Drifting Off Hawaii

By Glenn Schot

Experiences of a young haole surfer as a crew member on a Hawaiian longline vessel in 1971 fishing out of Hilo, Hawaii. Adventures and rugged life of fishermen and the exotic fish they caught. Conclusions on fishing and the future of the ocean and humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257622023

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Drifting off Hawaii

Drifting off Hawaii By Glenn Schot

Copyright 2010 by Glenn Schot All rights reserved

Dedication

In honor of Pillar Point Harbormaster, Robert Bob McMahon – For all he taught us of the sea, and the lives he saved.

  Perhaps it was a sin to kill the fish. I suppose it was even though I did it to keep me alive and feed many people. But then everything is a sin. Do not think about sin. You were born to be a fisherman as the fish was born to be a fish.

But you enjoyed killing the shark, he thought, I killed him in self-defense.

He did not even watch the big shark sinking slowly in the water, showing first life-size, then small, then tiny.

  – condensed from The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

~ Wailoa Harbor ~

In 1971, Hilo, on the eastern shore of the ‘Big Island’ of Hawaii, was a sleepy little town. There was only one traffic light  downtown, and nearby the first McDonald's had just opened.

A young, white, haole surfer from San Francisco, and far from home, I’d been traveling through the Hawaiian Islands for the last six months, and was running out of money! With an old funky yellow Volkswagen Carmen Gia for transportation, and only a hundred dollars left in my pocket, I was desperate for a job, a soft bed, and a place out of the rain with a solid roof over my head. Sleeping in the same damp tent every night and fighting off mosquitos was getting old. 

Stopping by the local surf shop, the owner told me I might be able to find a room with similar souls in an old house several blocks away on Ululani Street. Almost out of gas, I nursed my sputtering Carmen Gia with its warped pistons over to where I hoped to find a room.

In those days, long before being replaced by the modern box-shaped flats and apartments of today, Ululani Street was lined with old, quaint Plantation style cottages.

Remnants of an older era, when the first emigrants had settled in Hawaii to work the cane fields, these one storied wooden cottages were all built in the same manner with single planked walls, and a peaked corrugated iron roof usually rusted with old age.

Simple weight and sash windows at regular intervals around the house provided for a well lit and ventilated interior. The windows were fitted with screens to keep the constant swarms of mosquitoes out and let in the cool trade winds. They were almost always left open, essential in the hot humid climate.

Open verandas, their eaves tastefully decorated with ginger-breading, offered escape from the brutal tropic rays of the sun and frequent showers of the windward shore.

Most of the cottages were surrounded by lush gardens filled with colorful orchids, fragrant gardenias, exotic tiare and many other varieties of flowering bushes and vines. Fruit trees were in abundance, as the older generations had known that nature could provide her delicious treasures for free.

Searching for the mailbox that matched the number I had written down on a scrap of paper, I looked across to the opposite side of the street and saw an elegant little white church that stood on a hill overlooking the town. I hoped it was a good omen.

  Two-fifty one, two-fifty three, I counted out loud as I cruised down the street.

  There, two fifty-five. That’s it!

I quickly parked in front of an old, but beautiful cottage that I hoped would be my new home!

The cottage sat down a few stairs below the level of the street amongst a wild, unkept garden. It was distinguished by a large avocado tree hugging its left side, and a magnificent, even taller mango tree that overshadowed its roof to the right.

After six months on the move and sleeping in a tent, the house and garden seemed like paradise!

Descending the few steps into the garden, I caught the sweet smell of rotting fruit hanging heavy in the air, and loved it! The short cement pathway led me to the verandah's wide stairway where a lanky black cat on the top step lounged in the sun. As I started up the stairs, the cat slowly got up, stretched, eyed me suspiciously, then jumped up on a large overstuffed couch in the shade. Deciding I was no threat, it curled up and closed its eyes.

Beyond the shady verandah, antique double doors stood open, and though the screen doors I could see into the house's cool, quiet interior. I knocked loudly on the screen doors to announce my presence.

Shortly, I was greeted by a lean white man of about thirty with short dark hair, and thick black rimmed glasses. He introduced himself as ‘Reese’, the head of the household, and explained that everyone else was out surfing. We shook hands and he went on to explain that he didn't surf himself and was an artist. Being a bit of an artist myself, I asked to see some of his work. He led me out to a back porch, and I was surprised to see sheets draped everywhere spray painted with abstracts of giant cats! Of course I complimented him on his work, which was quite original. After a short conversation, he showed me to the room he had for rent.

It was a very small room, maybe fifteen foot in each direction, but enough for me. An iron bed frame sat in one corner, its springs topped with a bare mattress. There was a single window, and a little sink mounted on the bare wall that looked very, very out of place. But with my sleeping bag, and a few other essentials it was all I needed to call home.

I gave Reese fifty of my last hundred dollars for a month’s rent. We shook hands and sealed the deal. He excused himself to go back to work on his bizarre cats, and I went out to bring in my few belongings and my surfboard. 

After settling into my new room, I went to the kitchen and found Reese there making lunch. He offered me an avocado and tuna-fish sandwich which I gladly accepted, and we sat down to talk. I learned a little about my surfing room mates, and found out that Reese spent all of his time spray-painting pictures of cats on bed sheets hoping to break into the art market. Okay… that's nice… a little crazy, but he seemed like a very nice, honest fellow.

As I finished my sandwich and stared out the window, I realized that besides all the plentiful fruit trees, my new home was also located right behind Hilo’s municipal tennis courts! I had tried tennis several times before and enjoyed the sport. Reese said he had extra rackets and would love to play anytime, even give me some tips.

The house and its surroundings were definitely a dreamy place. I could probably have spent many days just going surfing, maybe play a little tennis, enjoy finally having a hot shower, then relax on the shady front veranda in the over-stuffed couch, cat on my lap sipping Mai Tai’s while watching the sun go down. Yet the lazy life, and even surfing required money. Now that I'd spent the last half of my cash for rent, I needed to concentrate on finding a job… and fast.

That evening I met the other members of the household as they came home from surfing. We talked about the waves, the different surf spots we’d visited, and then set about cooking our respective dinners.

As I boiled rice and opened a can of tuna again for the hundredth time, I realized how much I was craving real meat! I thought of the McDonald’s down the street, but with my limited funds… well, I might have to stretch that last fifty bucks a long way.

For luck, and because I wanted to make friends, I gave a portion of my tuna to the black cat.

After dinner, it became necessary to chip in with my new buddies for beers (make that forty five dollars now). We drank and talked into the night about what else… surfing.

Eleven o’clock rolled around and it was time to retire to our rooms and hit the sack. A gentle breeze was blowing in my window from down the street sending the delicious fragrance of McDonald’s into my room. I fell asleep dreaming of Big Macs and french fries.

The next morning I got up late and found that everyone had already gone off to surf. Even Reese was gone. The only one home was the cat who was sitting patiently beside a bookcase under which he’d cornered a small mouse.

There was a bowl of fresh mangos on the kitchen table. I imagined they were from the bountiful tree outside, and free for the taking, so I ate one. 

A copy of the local newspaper lay on the table. I leafed through it, found the want ads, and looked to see if there were any jobs available.

There were a few listed, but they either involved agriculture for low wages or required professional training, of which I had none. I thought I'd gotten lucky when I’d found an ad for a Summer Surfing Instructor. There was a phone on the wall of the kitchen so I called immediately, but found that someone, probably some local kid, had already gotten