn, the fish mimicked, drawing the same lines underwater. Like surfing with a mermaid.

Fairy terns flitted. Green turtles floated. The palmy beach awaited. Between waves, all was Edenic.

Vivid light evaporated and morphed from distinct saturation to a flood of pastels…sea and sky glowed violet and ocher as the play of light distracted her from an approaching swell.

Like the rest, this wave was perfect. Purply and tapered, it humped onto the reef and let her in. The tube’s almond eye reflected all to be seen. Facing the sun, it was resplendent of gold spinning around her. The mountains, the sinking sun, the beach fronted by a glassy lagoon—a dream.

Nobody saw any of this. The beach was a fantasy of clairvoyance, a nirvanic déjà vu. And her first surf session, after her first night on her second day, was a hallucination of ecstasy. It was all unblurred and ethereal, her years of suffering and privation being purged by the sea. Surfing brought her closer to God. Each moment was a month regained from her wayward life, and, back in California, she believed it was here—only here—where this could occur.

Her arrival and perception of place could have been a model of serendipity, but out there, adrift, she knew it was all a bequeathal of God’s altruism. It was no act of schemed proselytization—He had been with her from the beginning, reluctantly at St. Mary’s, faithfully throughout college. And now, tonight, He was here, as was she.


* * *


[“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened for you.” (Matt. 7:7)]


The ocean is endless and eternal, much like Nirvana, and only God accompanied Kate in the landscape of her unconscious mind. The sun had set…sea with sky.

Twilight was mute, psychedelic. On her surfboard, waiting for a final wave, Kate’s face and breasts gleamed in wet reflection of the afterglow. In an aqueous crimson baptism, her skin softened, her brow relaxed. All tension and mental knots fell away, pressure replaced with pleasure. Yet the onset of darkness startled her. Thoughts turned to shore.

Like a mirage after dusk, the wave came and she stalled into another tube, this one narrow, a teardrop. The ride was brief. She turned shoreward and began paddling the half-mile in. Large fish—perhaps the kind those fishermen had caught—blurped from the water around her, snatching baitfish, and her hands dipped into pods of them, the whole lagoon alive under the early, starry night reflecting coolly into Kate’s sunburned eyes.

She could see the beach and coconut palms, fuzzed in darkness. Orangy light, like that of a village’s, pierced through the trees a few miles to the west. That must be where Eric lives, and where the fishermen took their catch.

The sand was silk to Kate’s feet. Her paddling muscles ached. Her nipples and belly were chafed from surfboard wax. Wafts of hibiscus floated through the air.

Approaching the tunnel leading back to the road, she looked back at the faint whitewater lines winding around the pass. It was pristine and deserted, quiet and balmy, as she imagined many of the world’s beaches to be. But surely none of them could compare to this.

It was too perfect. It reminded her of the place she had read about that day in the St. Mary’s rectory, in the solemn scripture of Adam, so humble and real, wedged between rants of theologians and philosophers.

The tunnel was pitch-dark, so she walked slowly, patiently, afraid of nothing, feeling the cool, soft sand underfoot. The darkness was warm, redolent with fruit and flowers—a comfort. Here too she was immune: the tunnel was womblike, a passage alluding to a place above all others, and she made her way toward its source.

Kate felt protected, her spirit harbored in the fragrant night. She walked serenely, reflecting on Adam’s allegorical writings, which seemed to reappear for her upon the tunnel’s breeze. His observations paralleled hers of this island and the valley of great palms in which she slept. Indeed, God had spoken to her there last night.

Adam was created as God’s companion in His garden. The garden was warm. The serpent ultimately ruined Adam and Eve’s fellowship with God; they relinquished their idyllic nest and fell from grace after succumbing to the dark tempter rather than the light of truth. They were banished from His garden, the place that had encompassed everything perfect and beautiful on earth, and were never allowed to re-enter it.

Yet Kate was here: A woman somehow alone in God’s land. He made it that way. All the implications illuminated in her consciousness in distinct order. It struck her as simultaneously odd, yet perfect, how the light of reason always shone in the blackest phases of her life, rescuing her time after time.

Feeling reborn, she reached the tunnel’s opposite end, which connected to the dirt lane. She considered a walk to the west, to the lights, but felt her pale nakedness confronting a foreign black village would be unsuitable. The valley was her private garden. God allowed her to exist there, exempt from adversity, with plenty to drink and eat, including the aphrodisiacal coconut jelly.

Her hair was heavy and wet. The lane was silver with moonlight (or was it Godlight?), unraveling like an ethereal ribbon.

A specter appeared in the middle of the lane ten yards ahead. Dismissing it as a hallucination of night and expecting it to vanish, Kate walked toward it then stood still, looking for a face in the moonlight. She found it. The wraith was recognized: it was John, the old man from the plane, looking furtive and ghostly, with a strange whitish glow to his skin. He was sweaty and jittery and still smelled strongly of musk aftershave. He had a slight weave to his gait and breathed heavily, smacking his lips, obviously drunk; Kate could see the dirty, dagger-like fingernails of his left hand coiled around a bottle of rum.

His right hand raked his greasy gray hair, slicking it back, and he was in the same soiled, wrinkled white clothes he wore on the airplane. The front of his pants had an obvious bulge—an erection.

He took a swig from the bottle, then pulled a flask from his chest pocket.

“Breath freshener,” John said, sucking his teeth. “It kills germs the alcohol doesn’t!” He poured some into his mouth, swished it around, gurgled and spat. His crucifix necklace gleamed from the reflection of a light Kate could not see.

Suddenly she became aware of her nakedness and felt ashamed that John could see her womanhood. His breathing deepened, and he wiped sweat from his brow with a dirty shirt sleeve. His gaze slowly scanned her up and down, returning to her breasts and pubic region. Noticing this, Kate used her surfboard to partially hide her young body from his old, eerie mind.

“God made woman to tempt man,” he said slowly, looking directly into Kate’s eyes. “Woman has always ruined man, so God has always ruined woman. He gives women beauty then takes it away from them with age. You, my dear, are young and beautiful. You deserve this nectar of the gods.”

He laughed loudly and leaned back, guzzling messily from the bottle, spilling rum down his chin. He thrust the bottle at her face. She jerked her head back. He stood very close to her now; she could smell his awful aftershave and rancid breath.

“I’m sorry, I cannot,” she stammered. “I quit drinking…after college and all.”

He pursed his lips, smiling vaguely, revealing black, fangish teeth. He spoke quietly in a beastly voice. “Try a little rum to warm your soul. It won’t hurt you. It will help you. The book of Proverbs states, ‘Give strong drink to the one who is perishing; let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more.’”

She frowned and stepped back; he matched her movement and stepped forward. He held the bottle at her mouth. The rum smelled of death. Its clear cracked glass was smudged with greasy fingerprints, and its label was missing. Bits of cork and viscous saliva floated on top of the amber fluid, which looked undrinkable.

He guzzled again and raised the bottle to her eyes, shaking the bottle, agitating the rum. He continued to walk into her, breathing hotly onto her face. She stepped back until she was trapped between John and the impenetrable foliage lining the road.

He pressed his body to hers; she felt his erection on her crotch and the heat of his skin. His shirt was soaked in sweat. His offensive breath and aftershave made her gag. Beads of sweat dropped from his face and chin onto her chest, burning her breasts. He slipped his tongue between his lips, which to Kate could have been forked, like that of a reptile’s; he dripped rum onto it, which sizzled and evaporated. He belched deeply.

“Just a little sip,” John grinned, waving the bottle at her face, his nose an inch from hers. He slurred. “This is the nectar of the garden that God has given us to partake. It is the finest of…the finest of sacrament drinks.”

Kate was stunned. She could not speak. Her arm hurt from holding the surfboard, but it was her only defense.

Then John paused serenely, with a sudden aura of death in his complexion. He looked as if he were to die right then and there. Then he shook the bottle violently at her, his bloodshot eyes widening.

“Go on, bitch! Take a sip! This is the nectar of the gods!”

Her eyes distracted by the bottle, John discreetly touched her left breast. She immediately swatted his hand away, his sharp nails scratching the tops of her fingers.

“Don’t touch me!”

Instinctively she kneed his erection. He winced and dropped the bottle, shattering it on the ground, rum splashing Kate’s shins and feet. John was crippled; he lurched over and grasped his groin, groaning with pain. He hissed and lunged wildly at her with his left hand, slashing at her buttocks as she turned to run away. His nails scratched her soft skin, and she screamed louder than she ever had. She gripped the surfboard and sprinted from John as fast as she could. He was grounded in immense pain, panting and cringing, and could not stand up to chase her. She glanced back.

Gone. He’d vanished just as he had appeared, suddenly, silently, in the pale moonlight.

Kate ran all the way back to her campsite in the valley. When she stopped, she gasped uncontrollably, shocked at how far she had run, and how fast, and how she had not fainted. She had never run like that before, not even at St. Mary’s, when she had to run timed six-minute miles around the track. She always thought she was a poor runner, but this was not of herself. It was as if a supreme athlete had been placed inside of her, and that she could run for miles and miles without falter. She could run anywhere, quickly and steadily, and this was a euphoric sense of new strength and endurance, things she never had.

Registering fresh safety and relief, Kate stood motionless by her bags. The valley soothed her. Her heart slowed and beat normally, and a wave of comfort flushed through her body. The air was humid and full of metaphysical energy as she’d left it earlier that day. All was mute besides the sporadic whistle of a black parrot. Moonlight bathed the massive palms, fronds splitting the soft light, spilling it across the forest floor.

She walked to a nearby freshwater stream she found the previous day. The stream’s sloshing and gurgling sounded like laughter and happiness to Kate; she kneeled and splashed the cold water all over her body. A baptismal cleansing. She put her lips to the stream and gulped vigorously—her first drink of the day.

The coconuts had milk. She found a green one, cracked it with a rock, and let the clear, sweet liquid drain into her mouth, dripping it down her face and body to her toes and the fertile soil. This is the nectar of the gods.

She strolled back to her bags and laid down. The leaves and sleeping pad felt feathery. She closed her eyes and listened to the woods. The presence of the place enveloped her.

“My child now”—the voice seemed to come from within.

 Eden, God’s garden. He led me here to be reborn, just as I am.


* * *


[Resist the devil and he will flee from you. (James 4:7)]


Months passed. Summer. Kate was in Torrance again, living with her mother. Days were sunny and warm, nights of stars and pleasant dreams.

Her mother was rarely home, occupied with work and a tall, skinny boyfriend from Hermosa Beach. Kate rejected the non-attention as being perfidy—she was an adult, on her own. Not that it was ever any different. Now she understood.

Mother’s boyfriend Bruce was a publican at The Drink, a seedy, smoky dive near the pier, frequented by drunks and lost souls, often staying in all day and night. There they consoled one another, talked and downed shots of bourbon, fumbling quarters into the jukebox, throwing darts and shooting billiards until 2 a.m. Mother, if she came home at all, would stumble incoherently through the door at 3 a.m., only to wake at 7 a.m. fully clothed with a cracking headache, due for the 8 a.m. bus into town to her telemarketing job six days a week.

Kate had removed herself from this. Natural light fueled her like caffeine—an emission of constant solar energy. Each dawn was a blank slate, a daily twenty-four-hour chapter of growth and upliftment. Her previous life had never known such truth and love. She welcomed everything and everybody. She was confident. It all made sense to her.

She was no longer cared of her body’s appearance and concealed it with boyish rags from the thrift shop. Gone were the pale-skin days of pants and long-sleeved shirts on the sands of L.A. Her beachwear was bikini. She was a bronzed, blonde goddess to the young men who pursued her. Her love life had at last blossomed, particularly with a thirty-year-old painter named Paul who lived alone in San Pedro. He understood Kate and had heard her rite of passage, vicariously reliving it with her, from here to there and back again.

They surfed together, explored together, slept together, laughed together, ate together. They drank postprandial wine and massaged by candlelight with oil and incense. They took road-trips. They drove to Oregon and hiked its majestic coast, an adventure Kate had yearned for but prevented from by inner weakness. They immersed themselves in a cosmic, cloudless week there. Paul swore the experience changed his life—it never could have happened without Kate, he said.

But Kate mentally did not need Paul for internal content. She required no one. Her redemption was her two healthy feet on solid ground today. Paul was but her first sweetheart and companion; rarely was she onanistic. All else was within her, twenty-four years after birth. Life had syncretized. Trust, hope, and the embracing of love were so obvious now.

One bright, surfless morning, Kate took a stroll into town, passing familiar storefronts with faces both fresh and faded. She wore her favorite leather sandals, tight white shorts, and a logoless white tank top with no bra beneath.

She stepped from front door and looked up: the sky was full of fortune and opportunity, infinite and anew, as it had been since her return. Soundness of mind paced her routine, adrift in the space between self-understanding and inner peace. Kate was independent. Torrance became a place of refuge and tradition, something it never was, eliciting reflections for her from which to flourish.

She walked down the same sidewalk she loathed each day of her scholastic youth and its idioms of hopelessness, confined to her remote mother and the nuns of St. Mary’s. Those were additional black memories; today’s sunlight banished them from Kate’s periphery.

Homes along the sidewalk were decorated with barbecues and plastic swimming pools and lawn chairs—accessories of summer. Scents of charcoal and sunscreen and visions of happy families pleased Kate, and, one day, she thought, she too would live in a home like these, with a loving man and perhaps a child.

She plucked an orange poppy flower from the dirt and slipped it behind her left ear, like tropical maidens did. Entering town, she walked past the old Safeway supermarket, now an Albertson’s, and the old candle shop, now a beauty salon full of middle-aged women. The avenue was clogged with traffic. Men hooted and catcalled at Kate. Waves of heat quivered above the asphalt and the engine hoods of cars, a stench of exhaust flooding the westerly breeze. Her brow and sides of her face were laced with sweat; the air temperature hovered in the low nineties. It was lunchtime; the peak of summer.

Each smell was similar but different: after all, this was the same soil and cement she had walked countless times before, in every season and every day. Yet a certain vibe resurfaced as she passed the Italian deli, its outdoor patio full of eaters. The vibe was not salty French fries or meaty, greasy sandwiches served with fizzy soda, nor the glistening pepperoni pizza being wolfed by the fat Filipino boy near the deli’s entrance.

It was the bridge over Clark Street. Here she was, and here she had been so many times, so many years ago. She stopped at its mid-point and squinted down at the six standstill lanes of every vehicle imaginable, shimmering in the midday glare. It looked like a parking lot.

The sun seared. Cars overheated. Drivers cursed and honked horns. The road’s center divider was littered with weeds and trash and shredded tires. A terrible, stressful scene, loaded with anguish and bad timing for everyone.

But up there, on the bridge, stood a young woman with a flower in her hair, dressed in white, smiling at all of this.

She turned and walked away, down the sidewalk, across the bridge, to a place in her mind she never knew existed, but was well aware of today.

A place of hope.

From This Rain

By Michael H. Kew

Praslin. All photos: Kew.

TUESDAY, JULY 7: A howling gloom. High swells flexed and torqued against Praslin’s geology. Yonder was a rare surf spot. Perhaps tomorrow.

With a beer I sat on a low stone wall facing moored boats just north of the reef. A genteel Creole man appeared from a nearby shack. He was smiling, mustachioed, sixtysomething, wearing a heavy brown coat. Sans one leg, he limped with a cane.

He asked if I liked deep-sea fishing and pointed at his speedboat, bobbing in the chop, the sole vessel with two outboards. He said mid-year trades were too strong but in season he roamed forty to sixty miles out. He lived to hook billfish. He ran charters through a luxury resort. For eight hundred euros, he took four to six anglers out for the day. But business was sinking. He blamed Arabs and mentioned the Plantation Club, sold to the Seychelles government which sold it to sheikhs who now used it for their personal playground.

“When it was Plantation Club, we Seychellois had jobs. Now? No jobs. We used to take our clients to that beach to barbecue the fresh catch but now, since it is Arabs, they try to prevent anybody from going on the beach. Banyan Tree? Arab. Four Seasons? Arab. At Maia right now? Full of Arab. The Arabs want to buy everything here. And they bring all their own staff on their private jets. Only the hotels get the money. The Emirates airline is trying to build a hotel too. But the young Seychellois, they will stop this in the future—foreigners coming in and buying everything. Please tell people in America about this.”

Thursday, July 9: On Instagram the Indian Ocean is smoothly blue and sun-kissed. This morning it was again a thrashed gray. I began walking to the car rental office in time for another dense, soaking squall.

“Many rain today,” the office clerk said. “We are very happy now, because for so long we had no water. Now we have water. Usually this happens with the full moon. Lasts for three days. If we had no wind, it would last longer, but we have wind, so it will not rain for long.”

His assistant gazed out the window. “You would think we are in London.”

When the rain paused I went for a drive, first through the enchanted Vallée de Mai, then to a café in Cote D’Or, where I saw many tourists.

In a newspaper:

Tourists to the honeymoon hotspot of the Seychelles are being warned to take extra care following a rise in the number of robberies and attacks. The Foreign Office said there had been a spate of incidents on and around the Cote D'Or beach on the island of Praslin. Incidents have taken place both after dark and during daylight hours. “You should take care when walking in this area, particularly at night," said the Foreign Office in an update to its travel advisory.

As I ate, a young Creole man approached. He shook my hand.

“You want to smoke something?”


I finished the sandwich, bought a newspaper (five rupees for the Nation; its headline was “Faiths In Historic Union With Govt Against Drugs”), and got into my car. The man followed and knocked on the passenger window. He introduced himself as Christopher.

“How are you, my friend? Where you staying? Where you going?”

No plan.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said. “Anse Lazio? You been Anse Lazio?”


He asked for a lift to My Dream, a hotel on Praslin’s east coast. I obliged. Aloud I wondered why there were so many tourists on Praslin, far more than when I’d last visited.

“More?” he asked, wide-eyed. “My friend, there are less tourists now. Less jobs. It is very hard for me to make money. I sell a little bit of compost, but we are struggling. That is why I wanted to talk to you. I saw that you were alone and might want somebody to talk to. Maybe we could help each other.”

I mentioned the rain.

“Yes, this is very good now. We have water. Tomorrow will have more sun, believe me. Always around full moon there is rain.”

We arrived at My Dream.

“My friend,” Christopher said, “can you help me? Maybe so I can buy something to eat? I don’t steal, you see. I can talk about these things. I can just ask you instead of being a thief. I don’t rob.”

From my pocket I pulled a wrinkled 100-rupee (US$7) note and gave it to him.

“My friend, you can give me 200 rupees?”

“I spent the rest of my cash on lunch.” True.

He thanked me and said he hoped he could help me in the future.

Aldabrachelys gigantea

Friday, July 10: Christopher was wrong. Rain blurred sky, flooded roads. The surf still sucked.

I breakfasted while skimming Louise Welsh’s The Bullet Trick, the sole English-language book in my bungalow. It was a gritty fiction drama featuring William Wilson, a Glaswegian magician who’d fallen on hard times.

Online forecast: four-meter south swell. Reality: two inches. Off seaweedy beaches the water was brown, far from Instagram opulence.

Drove to Anse Lazio, cool and dark but where tourists still swam. I had surfed there in 2004. In 16 days in August 2011, Lazio’s water gave two fatal shark attacks. Both were honeymooners.

Praslin’s other beaches were empty, the rain constant, intensifying come afternoon. Aquatic thunder. Last night, the news weatherwoman claimed the storminess was “very rare, especially during the southeast monsoon.”

Sunday, July 12: Island storms seemed to mute and privatize humankind—locals stayed at home, tourists hid in hotels. From my bungalow for hours I watched the winds whip and clouds drain. Drank from sweating green bottles of SeyBrew, noting that, since rain created Seychelles’ drinking water, SeyBrew technically was borne from it.

Tuesday, July 14: Bastille Day elsewhere. Festivities. On Praslin, the rough weather stayed stuck on repeat. No sun, no surf, no Instagram, no rare reefbreak. Palm fronds danced in the wind. I was quite alone, as sooner or later we are all meant to be.

Bandon Gets Beered

By Michael H. Kew

Jonathan Hawkins at his bar. Photo: Kew.

"BANDON?" AIN'T NO brewery there!”

Leaning against the yellow-cedar beam bar he made, sipping a pint of ale he made, Jonathan Hawkins laughed at the memory, a quip from the 2017 Great American Beer Festival, one month after Hawkins first brought his Portland Kettle Works 5bbl Hopmaster online.

“It’s a great little system,” he told me, gesturing at the shiny steel tanks behind us. “A Cadillac for its size.”

A lifelong beer lover, Hawkins, 43, spent much of his time between Gold Beach, Ore., and Lake Quinault, Wash., where his mom ran a resort. In April 2013 he moved to the quaint seaside village of Bandon (pop. 3,200) “chasing Nicole,” his wife and business partner who he originally knew from high school. Years later, they were reacquainted at a mutual friend’s party in Portland.

With his background in professional construction, Hawkins launched Rock River Resources, now R3 Construction. In 2015 he and his wife bought the historic 9,500-square-foot McNair Building as a new home for Bandon Vision Center (Nicole has been a local optometrist for 13 years) and briefly shared walls with the pizzeria Hawkins bought. In September 2016, R3 broke ground for the vision center on one side, brewery/pizzeria on the other.

“I told Nicole that if I was going to take on a restaurant and do pizzas, I wasn’t going to do conveyer pizzas. I was going to do wood-fired pizzas, and I was going to make beer. She was gracious enough to agree with that, and away we went.”

His first taste of hands-on commercial brewing occurred via weekly trips to Labrewatory, run by Portland Kettle Works, where he tested and refined his recipes before hopping head-first into Oregon’s coastal craft beer scene. “It’s been a phenomenal experience,” he said. “Brewing has been the most collaborative industry I’ve been a part of. So many people have been encouraging and supportive, showing me their operations, offering advice and suggestions.”

Bandon Brewing’s grand opening was September 8, which coincided with the 71st annual Bandon Cranberry Festival. The reception was “fantastic,” Hawkins said. “I feel fortunate I got to be the one to do this here. Residents and visitors have really embraced us.”

Near the mouth of the Coquille River, at the entrance to Old Town Bandon, near the big, nautical-themed We Hope You Are Enjoying Bandon sign arced over the road, the cedar-shaked McNair Building originally was a hardware store, then many phases through the years. In recent times it was managed by Bill McNair of Gold Beach. “We called Bill and asked him if he’d be interested in talking about a sale,” Hawkins said. “Nicole and I met him at Redfish (a restaurant in Port Orford) with the intent of just discussing some possibilities, but three-and-a-half hours later, we walked out of there with an agreement. We wrote out the terms and everything right there in Redfish. It happened fast. Totally unexpected.”

On being the Oregon Coast’s newest brewery amid the nation’s craft beer boom, he viewed the building’s current ambiance as natural progress. “There used to be churches and taverns,” he said, “and they competed and tried to put each other out of business, basically. You had the diabolically opposed on each side, and taverns kind of opened that space up. I call (brewpubs) the new churches, places where people from all walks of life can get together and discuss ideas, art, jokes—whatever. It’s a great environment. And I don’t know of a single town I visit where I’m thinking, Damn, there are just too many breweries.

So far, Hawkins has made instant classics like One-Eyed Jacque IPA (named for his one-eyed schnauzer), Pacific Puffin Porter, Camp 7 Coffee Porter, and Rogue River Red. From this year’s harvest, he has plans for a cranberry saison, a tribute to Bandon’s large cranberry industry. Ultimately Hawkins aims to offer nine taps of in-house beer, plus five guest taps. “Having guest taps is awesome camaraderie,” he said. “I’m not asking anybody else to carry my beers, but I’ll always be happy to carry other beers from Southern Oregon.

To help with brewing and imminent expansion, Hawkins hired James Petti, who, after five years at Karl Strauss, launched Wavelength Brewing in Vista, Calif. “I’m gonna put him right to the fire when he gets here,” Hawkins said with a laugh.

From the copper-covered Wood Stone oven, my pizza emerged. Hawkins and I took seats in the airy south-facing dining area, warm with golden midday autumn sun that radiated off the brewpub walls, all coated with gorgeous reclaimed wood from Redmond’s Barnwood Industries. Out on the street, a horseman rode past.

“The Bandon area has some phenomenal coastline,” Hawkins said, sipping some Camp 7. “From Brookings to Florence is some of the prettiest coastline anywhere. Being in the Navy and also having sat on the back deck of a crab boat, I’ve seen the whole coast, from Cape Flattery all the way down to San Diego. And guess what? We’re right in the middle.”


Bandon Brewing Company

395 2nd Street SE, Bandon


Pohnpei | Part 7 | The Reality

By Michael H.Kew

Pohnpei dusk, November 2004. Photo: Kew.

ON SEPTEMBER 22, 2008, I received a promotional email from World Surfaris. The subject line was “Micronesia is about to fire!” and the text inside began with: “The swell is starting to brew in the Northern Pacific, the upcoming Pohnpei surf season is about to kick off next month. P-Pass has been unridden since last season and is ready to turn on. The crew of Pohnpei Surf Club eagerly anticipate the first surfers of the new season to arrive to share their tropical surfing paradise. Pohnpei offers a great balance and variety of waves for intermediate and advanced surfers, not just pit hungry pros. Pohnpei Surf Club have capped the surfer numbers to 20 for your enjoyment! That means NO CROWDS and MORE WAVES.”

Palikir Pass + 20 surfers = no crowds didn’t compute because, although PSC was somewhat limiting its number of guests, there were also the island’s resident surfers, plus the surfers from Nihco, plus the guys doing it on their own, using local fishermen to reach Palikir.

“It’s the slippery slope of exploitation,” Mike Sipos told me. “Once things get pushed to a certain point, they tend to spiral out of control and it becomes a free-for-all. That’s the reason places need to be respected for what they are before foreigners come in and turn them into something else.”

The seven spots listed on PSC’s website are Palikir Pass, Sokehs Pass (which is actually Main Pass, a swell-magnet), Easy Pass (actually Lighthouse, best with summer typhoon swells), Freddos (the normally windblown left at Mwahnd Pass), Sondens (Mwahnd’s equally windy right), Spaghettis (the ultra-rare left at Ohwa Pass), and Russell’s Rights (the soft right at Nan Madol). Though Pohnpei’s spots were already named and pioneered by others, PSC went public and claimed the names of Easy Pass, Freddos, Sondens, and Spaghettis. “Russell’s Rights” was eponymous for Russell Hill, the Kiwi who wrote the erroneous Pohnpei Surf Report in 1998; the spot’s real name was and is Napali.

Palikir Pass, November 2004. Photo: Kew.

"SURF CAMPS ARE FINE as long as they don’t start thinking that they own the waves just because they provide a service,” photographer Ted Grambeau told me. “Saying you own the surf is like two fleas arguing over who owns the dog they live on.”

For surfing’s innate individualism and deliberate dodging of crowds, surf camps are a strange concept. But they serve a purpose.

“Surf camps are great for a guy who’s an executive who’s got two weeks per year to pack in as much surf as he can,” said Randy Rarick, a famously hard-core traveler and director of the North Shore’s annual Triple Crown series. He has never been to Pohnpei. “The camps allow people who don’t have the time, the energy, or the wherewithal to maximize their surf experience. I think there should be a thousand surf camps where people could go and enjoy the surfing experience in different places.”

Palikir Pass will never be what it was before November 2004. Even with its tiny crew of dedicated tube-addicts, the wave still existed firmly on the fringe and was a private haven for those in the know. But now everyone knows. Palikir is the latest addition to the elite world right-hand ranks of Jeffrey’s Bay, Nias, and Lance’s Right. It’s the same thing that happened to Tavarua in 1984, though it took quite awhile longer for word to spread, because Palikir had the internet. It had surf forecasting sites, it had cell phones, it had a huge surf-travel world starving for something new to fixate on, something warm, hollow, and easy to reach. We’d all seen those green lefts of Indo, the blue bowls of the Fijis and the Tahitis and the Samoas—what else, besides Teahupo’o and Tavarua, was out there in Oceania? All those decades of surfers jetting across the Pacific to Indonesia or Australia or the Philippines, many flew right past Pohnpei and never gave it a thought. They didn’t know it was there. Many had never even heard of Micronesia despite it consuming 4.5 million square miles of the Pacific, which possibly made it the world’s most surf-rich fetch, with the largest number of reef passes, the most swell exposure, and the fewest surfers. Of course that’s fantasy, because all of Micronesia—Pohnpei included—is as fickle as they come. But Palikir Pass has always been out there, barreling flawlessly, when it was able, in total solitude.

Last May, when I asked for his opinion about how things unraveled on Pohnpei in the past five years, Kosrae’s Ken Miklos said: “I don’t think Allois should be dished for starting something that someone else would have if he hadn’t.”

Which begs the question: Would there be two surf camps on Pohnpei right now if Malfitani had kept his promise of never to expose or exploit Palikir Pass? Further, did the first media coverage of the wave by Gilley, Shamlou, and Grambeau accelerate the process? Their articles mentioned nothing about Palikir, Pohnpei, or Micronesia, but there were those images of Sokehs Rock. Grambeau: “Places will evolve regardless of my impact, but from my perspective, the slower the better.”

McIntosh, the guy who first surfed Pohnpei in 1971, reflects on the scenario with a hint of rue. “I’ve been back several times, but like any place, especially since they started the surf camp and they’ve got all the groups going there, it’s not as fun as it was before. I have friends here on Guam who go down to Palikir every now and then, and they say the same thing.” Hamilton: “When I heard about the surf camp, it broke my heart.”

The good doctor Miklos, on a zen path of his own, shrugs and accepts what has happened to the premier wave of his neighboring isle. For all he knows, it could happen to his. “There are still a lot of perfect waves here and in Pohnpei (State) that go unridden,” he said. “In fact, more that go unridden, by far. And it’s true Micronesia is no longer very secret, but I guess that happens everywhere.”

(Author's note: This story was written in June 2009 for The Surfer's Journal. Ken Miklos passed away in August 2015.)

Photo: Federated States of Micronesia Visitors Board.

Photo: Federated States of Micronesia Visitors Board.