Three Knots to Nowhere (23 page)

With my head swimming with good fortune, I went inside. After stripping off my uniform, I hung it in the closet. It was next to one of Southerland's. His was wrinkled and yellowish, and it emanated a distinct submarine odor.

Although mine was creased from traveling, it was pristine compared to his. My mom put considerable effort into making sure mine was thoroughly clean. The deplorable cleanliness standards we maintained on the
Clay
would have driven her crazy.

Rummaging through my bags, I located a pair of cut-off blue jeans and a tee shirt. Barefooted, I stepped out onto the lanai.

The lanai was awash with sunlight. I greedily drank it in and savored the sensation. Looking left provided a view of the mighty Pacific Ocean, all the way to the horizon. Of all the wonderful spectacles surrounding me, the one I most appreciated was the boundless distance. On the
Clay
, we were lucky if there was somewhere that had a 50-foot line of unobstructed sight. I banished the thought. It wasn't something to dwell on until it was time to go to sea again.

Southerland's lanky frame was slouching in a chair. He wasn't sleeping but his eyes were closed. I heard the slow rhythm of air flowing with every breath. His face was alight with a peaceful countenance.

Bob stirred and saw me sitting next to him. I suggested we hang out at the beach. Then we could decide about dinner.

He readily agreed and recommended I wear sneakers instead of flip-flops. There were biting red ants in the park's grass.

Both of us put on Converse canvas basketball shoes. They had served us well in pickup basketball games.

All thoughts of basketball evaporated when we exited the building. Two of the most exquisite members of the opposite sex were standing across the street. I stopped in my tracks and soaked in their beauty.

Bob tapped my shoulder and told me, “Eat your heart out. You better get used to sights like that. Hawaii is loaded with 'em.”

After longingly gazing at them, we agreed they were out of our league. The sad truth was, even though we were living in an expensive $400-a-month apartment, we were poor sailors. Not only that, the antiwar attitude of most women their age meant they wouldn't have anything to do with someone in the military. It was their loss if they didn't associate with great guys like us.

I cast a final longing glance in the direction of the two beauties. The sight of them entering a chauffeured limousine confirmed our assessment.

While walking through the park, Southerland squatted. I followed suit. He pointed to some plants with short oval leaves, much like a miniature fern. They were almost flat to the ground.

His finger gently brushed one of the plants. Instantly, the leaves folded inward toward the stem. He was not sure about its real name, but called it sensitive fern. I thought to myself that the only alive green thing in the
Clay
was
mold
. Touching the leaves and watching them react was addictive. Before long, there were not any open fronds in the whole patch.

We continued our trek. A high-pitched sound emanated from beyond a grove of large banyan trees. Altering our path to determine the cause of the commotion, we came across a small pond. Beds of tropical flowers lined its edges. Several high-speed model hydroplane boats skittered across the water, throwing up glistening rooster tails. Two men were on a bridge. Each remotely guided a boat.

Southerland and I watched for a few minutes. It was too much racket for a peaceful park and reminded us of some of the
Clay
's equipment. We moseyed to the beach, where we could not hear the racket.

Having grown up in a rural setting, I always appreciated the outdoors. On the
Clay
, it was impossible to escape man-made noises. When we were at sea, I missed direct contact with nature, like here in the park. That was why I hung out in sonar. I could hear what was living in the ocean. It helped. Unfortunately, I could not forget there was a degree of separation between the ocean sounds and me. At least I was performing a valuable service to my country.

We walked until all we can hear were waves washing onto the beach and wind rushing through palm trees.

The water drew me towards it. I removed my shoes and waded in. It was comfortably warm, unlike the hot water in Guam. Soft sand coated the bottom. The waves caused my feet to embed when the water rushed out. I had to keep changing position to maintain my balance. It was almost as if the ocean was alive and trying to draw me deeper. The sensation made me think of FBM submarines hiding in the depths of the oceans. They were the guardians, as the
Clay
's Gold Crew had been several weeks ago. I gazed out over the water and said a silent thank you.

Southerland was sitting in the soft sand beyond the reach of the waves. With closed eyes, he was leaning forward, forearms resting on knees. The sun's rays created golden hues in his red hair as a sea breeze swept over it. I sat beside him and assumed the same pose. The warm rays and wind made me feel free. No wonder he looked so content. Without warning, my stomach emitted a growl. It reminded me that the last thing I had eaten was a crappy, dinky airline meal somewhere between Los Angeles and Hawaii. The type of meat was a mystery and it was camouflaged with gravy. The airline advertisement said an award-winning chef created it. I was glad we did not have him as one of our cooks. If that meal were any testament to his skill, he'd be demoted to mess cook. I asked Southerland if he knew any place where we could get dinner without waiting. Anything would be better than my lunch.

He suggested the Ala Moana Mall's Burger King. We sat outside the establishment and enjoyed watching the female clientele frequenting the stores.

When we got back to the apartment, our other roommate, Second-Class Auxillaryman Joel McCann, was there. He was excited. Second-Class nuc Machinist's Mate Mike “Payload” Pavlov and he were planning a trip to the big island of Hawaii. They were going to stay at the Kilauea Military Camp (KMC), located in Volcano National Park. The cost was reasonably affordable—$4.75 a day per person. This included bus transportation from and to the airport, meals, a guided bus tour, and lodging.

McCann said they were leaving the next Tuesday afternoon and returning Thursday evening. Pavlov asked if Southerland or I was interested.

I said, “We gotta phone the
Clay
's office Thursday morning. How can we justify reporting we're alive and well
and
in the area?”

He replied matter-of-factly, “Hey, it may be a stretch, but we're still going to be in the state. As far as being alive and well, that'll certainly be true.”

It sounded intriguing and fit into my promise to make the most of my time in Hawaii. I told them that I wanted to go. Southerland also jumped at the opportunity.

McCann had all of the information. He would make reservations the next day.

On the appointed day, the four of us boarded an Aloha Airlines island hopper and departed on our adventure. After a brief stop on the island of Maui, the plane continued to the airport in Hilo. I was in a window seat. As the plane turned to make its landing, I saw a huge whitish cloud rising from the ground to the southwest and near the ocean.

Pavlov saw me staring and asked, “What's ya looking at?”

I leaned back so he could see out the window and said, “Look at that plume rising into the air. I bet it's from a volcano.”

“I think you're right. A fire has black smoke and it's too big to be anything else.”

Our statements perked the interest of our companions. They joined in gawking at the sight.

McCann thought it was coming from Kilauea Iki, which was not far from where were staying.

Southerland, on the opposite side of the aircraft said, “Hey. Look at this. I think those two mountains have snow on them.”

The far one was Mauna Kei. The other was Mauna Loa. People can ski Mauna Kei year round.

The 45-minute drive to the camp took us through a huge macadamia nut plantation. Rows of the trees stretched over the rolling hills for miles upon miles. The wonders of the big island of Hawaii continually revealed themselves.

We checked in. Our accommodation was a wooden cabin. It appeared old but was roomy, clean, and comfortable. Inside, we viewed a strange sight for the Hawaiian Islands: a heater. We cast quizzical glances. The cabin had a musty odor and was quite warm. Southerland opened the windows and we settled in.

It was not dinnertime. Assisted by McCann's brochures, we explored the grounds. Not far away, we came across the cafeteria. A short distance further was the recreation center. It had a three-lane bowling alley and a snack bar. We bowled a few games while eating hamburgers and drinking beer.

By the time we were done, it was dark. It was too early to go to sleep and there wasn't a television in the cabin. We climbed into our rental car and took a jaunt on Crater Rim Drive and the Chain of Craters Road. Navigating the thoroughfares treated us to an eerie landscape. It was a moonless evening. The orange-yellow glow of volcanoes explained how these roads earned their names.

When we exited the vehicle back at the cabin, there was a distinct nip in the air. We found the cabin's inside as cold as the outside. Pavlov closed the windows. McCann started the heater. Clothing-wise, we were ill prepared for this type of weather. Alabama-raised Southerland grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Although we knew the rest camp was several thousand feet above sea level, we failed to realize how the altitude could affect the temperature when the sun went down. This was
Hawaii
. At least we understood why the cabin came with a heater.

The next morning, we embarked on the KMC-sponsored bus tour. The stop at Kilauea Iki Overlook was disappointing. A long hike brought us to the active crater. Kilauea Iki Overlook was a misnomer. The caldera was behind a mound of hardened black lava. All we could see was a plume of steam.

I enjoyed the Fern Forest. It demonstrated the Big Island's diverse climate. On one side of the road was the Fern Forest, a lush and humid tropical jungle. Opposite it was an arid desert, barely sustaining a few cacti.

After a bag lunch, we went to Devastation Trail. A boardwalk traversed the hardened lava and cinders, which had spewed in 1959. It was an impressive example of the destruction wrought by volcanic action. Bleached skeletons of trees protruded from the eruption's remnants. They provided evidence that the area was once a lush forest. In one spot, a road complete with a dashed white line down its middle ended under the volcano's deposits. I could extrapolate the road's path by the speed limit sign further down the landscape.

As we stood gazing at the desolate panorama surrounding us, Southerland stated, “It looks like an atomic bomb went off here.”

It was notable no one mentioned that the
Clay
could be the merchant of such destruction. The thought haunted me, even though I reminded myself this trip was an escape from that responsibility.

One of the highlights of the afternoon was a trek on a rope-and-wood plank bridge across a semiactive volcano crater. Most of the caldera was a flat sea of coagulated magma. It looked benign. A hole in the surface revealed what was beneath the solidified rock. Red-orange liquid lava bubbled in the opening. Although already walking carefully, I intensified my caution.

The last stop was Lava Tree State Park. Hot, fast-moving lava invaded the area in 1790. A six-foot molten wave passed through, destroying everything in its path. Even though the intense heat of the volcanic emission consumed the trees, it left behind grotesque hollow statues, because the moisture in the o'hia trees coagulated some of the lava. Other than that, the park was beautiful. Lush grass and new trees abounded. I left the park with hope in my heart. The place was a testament to the resiliency and regenerative ability of our planet. If it rebounded from a volcano's destruction, the same could happen at ground zero of a nuclear missile from the
Clay
.

Thursday, our last day of exploration had to wait until after 0800. We had to participate in the
Clay
's Gold Crew phone muster.

A few strokes after the appointed hour, Pavlov deposited the necessary change into a pay phone. He called the
Clay
's office. A couple of moments later he said, “Hi, Fred. This is Pavlov. I'm reporting as required. Hang on. There are some other guys with me.”

I was next and said, “Dubay reporting.”

After Fred acknowledged my statement, I quickly passed the phone to McCann. He followed suit. Southerland did likewise and placed the phone back into its cradle.

I stated, “Well, that's over. We were lucky Fred didn't press us for details. We didn't have to lie.”

Before long, we were in the rental car. We had a full day planned. First on our agenda was Akaka Falls, a few miles north of Hilo. Viewing it entailed a several-mile hike. Unlike the one to Kilauea Iki Crater, this one was worth it. Winding through a pristine jungle, the trail was devoid of other humans. It was the complete opposite of the
Henry Clay
's interior. As we walked, strange birdcalls emanated from the surrounding flora. In several places, stands of tall bamboo lined the route. We heard the roar of the waterfall long before it came into view. At the waterfall's observation point, the sight was spectacular. The cascade, still a good distance away, was a thin white undulating ribbon against the dark volcanic rock. I had to tilt my Instamatic camera to get the 422 feet of falls to fit diagonally into its lens.

Not only did the big island of Hawaii abound in natural wonders, it was also rich in history. The famous explorer Captain James Cook met his demise on its west coast. A monument in his honor rests on the edge of Kealakekua Bay. I was more in awe of the spot than my fellow travelers. Even divulging that his Hawaiian killers ate Captain Cook did not impress them. At least they were nice enough to allow me to indulge in the experience without razzing me.