On the Reef

On the Reef A midsummer exploration of O‘ahu's offshore meadows.

Catharine Lo

August 7, 2002 Honolulu Weekly

"All you’re going to see is a bunch of dead reef and no fish," a friend said when I told him I was going to swim on the reef at Diamond Head. "Where the reef is, the waves are," warned another friend, Kate, an avid swimmer who prefers swimming in deeper water. "Plus, when it gets too shallow I always end up cutting my feet." It’s common to find people who prefer swimming outside the reef or on sandy bottoms, rather than on the inside reefs. But what if you think of reef swimming instead as cruising — or floating — across a meadow? With this adventure in mind, my friend, Michael, and I drove to Diamond Head on a partly cloudy, windy Wednesday morning. From Diamond Head Road, we could see that a medium-size south swell was running. The outer reef was dotted with surfers and boardsailers. Inside, the spent waves rippled across the shallows toward the beach. The stretch of inner reef was calm and empty. The pale blue and green field — the reef — beckoned. The tide was middling and on its way up. We trudged down the path to the beach where we donned fins and goggles. Our plan was to swim the reef from beneath the lighthouse to Black Point. We jumped in and swam about 30 yards out to sea then headed east toward Doris Duke’s house. We were on a 2-to-3-feet-deep reef that looked kind of flat and dull. But the Diamond Head reef is not, in fact, dead. Looking more closely, we found cauliflower coral and lobe coral, and red, green and purple-colored algal growth. Wana stretched their spines and surgeonfish darted about. Here comes a puffer, there goes a triggerfish. We floated over a mat of tough brown limu stalks growing vertically in a thicket like a crop. The stalks (genus Sargassum) bowed down and stood up with the passing suck and surge of wavelets. The reef shallowed to 2 feet, a wave crashed on top of my head, and everything was bubbles. We began to relax and let the water carry us, swaying like the plants, on the reef. The final stretch toward Black Point was a few feet deeper, and we could dive down and check the fish hiding under coral heads and ledges. We saw uhu, wrasses and colorful butterflyfish. Michael bothered an ugly brown eel. We got back to shore through a sandy patch at Ka‘aläwai, in front of some houses tucked behind naupaka. I was kind of disappointed the intimate journey was over — floating on a reef is refreshing to the routine mind’s eye. Michael says it’s the shiny stuff that piques his curiosity. He likes to look for things that aren’t supposed to be there — golf balls, money, fishing lures, lead weights, surfboard fins — objects that tell human stories. He told me, "That wasn’t a bad little swim. It was all right." He said this more than twice, so I guess he meant it. My sentiments exactly. On the beach, I sat down to examine the coarse, golden sand. Beach guru John Clark explained that beach sand is comprised of ground-up skeletal particles, namely fragments of calcareous algae, as well as coral fragments, shell fragments, urchin fragments and foraminifera, minute organisms that float around in the ocean. Without the reef, there would be no white-sand beaches — no Kailua, no Yokohama, no Mokulë‘ia, no Waimea, no Waikïkï. How’s that! Clark also told me it’s the shape of the reef that determines the shape of the wave at the predominant reef breaks around the island. Without the reef, Pipeline wouldn’t jack up like it does. Nor would the waves at Bowls, Sunset, Hale‘iwa, Mäkaha and Diamond Head. How’s that! The green (acoralline) algae that grows on the reef feeds herbivorous fish, a critical step on the food chain. Without the reef, the big fish we eat wouldn’t have anything to eat, and the sharks might be a little hungrier. How’s that! In several million years, O‘ahu will be under water. It’s the natural evolution of the Hawaiian Islands: volcano explodes, island is born, reef develops, island cools, reef expands out, island sinks down, and all you have left is the ring of living reef, later to be known as an atoll. People don’t think about the reef as a historical timekeeper. Generally speaking, the younger the island, the less developed the reef. The Big Island, less than 1 million years old, is only beginning to show coral development. Meanwhile, O‘ahu and Kaua‘i, at about 3 million and 6 million years old, respectively, boast celebrated aprons of fringing reef. As sea levels rise and reefs drown, new coral recolonizes on old reef, creating new layers and new records of time. "When you get down to 320 to 350 feet off O‘ahu, there’s a notch," says Chip Fletcher, leader of the Coastal Geology Group at UH. "It’s a groove in the reef that marks where the shoreline was at the last ice age. Twenty-thousand years ago, you could have walked from Maui to Moloka‘i and Läna‘i." "Now do you believe me that there’s eels everywhere?" Charmaine Yoshikawa taunts her friend matter-of-factly. "Yeah, right," replies Zynfia Sakulsinghdusit. "It looked more like a sea horse. I don’t think it was an eel." It’s summertime and when school’s out Charmaine and Zynfia spend just about everyday at Shark’s Cove, part of the Püpükea Marine Conservation District. Shark’s Cove, a partially exposed, draping fossil reef, is one of the most picturesque spots on the island, a prime diving destination because of the caves that have been carved out of the limestone reefs. The caves are often inaccurately called lava tubes by ill- informed dive outfits. This morning Zynfia and her older sister took the bus from Kahuku to Charmaine’s house. Charmaine has lived across Kamehameha Highway from Shark’s Cove since she was 5 years old. This is her stomping ground. "I’ve only missed two days this summer," Charmaine says proudly. "This is our routine: We make food at her home, and we come down here, we jump off the rock a few times, and then we eat the food we made," explains Zynfia. "Then, after, we go to Foodland, and get food for everyone!" adds Charmaine, nodding toward their other friends and siblings who are still jumping off the rock. It is 2:30 p.m. and the parking area is completely full. I ask them what they think of all the visiting snorklers and divers. "Just this year it got crowded," observes Charmaine. "Scuba divers are always getting in the way when we’re trying to jump. Sometimes people try to go through the caves, but they don’t know what they’re doing. It can be dangerous, especially when there’s waves. People have gotten stuck in there." "I love the tourists! They’re so cool!" exclaims Zynfia. "They’re so curious, and you get to tell them how to do stuff. We just say watch out for the eels and the sharks ’cuz this place is called Shark’s Cove, and they get all scared!" "What did you guys see today?" I ask them. "We saw four or five turtles," says Zynfia. "And we saw this big fat pufferfish," adds Charmaine. "It had Teletubby eyes! But there’s not much fish anymore. I think it’s too much scuba divers scaring the fish." A beckoning voice hollers something unintelligible from the parking area up top. Charmaine smiles and says, "We’re going to get a doughnut for her sister, and maybe some chips, and then we’re coming back. It’s a nice place to watch the sunset." She hollers back toward the cars, "Tell him to bring his ‘ukulele!"

There are some 410,000 acres of coral reef in the Hawaiian Archipelago that comprise almost 85 percent of all coral reef systems in the United States. The reef, often called the rainforest of the sea, is home to over 5,000 known species of marine plants and animals. Because Hawai‘i is geographically isolated and its cooler subtropical waters are less favorable for coral development, its reefs are less diverse than other coral ecological systems in the Indo-Pacific. Hawai‘i has 47 species of corals, while more than 300 species are found in the reefs of Micronesia. But because of this geographical isolation, unique species of marine life have evolved that are endemic to the Hawaiian Islands, giving Hawaiian reefs their signature identity. The City & County of Honolulu is now producing an orientation video that will be shown to everyone who visits Hanauma bay, the first marine conservation district declared by the state in 1967, and perhaps the island’s most famous patch of reef. "Some people think, well, this doesn’t look anything like the world of Jacques Cousteau, it looks dead. We want them to learn that even though it might look like a rock and feel like a rock, it is a living ecosystem," says Peter Rappa, director of the Hanauma Bay Education Program. Even though the sunset is just down the road and around the corner, its absence is felt as the trades blow shivers across the surface of the wide and dark Windward reef at Punalu‘u. A lone red dive buoy bobs toward the shoreline. Every so often, a black snorkel emerges nearby with its owner wielding a Hawaiian sling. Then they disappear, replaced by a set of black fins that flips back down to power the diver through the maze of cauliflower coral, wana and surgeonfish. It is shortly after 6 o’clock when Byron Robinson gives up and exits the reef, his white T-shirt and blue shorts dripping. "Nothing today," he concedes, flashing a good-sport smile and glancing up toward the shadowy green pali. He walks over to the shower and begins washing off the saltwater. His friends are just arriving, having been delayed by an accident on the Pali. They decide to drive toward Lä‘ie for dinner before they set their lines for the night. "What kine plate you like?" Byron’s friend asks him. "Any kine," Byron answers. Byron’s son, Brent, already has his line in the water. His pole stands alongside three others on the shoreline. We hear a bell ring, signaling action. Byron explains that the päpio and ulua come in to feed on the baitfish in the summertime, to the pleasure of all shore fishermen. Fishing is a regular Friday evening activity for Byron and Brent. Sometimes they stay until well after 9 p.m. "My dad is the diver," says Byron. "He used to take his boat all over, from Käne‘ohe all the way up to Kahuku. I grew up in Kahalu‘u. It’s my backyard over here. I remember we used to get the rafts or however to get out to the reef and dive." He talks about the tricks of the trade — fluffing the sand, scratching the rocks, even calling out to the fish. "Nah, the tako gotta be waving!" says Byron’s friend, interrupting. A white bucket rigged with its own battery-powered air pump sits in the sand, full of ‘oama that Byron caught earlier that afternoon. Another closed bucket floats in the surf, keeping the ‘oama at home in the saltwater. Byron, now dry and ready for his next mission, grabs his pole from the truck on the roadside and baits the hook. He finds his footing, his back arches, his arms extend, and zzzing — the line is whipped out to sea. "I like to come out after work and unwind, instead of sitting at home and watching TV," says Byron. His son Brent agrees. "Some of my friends like to go out to the movies on Friday night. I’d rather go fish." Father and son become silhouettes, looking offshore toward the disappearing horizon. There is an air of unconditional satisfaction. "You catch, you catch," remarks Byron. "If not, at least you’re out there." Hawai‘i’s reefs protect the shoreline from waves and sand erosion. They bring in hundreds of millions of dollars in revenues from commercial and recreational fisheries and marine-related tourism. And whether we’re swimming, surfing, diving, fishing or just sitting on the beach, they are critically important to the culture and lifestyle we enjoy on the islands. Our reefs are living under stress. According to Chip Fletcher, Hawaiian reefs exist under natural stresses, principally large waves. Therefore, localized human impacts (like overfishing) may determine reef survival. Fletcher lists the major problem areas: Silt from disturbed land sites may smother coral colonies in certain settings; freshwater runoff, accelerated by urban development, can temporarily deplete oxygen in nearshore waters; and lastly, polluted runoff from urban watersheds lowers coastal water quality. Researchers are studying the impacts of alien marine algae. Some of these destructive algae were introduced by well-meaning but misguided scientists for aquaculture purposes. Some were "accidental hitchhikers," as Cindy Hunter of the Waikïkï Aquarium calls them, brought over on a barge in 1950. "These algae overgrow living coral extraordinarily rapidly and eliminate all the spaces where fish would be," Hunter explains. "We’re trying to find ways to control the biomass. It’s important for us to understand the biology of the reef so we can understand how to manage it most effectively." Because there are already numerous natural threats to the reef the human impacts can be that much more exacting. We have problems with overfishing. Overharvesting throws off the ecological balance of the reef. Pollution and contamination change the nutrient content of the water. Heavy tourism — careless scuba, snorkeling and swimming — damages the reef. And boat anchors can rip it to shreds. John Clark points out, "Our inshore reef waters contain some of the most beautiful fish and underwater terrain in the world. We need to take care of it. Like when you fish, you take only what you need and leave the rest." He retells the Hawaiian legend of Paumalü in his comprehensive book, The Beaches of O‘ahu (UHPress, 1985; $14.95): At one time a woman lived on O‘ahu who was noted for her ability to catch octopus. One day a chief asked her to go to a particular reef and get some octopus for a lü‘au he was planning. Before she entered the water at the designated place, she was met on the beach by an old man. He explained to the woman that there was a limit upon the number of octopus to be caught at this reef, and that she must not catch more than that number. The woman agreed, but once in the water she disregarded the warning, catching more octopus than she could handle. Suddenly, a large shark appeared and attacked the woman, taking off both her legs. Later, when her body was examined, the people saw the marks left by the shark’s teeth. They knew that she had been punished by the guardian of the reef. After that incident, the place was named Paumalü, "taken by surprise." "Look what we’ve done in the name of progress," says Clark. "The shoreline from Pearl Harbor to Diamond Head is almost all artificial. It’s been dredged and filled, dredged and filled. The little coral guys are fighting to live, but the waves are pounding them down, the parrotfish are nibbling at them, and people are trampling on them." Clark pleads on behalf of the reef: "We need to protect what’s left."

Reef swimming Reef swimming is a lot more interesting than swimming laps in a chlorinated pool, and it’s free. The only constraints are the tides and surf conditions (and remember: E mälama the reef. Try not to touch it. It’s a living thing). In general, reef swimming is better at higher tides because there’s more clearance above the coral heads … but, at lower tides, when the surf is more decisively disarmed on the outer reef and nearshore currents slow down, the inner reef water is less turbid and clearer. The two best reefs on the south shore in terms of accessibility and mean depth of the water for swimming are at Kähala and Diamond Head. In prevailing tradewind weather, both these places have east-to-west, alongshore currents, which make for great workouts swimming east and get you flying over the reef going west. Of course, like all reefs, both have impossibly shallow patches, but, with a pair of fins and goggles (masks are too bulky), a good swimmer can navigate anywhere. Which is half the fun. Other good spots: Kualoa and Punalu‘u beach parks, Laniäkea and Chun’s Reef (in summer only), and along the Mokulëi‘a coast. After 40 minutes on the reef, you feel like you’ve been somewhere … else. It’s not the amount of fish you see (according to 1990 state statistics, Hawai‘i reef fish populations are down by 85 percent since 1900); it’s simply the act of moving through the alien world of a living reef, negotiating the currents and shallow spots, floating along as the energy in the water bounces to and fro and a lone pair of Moorish idols slant away. Another tip: Hard plastic hand-paddles protect fingers from getting scraped up on the coral, so you can apply full power to your stroke without fear. The best pair for reef swimming — oval-shaped to extend just beyond fingers, slightly convex, with easy off/on straps — are made by Speedo. McCully Bike on King has them for $12.98. —Curt Sanburn