Nothing But Iron: Nothing But Island by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. April 19, 2009 I would like to thank King Kamehameha III and his ancestors, who invented the Big Island of Hawaii, for making such a nice state for us mainlanders to visit. There is much that I like about Hawaii, for example, I like how when I get out of the hot tub the grass doesn’t crunch under my bare feet like the ice does in Wisconsin. I like how whales occasionally jump out of the sea, sometimes while we happen to be watching. I like how brightly colored fish and green sea turtles swim through coral gardens and that they keep doing that even if I hover overhead, watching with the aid of mask and snorkel. I like that a two-hour drive takes us through about 18 different climates, or something like that. On that note, I favor the warm breeze on a sunny beach over the rain forest, but even the rain forest has its appeal. The thing about rain forest, though, is that it is very rainy there. I like how Hawaiian beef cattle graze on grass, and that I can eat a fish that was taken from the ocean earlier that same day and that neither needed antibiotics, hormones or protein supplements to participate in my sustenance. I like that papaya, apple bananas (take three, they’re small) and avocados grow on trees, and how I might, if I look especially closely, find a green or brown or yellow chameleon camouflaged on a branch of one of those trees. I like how I can witness the formation of precarious newborn land as lava flows down a mountainside, sending up massive clouds of steam and gas as it pours into the ocean. I like the laughter coming from my wife and boys as they challenge one another to see who can balance as turquoise waves roll one after another onto forgiving sand. I like how the forgiving sand cushions my son’s landing after a diving catch scripted for my camera, but not how it conceals the occasional thorn–one of which pierced my foot (but only about a half-inch of it) on the last day of our trip. I like how it is easier to care less about thorns when it is sunny, 85 and the water is the most perfect shade of blue ever. Don’t get me wrong; I like Wisconsin, and I consider myself a Badger through and through, but each passing winter, or maybe it is more a matter of passing birthdays, threatens to erase a Badger through or two. On occasion I daydream about island life not book ended on a short shelf by eight-hour plane flights, but reality, not to mention that lack of a million or so extra dollars–the Hawaii cost of what would be a modest dwelling here–prevails. I was thinking, though, that there might be a way. Let’s say we moved to Hawaii in our golden years, also known as the post-snow-shovel era (circa 2012-2052). Maybe the smarter approach than spending a career’s worth of savings on a house or condo might be to buy a cheap old shack, far from the ocean–I saw many that I imagined to be cheap–and subject it to a casual do-it-yourself renovation. The result, a modest cottage with a hot tub (alas, no gym) and garden would serve as the base camp and storage unit from which long weekend adventures and local vacations at various resorts and rental properties could be planned and executed without the need for extensive travel. I would finance the endeavor by writing travel articles, selling photographs of chameleons and whales, coaching basketball and providing anesthesia services three mornings as week at tattoo parlors in Hilo and Kona. You are all invited to visit us, but one at a time please. And you’ll have to pitch a tent in our front yard, because we won’t have room for you in the cottage. Now, some island stories: After walking to the lava flow viewing site I spoke to a photographer peddling spectacular photographs of lava from vantage points inaccessible to the public. I think the state designates areas close to the lava as inaccessible so the public doesn’t die in tragic accidents, like small portions of it did in the old days when there were ample warnings but no enforced rules or barriers. We visited then, at the turn of the century, and it was the first and probably last time I would ever see lava through cracks that I was stepping over. I asked how the photographer how he could get so close to the flows. His media credentials made it legal, and his friendships with several park rangers made it convenient. He pretty much had the run of the park, and sometimes he did run, like the time he felt the ground crack under his feet. He was able to scramble to safety just before a couple acres of new earth upon which he had been standing tumbled precipitously into the ocean. Another time he said he had been shooting a river of molten lava as it inched its way toward the camera (not all lava flows rapidly like it does on the Discovery Channel). He said after about thirty minutes he "got a funny feeling" and decided to move on. Not long after, his vantage point crumbled and plunged into darkness. Funny thing to have a funny feeling save your life. Though the photographer side of me felt the pull of these rare images, I was content with viewing and photographing lava from a safe distance. But I wondered, pondering the potential for a new cataclysmic event at an unpredictable location–is there really a safe distance on the side of an active volcano? We played tennis, as tennis playing people do when it is 75 degrees and not raining. Patrick was able to get a match with a nationally-ranked 16 year old, named Andrew. I don’t know how nationally ranked the kid was, but does it really matter? Connor asked, the day before the match, if Patrick’s opponent would really be that good. "Yeah, he’s from California," Patrick replied. "You can’t say he’s good because he’s from California," Connor said. "Just ‘cause you’re from Wisconsin doesn’t mean you’re good as raising cattle. You suck at raising cattle." Patrick understood: "You mean you shouldn’t judge a book by the library it comes from?" Teenage reasoning fascinates me. We watched the basketball final from the house we rented at far below market value, or at least far below what used to be market value. Housing sales, by one on-line estimate are down 25% on the Big Island. This turned out to be both a negative and then a positive for us. About two weeks before our trip we were notified that our original rental was canceled. The property, as a consequence of the buyer’s market, had been sold; the new owner chose not to honor our rental agreement. Ordinarily such an event would trigger a desperate scramble leading to a cheap old shack far from the ocean at the cost of a luxury hotel room, but in this buyers (hence renter’s) market we got an even nicer house within sight of the sea for a comparable price instead. So we watched, on a sunny afternoon (courtesy of the five-hour time difference) the game in our own (borrowed) great room in high definition, which would not have been necessary to appreciated the how badly NC beat Michigan State. When I say we watched it, I mean we watched some of it and listened to the audio portion of the rest through the outdoor speakers installed above the lanai, near the pool and hot tub. Collectively it was better than a sports bar. The Spartans lost, but they I silently congratulated them on a fine, long season, and for getting sports pundits to finally stop gushing their love feelings for the Big East. Hats off to the Heels. That was one good team. Best one, in fact. Michael Becker, who has probably been checking the web site every day to see if I have finally given him proper accolades, won the Pride Pool. Rumor has it that he is quite proud. Nice job, Mike. I moved up to face-saving, or at least face-blending 24th place, which is isn’t great, but it is better than Bruce and Mike, who are still spitting out the dust they ingested when I passed them in a helluva hurry several weeks ago. Mom Gayle got second place, which itself would be miraculous, but on top of that I found out today that she also has a Facebook account. Ma, what gives? I don’t even have a Facebook account and how did you get one without asking me for help? You go, Ma! I am impressed. Kelly, a Facebook achiever herself, happened onto Mom’s account when prompted to add her as a friend (which she did). Kelly informed me that Mom has six friends. But at least she has some. Mom’s profile picture prompted this priceless quotable from Kelly: "There’s a picture of her . . . with Mary. Is it Mary? It kinda looks like Bruce. It’s gotta be Mary, but it looks like Bruce. See? Because of the hair line." In Bruce’s defense, sort of, it was a baby picture. I myself don’t have the particular physical advantage that would permit hairline-based taunting of any of my siblings, but who needs hair when I can claim to have married so well? ____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports and sometimes travel column. The author apologizes for not having reported on UW’s spring football game. Apparently Wisconsin won to go 1-0 on the spring season. Stay tuned for a 16-page baseball extravaganza. It’s not ever coming, but feel free to watch for it. ©2009 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved. To see more pictures of our trip click here.