Jay S. Jacobs, �Wild Years: The Music and Myth of Tom Waits�
This is part twenty two of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Part ten is here. Part fifteen is here. And part twenty is here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
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We jump in the water, climb onto the boogie boards, and start floating downstream. The tunnels are thin, and boogie boards aren�t known for their maneuverability. This equals a lot of crashing. As the incline becomes steeper, we start moving faster and it doesn�t take long before our guide has capsized in front of me. I slam into the side of the walls as well, trying to avoid ramming my board into her butt.
She starts moving again and I take off after her, pushing hard for a head start so The Girlfriend doesn�t crash into my butt.
The stream levels out again, and we�re not moving as fast. But we�re now inside the mountain, and the light behind us is growing dimmer. Our guide brought a flashlight, but didn�t bother to check it before we left. It�s on its last legs, and the light it provides is about the equivalent of what you would get from an open glove compartment.
Then the people in front of us start yelling, warning us about a sharp left that we�ll need to make. We reach the spot, and it�s a tunnel � a tunnel so long that we can�t see the end of it. The walls start to fade away in inky blackness about 40 feet in.
Fucking cool!
I let our guide get a good head start, not wanting to crash into her again. Finally, I dive on the board and plunge forward. It doesn�t take long before I�m in near total darkness, just barely able to see the dim light from the people up ahead.
But sooner than I would like, I can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I spill out of the opening, having to avoid all the other hikers whom, for whatever reason, thought it would be a good idea to hang out directly in front of the spillway opening.
I look around, searching for the waterfall that was promised to us.
I think it�s fairly obvious to most people that I�m a semantics bitch. So let�s get this out of the way right now. There needs to be some sort of consensus about the word �waterfall.� I�ve been to several waterfalls, both at the top and the bottom. I�ve seen some that were as high as 70 feet on this island. At 70 feet, the word is correct � the water falls.
I�ve also been to so-called waterfalls that were seven feet high. This doesn�t seem like the correct usage of the word. A seven-foot waterfall seems more like it�s a waterdrop.
Neither �waterfall� on both sides of us fits either of these terms. These �waterfalls� are more like watercascades or waterdribblings. They slope at a 40-degree angle, only showing whitecaps because they have to pass through so many rock beds.
Calling this a waterfall is like saying Tom Waits is a musician. Yes, technically he is a musician, but that doesn�t tell us if he�s any good or not. That�s what the last Tom Waits biography I read was like. This book however, is obviously written by somebody who likes Tom Waits. I think that�s important, because in order to talk about a musician like Tom Waits, you need to like his ever-changing style. It�s not a great book, but it�s good enough to keep me reading and keep me interested.
Unlike these waterdribbles.
Every other person in our group has effectively ignored us. I know that most of these people do this every week, so we�re interlopers. Still, I see them break out the wine and alcohol, and nobody has even acknowledged our presence.
At the same time, somebody has brought their fucking dog on this trip, and they�ve left him alone. The current is threatening to sweep him downstream, and I see him struggling frantically to jump up on the channel edge, and failing. I jump back into the water, and help lift him to the surface.
Two minutes later, he�s back in the water, and realizes what a bad idea it is, again trying to claw his way to the surface.
Goddamn, dogs are fucking stupid.
I help him up again, and then The Girlfriend and I leave to check out where this so-called waterfall stems from. If that damn dog decides to get back in the water, somebody else is going to have to save it this time.
But there isn�t much here. She managed to scrape up her leg pretty bad on the edge of the walls as we floated downstream, and she�s annoyed, keeping quiet and hunting over the rocks for wildlife. After a short period we head back to the group, just in time to discover that some people are going to hike back to the beginning of where you shoot the tunnel, but this time there are no lights allowed.
Awesome.
We tag along, and people actually start talking to us. But it�s a short conversation, as we�re soon back at the launching point.
This time, when we reach the tunnel edge, you can�t see anything. I launch downstream, plunged into total darkness.
The stream really isn�t that fast, so it�s not scary. I would love if we could make this faster, and at a few points where my feet scrape the ground, I propel myself forward, gaining speed. But then I remember that I�m not the only one on this trip. I yell back, calling her name.
She doesn�t answer.
I yell again: nothing. I shove my hands against the side of the tunnel and drag my feet, trying to force myself to stop. I can�t. I finally do so by capsizing my board and wedging my feet against the walls. I call her name three or four times before she answers.
�What?� she says, sounding annoyed.
�You okay?� I yell, unable to see anything.
�Yes. What are you doing?� Now she sounds really annoyed.
�Nothing,� I answer. I get back on my board, and slowly float downstream. All the momentum I had built up has dissipated. And I float gently to the tunnel edge, looking disappointed in the entire ride.
