I’m standing on a volcano with a dog named Daisy. We’re both scheduled to soar high above the Hawai’ian island of Maui. One of us has chalked up seven paragliding flights to date. The other is, well, me. Maui offers adventure for all-comers and all skill levels: from the top of 10,023-foot-high shield volcano Haleakalā, on whose flank I now stand, to the azure waters below. And I intend to see the island from every angle possible.
Daisy’s owner, Dexter Binder, the ever-smiling owner of Proflyght Paragliding School of Maui, lays out the aerofoil (a parachute to you and me) and a rainbow of color-coded supporting cables on the dewy ground. “Daisy has her own flying harness and everything,” he says, strapping me in. “She’s not afraid of heights but, truth be told, I think she’d rather go for a walk.” Looking at the ground falling steeply away, I am of the same mind as Daisy the hyperactive cattle dog. “I’ve had people aged three to ninety-four come paragliding,” Binder chirps, buckling my harness to his. On this glorious morning I am to fly tandem, suspended in a kangaroo pouch between his knees. “You’re going to run faster downhill than you’ve ever run before. Then we’re going to just run into the sky,” he instructs. I break into a sprint. When my legs are doing a mid-air Fred Flintstone I know we’re aloft. Hot on our heels is Alex, the photographer. Suddenly all of Maui is spread before us.
This island, Hawai’i’s second largest, is essentially comprised of two volcanoes, Haleakalā and Pu’u Kukui, attached by an isthmus of cane fields. The previous night Alex and I had watched the sunset from Haleakalā’s summit. On the drive up, we wended our way through landscapes that could easily have passed, respectively, for Greece (inky bougainvillea), Spain (cactus gardens and horse ranches), Oregon (soaring pines in misty cloudforests), Scotland (highlands worthy of any piper) and Mars (rock-strewn craters dotted with satellite domes). At the summit, well above a quilt of wispy clouds tinged with gold, the pure sunlight cast my silhouette with exact precision three hundred feet across the lava field. Many tourists visit at sunrise, when the sky is clearest, to marvel at the commanding view of the neighboring islands. Some stay to hike or ride horses into the crater but most flow back down the mountain in a thick stream of traffic. At sunset the place had been deserted, breathtakingly cold and pin-drop quiet. It was an extraordinary sunset, perhaps the best of my life. The inert air and Martian landscape made it seem we were witnessing the first sunset on a new planet. When we descended the mountain an awestruck silence filled the car. Now, as the paraglider takes a final swoop and gently touches terra firma, a similar paralysis grips us again. We are sporting what Binder calls a perma-grin as Daisy the dog bounds up to greet us: she opted to stay on solid ground, content with long grass and tennis balls.
Smiles still firmly attached, we head to Iao Valley State Park, a verdant canyon remembered as the site of the 1790 Battle of Kepaniwai, one of Maui’s bloodiest tribal clashes. The valley is notoriously steep and treacherous terrain so we fortify ourselves (with excellent pulled beef tacos from Island Tacos Wailuku) for what we expect will be a difficult hike. In spite of near vertical canyon walls it’s a flat easy stroll to the observation platform at the base of the Iao Needle, a natural spire that was a prime lookout for the battle’s defending forces. Turning our gaze skyward, we admire the verdant green peak rising sharply against a backdrop of mist and moving clouds so that it appears to be falling on us. Fellow visitors grip the railing, lest they stumble and fall on flat ground.
Before we, too, succumb to its power, we make our way to Paia, Maui’s hippie town, for a second lunch (what can I say? Adventurous mornings lead to multiple meals). I contemplate buying a postal-service-friendly painted coconut at “Alice in Hulaland” to send back home, but opt for boring old email instead. It’s early afternoon but we’re already beat. With the excuse that I’m going to watch whales, we return to the hotel and repair to the beach. While it’s true the Fairmont’s Polo Beach holds prime position during the annual whale-watching season, I’m so asleep that I wouldn’t notice Moby Dick if he swam ashore and swallowed me whole.
The next morning our first sea level adventure begins in earnest. On the Kea Lani’s main beach the waves lap gently at a traditional Hawai’ian sailing canoe. No sooner has Sage Spalding – the captain and co-owner of Hawaiian Sailing Canoe Adventures (who is as lean and powerful as a paddle) – said “Aloha” then we are slicing through the water, the vivid flash of parrot fish at our keels. While simple in construction, outrigger sailing canoes are ingenious pieces of design capable of enormous voyages over treacherous seas. As the sun warms our backs Spalding tells us the tale of Mau Piailug, the last Master Wave Finder, who, in 1975, built a traditional canoe like the one we’re currently sailing in and set off. “He sailed to Tahiti and back using no instruments whatsoever, just his eyes and knowledge,” Spalding relates. A turtle surfaces not 30 feet away – interrupting his train of thought. She’s big – three hundred pounds at least – and pokes her head above the waves. Our trip takes us on a leisurely route over a coral reef and along the coast of Wailea. It’s on this canoe that I learn the true meaning of the greeting Aloha. “‘Alo’ means share and ‘ha’ means breath,” explains Spalding. “But it’s breath through the nose untainted by words and it’s the most sincere greeting you can give.”
In the remotest regions of Maui we find the Alohas particularly heartfelt. After navigating a one-lane cliffside road – Maui’s goat track answer to Big Sur – we arrive at Kahakuloa (population around 100) where we meet a congenial local named Lorraine Kana who set up a laid-back cottage industry selling homemade shaved ice, banana bread and passionfruit jelly from her house. Clutching ices as large and vivid as cotton candy, she welcomes us into her home and banana grove, where we sit and watch dolphins play in the bay.
The relationship between people and place is particularly strong in Maui. In the afternoon I book myself in for a traditional lomilomi massage and am struck by how much it feels like I’m being gently tumbled in the surf. “Much of the traditional healing and spa traditions come from nature,” explains my masseuse Lorraine at the Spa Kea Lani “There is this technique called ‘Pounding Poi’ based on grinding the tarot root into a paste,” she says, and lets my calf fall to the table in a manner of a pounding stick. “And this is ‘over the waterfall.’” She proceeds to unleash a wave of moves on my neck and back that feels like I am laying under a powerful waterfall. Half an hour later she has lulled me into a deeply pleasant stupor which lasts for the rest of the afternoon.
On our last day, having covered Maui from summit to shoreline, we decide we still had one more adventure in us yet. So we find ourselves boarding a Prodive Scubadiving boat at dawn and heading for a waterlogged volcano called Molekini. For Brian Stewart, our swarthy captain, and Matt Segault, our nimble dive master, this is heaven on earth. The shallow waters of the cinder cone core are home to a kaleidoscopic array of fish and are ideal for snorkelers. Our destination is the ominous sounding Back Wall, a sheer face of coral and submerged lava caves where the ocean’s larger creatures live. We’re hoping to see humpbacks, blue marlin, whalesharks and manta rays. We lurch clumsily around the deck donning masks, vests and fins but once in the water we are slow and graceful as space men. We float down the wall into the darkening blue: 10 feet, 20 feet, 30 feet. Segault makes the hand signal that means shark and in a cave we spot two harmless white tipped reef sharks sharing their home with a giant lobster. We leave them to their menage a trois and drift lower. I watch my gauge count off the feet as we descend, mesmerized by the pure blue of the water around me. Segault lures an octopus from a nearby nook and, after emitting an angry cloud of dark green ink it settles down, wrapping its tentacles around his arm – which, ironically enough, is tattooed with the image of an octopus. We drift lower, approaching a depth of one hundred feet. I cast my gaze down the wall into the deep blue world beneath me. I want to go deeper – it feels like we could keep flying underwater forever – but the alarm on my dive computer is warning me otherwise. If I did, my aloha would most certainly run out of ha. I exhale deeply, press a button on my vest and follow the stream of bubbles back towards the surface.
Originally published in Fairmont Magazine. The format has been altered to suit Tumblr. Words by Adam McCulloch. Images by Alex Farnum.
