Oahu surf report for 27 Feb 2010

Thankfully, the ‘massive’ tsunami that was supposed to slam the Hawaiian Islands following the 8.8 earthquake in Chile never materialized. It was quite a scare getting roused out of bed by blaring alarms and scrambling to find a bus to my friend’s house on a hill overlooking Honolulu. Once there, however, it turned out to be a pristine Hawaiian day with no problems. We cracked beers on the roof top, watched the mass exodus of hundreds of boats from Honolulu harbors into the open ocean, and then watched them all return when the big wave never came.

Ahh, barbecue, booze, and friends… that’s what natural disasters are all about!

I’ve dreamed about doing this one for a long time: a no-moon, no-lights dive on Lighthouse Reef. Roatan has amazing bioluminescence, and on truly dark evenings they can be as brilliant and numerous as the stars in a clear night sky. Tonight, I finally get my chance to do it.

We begin after sunset. As we descend down to the reef, I am amazed by how much I can still see in the waning light. Parrotfish nestle in to their holes and wrap themselves in mucus cocoons. Soldierfish and squirrelfish dart out from their alcoves. The reef is bathed in this eerie blue light that reminds me of hues I’ve only seen from Karl Stanley’s submarine. We careen through some canyons out the wall and chase the last remaining diurnal fish into crevices. The water column gradually fades into a slate gray as the sunlight dwindled.

Knowing that it won’t be long before the encroaching darkness envelopes the reef, we weave our way back into the shallows of Lighthouse Reef. Razor-sharp needles protrude precariously from the canyon walls. Hundreds of long-spine urchins— aptly named for their foot-long spines— are crawling out from their daytime hiding places, eager to feast on their nightly supply of algae and poop. Each needle-thin hollow spine is covered in thousands of microscopic hooks running the opposite direction of the spine that ensure the spine stays firmly lodged in a hapless diver’s leg. Not one for taking unnecessary risks, I hover higher above the reef than usual, no longer trusting my depth perception in the diminishing light.

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What I would give for a good night’s sleep…

My trip to Utila has worn me out. A quick three-day, two-night jaunt over to The Other Island turned into a completely mental six-day whirlwind of scuba diving, Sambuca, fried pork, urinated bunk beds, beautiful women, and very, very late nights. But more on that in a later update.

Still exhausted from the previous wild week, I decide to call it an early night. I try to finish my Utila trip report for the website, but the words aren’t coming. My battered brain and droopy eyelids prevent me from writing anything remotely coherent. (Not that much was coherent about the trip). My sophisticated, intelligent descriptions of my immature, depraved misadventures will have to wait.

Rum and toothpaste is a bad idea. I spit the foul concoction in the sink, strip naked, and climb into bed. I gradually drift in and out of sleep as Pixar’s WALL-E quietly plays on my laptop. Rest, it seems, will finally come.

I am jarred awake by a clatter far too loud to come from the feral cats that frequently fight and fornicate around my house. I lay quietly in the humid stillness of the jungle air, slow my breathing, and stare at the ceiling fan, listening. The sound of footsteps falling on my wooden patio. I call out but receive no response. Is it my imagination?

Rattling at my front door.

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…is apparently also a lie on Utila.

I arrived on Roatan’s sister island via Captain Verne’s catamaran ($100 round trip Half Moon Bay, Roatan to Utila Town, Utila) on Tuesday. The plan? Hang out for a two nights, do a little skin diving, and return to the “real world” of Roatan on Thursday.

Yeah, so about that plan…

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m once again telling the lie, “Seriously guys, I’m leaving tomorrow.” This time, though, I mean it. Honestly.

When I get back to Roatan’s blazing fast internet (think year-2000 speeds, as opposed to Utila’s 1994 speeds), expect deliciously debaucherous updates about my time here. I didn’t think an island could be more ridiculously bizarre than Roatan, but this flat, fun, fecal-smelling atoll has proven me wrong.

I’m leaving tomorrow. Seriously.

A few months ago Les Fruits de Mer co-founders Madam J and Mark AuMarc were awesome enough to host a private screening of Jacques-Yves Cousteau’s documentary The Silent World. The 1956 film follows the adventures of Cousteau’s oceanographic team aboard his research vessel Calypso as they explore the underwater world of the Mediterranean Sea, the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, and the Indian Ocean. As one of the first feature-length films to use full-color underwater cinematography, The Silent World wowed audiences with its vibrant depiction of aquatic life, winning an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature and the Palme d’Or award at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival.

The jaw-dropping opening shot follows Cousteau’s team as they plummet headfirst down a coral reef wall, each teammate wielding a blinding red flare heralding the emergence of scuba diving as a recreational activity. Sixty years later, it’s a marvel how far the sport has advanced. The bulky, heavy three-tank configuration of Cousteau’s aqualung has been replaced by our standard lightweight, trim single-cylinder rigs. Avoiding the bends is less of a mystery; the reasons we get “drunk on nitrogen” is better understood; recompression no longer requires being strapped inside a tiny steel coffin for twelve hours while your co-workers taunt you and dine on your freshly caught lobsters. (Admittedly, one thing hasn’t changed: chamber rides still suck).

Thankfully for us, decades of scuba diving research has transformed the sport from ‘something-so-dangerous-it-should-only-be-attempted-by-insane-Frenchmen-(isn’t-that-a-tautology?)’ to ‘something-so-safe-even-hydrophobic-morbidly-obsese-American-cruise-shippers-(another-tautology?)-can-do-it’.

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