Lanai is a small island, only 140 square miles and eighteen from end to end. It lies nine miles west of Maui and five miles south of Molokai, all of which were part of the same volcanic eruption before time. Between Lanai, Maui and Molokai is the shallow ʻAuʻau channel. Ocean currents from the east of Maui accelerate through the channel, depositing all manner of debris along the east coast of Lanai.
Lanai is sleepy with two resorts and a hotel supporting the bulk of the economy. Originally the Dole Pineapple plantation, most of the 3,000 residents work for the resorts or Larry Ellison, the multi-billionaire who owns the island. With no traffic lights, a 20 mph speed limit and easy-going Aloha spirit, the island is beyond quiet. Picture a tropical Mayberry and give it Ambien.
On this relaxing afternoon, I drove Keomuku Road over Mount Lana’ihale to the east coast of the island. The pavement ends here, and like many roads outside the town or resorts requires a four-wheel drive vehicle. Not all-wheel drive, not a Subaru. Legitimate, Jeep Class, high clearance four-wheel drive with intentional tires. One to two foot deep ruts punctuates the road. These byways are either sand, dirt or mud, depending on the wind and the weather. A 1995 Toyota Camry does not qualify for non-pavement activities on the island, so I parked at the end of the pavement, donned my backpack and headed out on a walking adventure.
Turn right and you’ll end up at the abandoned Club Lanai, a once beautiful resort best accessed by boat. Now it’s a seven mile one way trip on the Jeep road. Going left a couple of miles you arrive at Shipwreck Beach. Venturing out you’re surrounded by a canopy of Kiawe trees, a pleasant looking, shade producing species with thorns that could be used in a knife fight. Hawaii has a unique relationship with abandoned vehicles. It’s not uncommon to be driving down the road and see a car with a giant “AV” marked on it. After a certain amount of time, the police will cast that Scarlet Letter on the vehicle. What happens after that is a mystery because the vehicle will sit there until it’s reclaimed by the jungle. Asking around, no one can recall when one of these was actually removed from the blight register. The road to Shipwreck Beach is host to any number of these.
A few hundred yards in, there’s a cut off to the beach. This trail runs through an abandoned yard, host to a couple of small boats in need of repair on trailers with flat tires and the remains of what was once a shed or shelter. The setting with shade trees and the former dreams of boats is peppered with hoof prints of the local Axis deer. At the far end of this yard the thorny brush closes in as nature’s warning sign. On the side of the blocked trail is the skeleton of a deer embedded in the sand. An explorer’s journey is nothing if not intrepid, so moving out and around, I came to the far side of the brambles where the trail continued to the ocean.
Climbing the dunes you’re struck by a warm breeze and the clean scent of the ocean. Cresting the sand and grass the view of Maui and Molokai is worthy of a travel brochure, as long as you ignore the debris covered foreground. Enough driftwood lines the shore to construct a village for the Swiss Family Robinson, all of Gilligan’s friends, Ben Gunn, and Wilson. Weathered branches, palm fronds, lumber that was stolen by a storm, and huge timbers are in Davy Jones’ Building Center. You can imagine tying them together with the remnants of fishing nets that are interwoven on the beach.
Beachcombing along the two miles from the path to Shipwreck Beach, other discards from society litter the shore. You can’t help but wonder how some of them arrived on this deserted stretch of beach. What abandoned dreams, adventures, and mishaps supplied these offerings? Wine, beer and liquor bottles could have been cast into the sea once they’d served their purpose. But what of propane tanks, large and small? How did the sea inherit and then discard over a dozen ice chests? You can understand them not having lids. But why were there no lids on the beach? How does a backpack sprayer end up a dozen miles from the closest town?
Navigating the driftwood and discards of society, I came upon the first shipwreck. A faded yellow and blue ketch that was once someone’s dream of sailing the Pacific. Now, lying on its side, keel open, masts gone and nothing left except the hull and a stainless steel sink in the galley. Perhaps the owners had insurance to compensate for the monetary loss. But what of the dream? The time spent outfitting, planning, provisioning, and envisioning a future on the open sea. Is there compensation for that? At least the trailered boats at the beach cut off were waiting to be made whole and used.
For over an hour, I had been alone with my thoughts and beachcombing. Not a soul in sight. Rounding a point marked by an entire driftwood tree, I came upon a middle-aged lady with over-tanned skin, clad in a black bikini, at least one size too small. She was on her hands and knees, Bud Light can in one hand and the other sifting through the sand for shells that weren’t there, carrying on a conversation with no one. What dreams compelled her younger self were now drowned in a haze of alcohol? We exchanged a brief greeting, but her attention was on unseen mysteries in the sand.
Continuing the last couple of hundred yards I received a gift. On the rise of a grassy dune, someone had set up a rattan armchair, complete with cushion, facing the ocean. The weather had been fair, so the cushion was dry. The chair, sitting on a piece of carpet was a reward for the journey. Those who take the Jeep road to Shipwreck beach would come to the ocean a half-mile farther down the shore. For those intrepid beachcombers, someone with a dream of quiet afternoons and unmatched vistas had set out a place of rest. Sitting in the chair with a water bottle in hand, I looked out over a beach festooned only with driftwood. No coolers, bottles, or empty oil cans. The reef and ocean painted the foreground of an unobstructed view of Molokai with its five thousand foot volcanic summit brushing the clouds.
We travel through life leaving evidence of our dreams. As we move along our path, we avoid the abandoned coolers others have left and the nets that have broken off. But we leave our own bottles, broken surfboards and sometimes shipwrecks. In the end, we need to remember to stop and smell the roses. Or at least, relax in a chair on the beach, taking time to appreciate our place in a tropical wonderland.
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