Authors: Jessica Speart
I
woke early the next morning, stretched, and snuggled close to Santou as he snored in blissful peace. Then I lightly kissed his cheek and rolled out of bed. Spam wagged his tail, circled three times, and lay down beside him.
I quickly showered and dressed, after which Tag-along and I ate breakfast together. She dined on a meal of Friskies Classic Seafood Entrée, while I made do with a stale cherry Pop-Tart. By then it was time to call my boss and leave a message at work.
I carefully worded my excuse so that it didn’t sound quite like an emergency, yet had more urgency to it than if I’d merely overslept. The gist of it was that I had something to do and would be in late. Then I hopped in my Ford and took off down the road, heading toward Ka’ena Point.
I drove west, past the sleepy town of Waialua, with its overgrown cane fields and sugar mill that stood closed and rusting. From there it was an easy jaunt on Farrington Highway. This portion was a dead-end spur of country road that ran between miles of unpopulated beach and mountains covered with scrub brush.
I lowered the window and took a deep whiff. The sweet perfume of plumeria flowers rushed in. Their scent inter
mingled with overripe fruit that had fallen to the ground and was rotting. The few horse farms and houses that dotted the area slowly began to disappear. Soon the only thing to be seen was an endless chorus line of waves, topped off by sea birds soaring on the wind.
I looked up and caught sight of a frigate bird out on patrol. The avian stealth bomber was easy to identify, with its seven-foot wing span and long scissored tail. Nicknamed the “man-of-war,” it reminded me more of a feathered version of Johnny Depp. The aerial pirate lived by its wits, craftily harassing other birds until they disgorged their food. Then the marauder zoomed in to snatch it from them in midair.
I’d been told never to point at one, or it would bring bad luck. Others believed that death was impending if three frigates flew over a house at once. I spotted a second bird winging toward me now and sped up, not wanting to tempt fate.
Farrington Highway soon began to fizzle out. It went from asphalt, to gravel, to dirt. Before long, even this disintegrated into a rock-strewn path scored with deep ruts. I continued on past the first gate, the point at which most other vehicles tend to give up. I drove until I could go no farther. The trail was finally blocked by a forbidding barrier of gigantic boulders that cut off even the most determined of drivers.
I was left with little choice but to park and lock my Explorer. I looked around, but no other cars were in sight. Either Sammy Kalahiki hadn’t yet arrived, or he was hiking in from the other side. Grabbing my bag and a bottle of water, I scrambled over the rocks to enter Ka’ena Point.
The first thing that struck me was the utter sense of isolation. It was as if time had purposely passed the area by. Other than the wind and waves, there wasn’t a sound. The Waianae Range loomed to my left, standing guard like a
silent sentinel, while off to the right were gently rolling sand dunes. Spits of gnarled lava extended from under their skirted edges, the rocks protruding like long, arthritic fingers to stab sharply at the sea. Beyond lay the entire expanse of the brilliant blue Pacific.
The sun beat white hot overhead, hanging heavy as an orb of concrete in the sky. The intense heat had chased away the clouds and scoured the air, leaving the firmament so searingly clear that it hurt my eyes.
I followed the narrow dirt path, taking extra special care not to step upon any plants in this native Garden of Eden. Dotting the dunes were beautiful beach morning glories, their vines entwined with white-blossomed naupaka. Legend had it that a young woman tore a blossom in half, believing her lover to be unfaithful. The flowers now grew in the shape of a broken heart. Nearby stood a rare akoko plant, its cool green leaves caressing the delicate petals of a golden ilima, the official flower of Oahu.
Ka’ena Point is also home to Laysan albatross, which make their nests on the ground. A number of the birds were sitting on them now. Most of them paid little attention to me, while others were engaged in ritual courtship. I watched as the males bowed and strutted, whistling and braying, reminding me of guys on the make in a bar.
A few birds seemed curious about the unusual creature that was walking around, apparently wondering what some tall redhead was doing in their habitat. They took to flight, soaring avian gliders with eighty-five-inch wing spans. One came so close as to nearly touch my cheek. Then it crashlanded, tumbling to a stop, in an exhibition of why it’s also called a “gooney bird.” The albatross picked itself up and waddled over to its mate, where they gently touched beaks.
It was then I spotted something strange poking from beneath a bush. I walked over and carefully lifted a branch to discover a Havahart trap. A wooden plank had
been placed on its top. Snared inside was a protected golden plover with a smooth black breast, tawny feathers, and great long legs.
The trap had probably been set by a state agent in hopes of snagging a mongoose intent on destroying albatross eggs. The mongoose was yet another destructive invasive species—one for which the United States government could be thanked. It was the Department of Agriculture that had brought them over to Hawaii in 1883 in the first place. The plan had been to set them loose on rats that were ravaging sugarcane fields and costing the planters money. There was just one little hitch. Rats are nocturnal, while mongoose are active during the day. So instead, the mongoose took to preying upon native ground-nesting birds.
The golden plover seemed to grow impatient and began to chirp loudly, as if to say,
Snap out of it and get me the hell out of here already.
I quickly complied and tripped open the door. The bird didn’t hesitate, but hopped out and took off as I continued on my way.
I soon spied a large coral rock commanding a prime view of the ocean. This had to be the boulder that Sammy had mentioned. There was no other one quite like it.
I worked my way over and leaned against its pockmarked surface, grateful for the coolness that seeped into my back. The sun was now high enough to punish whatever didn’t take cover. From the looks of things, that appeared to be mainly me.
I nearly polished off my bottle of water, while hoping that Sammy would soon show up. Until then, there was little to do but gaze out over the horizon.
At first, I thought I was experiencing a heat-induced illusion. A cloud of smoke appeared to rise about twenty feet in the air, just past the breakers. Then the sea erupted into a furious geyser. After that, something magical hap
pened. The plume transformed into an enormous humpback whale and her calf.
I watched spellbound as the two began an acrobatic display of splashing and flapping their tails. Then the mother rolled her forty-ton carcass onto its side and jovially slapped at the water. I was caught between laughter and amazement, not wanting this moment to end. There was no question but that something so incredible inspired thoughts of God.
I kept my eyes glued to the spot even after their antics were over, hoping they would start again. My concentration was so focused that I jumped as a hand tapped my shoulder, nearly scaring the life out of me.
Shit!
I whirled around, startled to find Sammy Kalahiki standing there. I’d never even heard him approach. I silently berated myself, knowing just how dangerous that could be under the wrong circumstances.
He looked much the same as yesterday. Only his shirt was different. Today’s was bright blue with tiny white flowers. However, it wasn’t large enough to hide his burgeoning potbelly, or the love handles protruding around his waist. Kalahiki was clearly a recipient of the “thrifty gene” that afflicted so many native Hawaiians. On the upside, they retained calories to combat famine or food deprivation. There must have been some Hawaiian in me. I was constantly fighting the battle of the bulge myself.
The other thing I noticed was the smoldering anger in his eyes. It made me all the more self-conscious over having been caught by surprise.
“I see you found the rock with no problem,” Kalahiki said, all the while staring at me.
“Yeah. After hiking in for a good forty-five minutes. So now can you tell me what’s so sensitive that we had to meet all the way out here?” I queried gruffly.
Kalahiki blinked and his eyes came to rest on the boul
der. I glanced at it, wondering what was so interesting about this particular rock.
“What do you know about sharks?” he finally asked.
Terrific. Had I been hauled all the way out here to be quizzed on zoology?
“Let’s see. They’ve been around for four hundred million years, and they predate dinosaurs, making them one of the oldest species on the planet. They also have more than two hundred teeth, each as sharp as a finely honed blade, turning them into the perfect predator, at the top of their food chain,” I rattled off like a verbal encyclopedia.
I figured that about covered the basics. What I didn’t add was that shark pups can make their first “kill” while still in the womb, feeding on other embryos. Shark expert Peter Benchley had once described the species as the marine equivalent of Jack Palance: sleek, silent, and vicious. Since then I couldn’t envision them without imagining the actor’s trademark sneer plastered across their mouths.
“And how much do you know about the shark-fin trade?” Kalahiki continued, without missing a beat.
“Well, I’m not an expert on the subject,” I admitted. “But I do know that shark finning’s been banned in the States, even though it’s legal in most of the rest of the world.”
Kalahiki emitted a cynical snort. “A typical
haole
answer. Then you must also believe that weapons of mass destruction are still buried in Iraq, and that pigs have wings and can fly.”
I could have gone into the office this morning in order to be insulted. As things stood, I was tempted to walk away and leave Kalahiki standing here alone. What stopped me was the fact I was still tired from my long hike in to meet him—that, coupled with my overwhelming sense of curiosity. Instead, I replayed what I knew about shark finning in my mind.
Sharks are one more species frequently caught in the
lines of tuna boats. The crew hauls the creatures on board, where their fins are quickly sliced off, the reason being that fins are the most lucrative part of the shark. After that, the fish is pitched back into the water. The rest of the carcass simply takes up too much room on the boat.
It made even more sense, once I’d learned just how much money fins could fetch. Dealers pay crew members roughly twenty-five to thirty dollars a pound for them, while shark meat itself brings in merely pennies. From there the price rapidly escalates. These same dealers then dry and resell the fins to a voracious Asian market for upwards of two hundred and sixty-five dollars a pound. That’s when the job of processing begins.
The fins are repeatedly soaked, dried, and bleached with peroxide, after which they’re simmered for hours. Only then are the small tendrils of cartilage extracted and rendered into much coveted stringy noodles. Their sole use is as the namesake ingredient in highly-prized sharkfin soup, a concoction that goes for one hundred dollars a bowl in high-end Hong Kong restaurants.
The fins are believed to contain both aphrodisiac and medicinal properties, elevating the soup to must-have status. It’s now considered a mark of affluence and sophistication among an Asian middle class that continues to expand and grow ever more wealthy.
What had once been a culinary delicacy, eaten by a privileged few, has become standard fare among the majority. The soup is served not only on holidays, but also at banquets and business affairs, much the same as champagne and caviar. The increasing demand and high prices have whipped up an insatiable lust and fueled a feeding frenzy in which 100 million sharks are slaughtered each year. Another way of viewing it is, that’s 10 million sharks killed for every person that sharks kill.
It struck me as darkly ironic that so many people were re
sponsible for doing to sharks exactly what they, themselves, claimed to fear most—falling prey to bloodthirsty killers. It was enough to make one question who were really the aggressors and who were the victims in this world.
The craze for shark fins has steadily led to the sharks’ downfall. Unlike other fish, sharks give birth to only a handful of pups at a time, each of which takes twenty-five years to mature. Meanwhile, they’re being killed at a rate twice as great as they can possibly reproduce. The result is that nearly all shark species have declined by more than fifty percent in the past fifteen years. Still, what Kalahiki had said couldn’t possibly be true.
“What are you talking about? I know for a fact that a law banning shark finning was passed in Hawaii only a few years ago,” I insisted.
The bill clearly prohibits the landing of any shark fins without the accompanying carcass. And since most fishermen lack the storage space to transport large numbers of sharks, it was a clever way to stop finning.
“Then you’re more naïve than I would have thought,” Kalahiki scoffed. “Sure, the law got passed, and the public is happy. That’s because they foolishly believe it’s actually being enforced. But in reality, the bill’s a complete joke. The trade is still going on, big-time. It’s also the inhumane way in which finning is done that completely turns my stomach. Did you know that ninety percent of sharks are still alive when they’re being finned?”
This was something I hadn’t heard before.
“How is that possible?” I asked, unable to imagine it.
“Easy. A shark is lured in by the bait in longliner nets and becomes entangled. All those hooks instantly lodge themselves in its snout and eliminate any further attempt at escape. After that, the shark is hauled on deck.”
“Wait a minute. A shark is far too dangerous to bring on board alive,” I protested.
“That’s right. Which is why crew members quickly move in and pin down its head with gaffes,” Kalahiki explained. “Even then the shark continues to thrash about, probably because it’s panicked at having been dragged out of the water, and is afraid that it’s going to die. It generally takes about three to five minutes to cut off the fins using machetes and sharp knives. Once the deed is done, the mutilated bodies are dumped back overboard.”