Reflections on a wayward passage through Hawaii's neighbor islands, including encounters with benign and secret toads, beguiled antelopes, neurotic goats, a laughing girl, a peremptory Chinese, many 'pipipi' and a steamed mullet in a Japanese bakery
August 19, 1962

The wayside is so often more profitable than the destination. In the ordinary litter of rain ditch and gutter, the familiar miles of shoulder are hints of life, gleams of death; indeed, miracles and prophecies. Regard, in this instance, the bobbing carcass of a crab borne along by ants, a mongoose glancing back, the remains of a myna bird pressed into the pavement like a fossil. This is the appeal of journals. What are they, after all, but a reflective commentary on the wayside?

Journals generally are composed at night, but not all nights. Not, for example, at a piano bar in Kailua on the island of Hawaii, drinking stingers, fatally colored like the sea, with Patricia and listening to the falsetto songs of a boy sitting on the piano bench playing his guitar. This is the best Hawaiian music. The worst is what seeps into hotel elevators. It has the consistency of soggy sweet rolls. I also heard his compelling music at a luau given by the Robinson plantation workers on the island of Kauai. We sat at long tables under a tent by the faintly fetid shore. Portuguese poachers boasted about goats in remote valleys, and a blind Hawaiian who said he once weighed 459 pounds hoarded bottles of Primo beer before him, caressing the brown glass, only consenting to withdraw a hand to shake and consider another's. In the dark yard children swung resolutely on swings and dogs went about, tails between their legs. After dinner there was singing and a lot of random grinning. Hawaiians are powerful, exorbitant grinners.

At times, when considering the wayward notes of my Hawaiian journey, I feel as though I am leafing through an album containing snapshots and jocular captions in white ink of a stranger's childhood. Among Patricia's photographs is one of herself surfing on a 20-foot wave at Makaha on Oahu. It is out of focus; it was taken from movie film. Moments later she went, as she says, laughing, down the tubes. Swimming to the surface she came, instead, to the bottom. A surfer paddling out found her.

The major destinations of Hawaii's outer or neighbor islands (the entire state, with the exception of Oahu), are scenic, and the tourists, jammed into limousines, are borne, like the crab, pell-mell to classic waterfalls, canyons and craters as though King Korn stamps were being given away at each. They are doing scenery; in Europe they would be doing churches or groping, footsore, through ill-lit museums.

Two of the most noble sights are Waimea Canyon on Kauai and Haleakala Crater on the island of Maui. Looking down at Waimea you can see the bosun birds that nest there, drifting like white moths or the souls of Homeric heroes. At the lookout are slow dragonflies the size of sparrows. Haleakala is brown, the color of cinders, and ultimately quiet save for the motors of movie cameras. At the summit are dandelions and bluebottles gadding about sandwich wrappers. There are African tulip trees on the road to Waimea. You can make water pistols out of the blossoms. The road to Haleakala winds upward through eucalyptus groves, cloud banks and volcanic rubble. Although it is often only wide enough for a single car there is a prudent white line down its center.

One day we drove from Wailuku to Hana on Maui. Maui was a Polynesian demigod who was raised by jellyfish, made the birds visible and died, betrayed by man's laughter, when he was striving to make him immortal. The road follows the coast and has many turnings. Along the way are pools fed by waterfalls. The pools are cold, but if you swim across them—a few strokes—and crouch under the falls, the water is unexpectedly hot. As it falls in thin sheets it is quickly heated by the sun. There usually are rainbows in the waterfalls, too.

I saw the mongoose by the side of the road, trotting the other way. It glanced back with dark, insolent eyes, as nervy as Kafka's jackal. Mongooses, of course, are not native to Hawaii but were imported to kill rats (there are no snakes in the islands) which slipped ashore on hawsers and multiplied. Many plants, animals and birds have been brought in, often, alas, without regard to ecology. I once saw eastern cardinals flying by the beach. It was like seeing pelicans in Jersey City. A signal date in the history of Maui is 1826. Mosquitoes were introduced from Mexico that year. They have thrived formidably, too.

Myna birds are commonly seen by the roadside, particularly in built-up areas. They are chiefly brown with big feet and thick yellow legs like old-fashioned soda straws. A restaurant in Kokee on Kauai had a myna bird from the Philippines that said aloha in 10 different voices and inflections. It didn't know what aloha meant, however. If you asked the bird its name, it would say aloha. If you said aloha, it would tell you its name. It also imitated passing automobiles and whistled cheekily.

Aloha, which means hello or goodby like the Italian ciao, is the most celebrated Hawaiian expression. Its only rival is "hello dere." Tony Kunimura, a Kauai politician, explained how this became part of the language. Many years ago, when Captain Cook's ships first appeared on the horizon—the Hawaiians thought they were white clouds—the natives ran down to the beach and shouted aloha. Captain Cook regarded them through his glass, then, taking up his megaphone, replied, "Hello dere!"

Late at night in certain places big toads, called bufos, regularly cross the road mile after mile in your headlights. I learned this only because Tony and I passed a long evening at a Japanese inn, eating opihis and pipipi, drinking coffee, and talking politics with visitors; it appeared to be the local salon or back room. Opihis are limpets and are eaten raw, sucked in a single, sharp inhalation out of the shell. Pipipi are like winkles. You boil up a whole mess of them and spear them with a straight pin, winkling them out of their twisted houses. There is a little shell door you have to flip off first. Eating pipipi is a compulsive act, like eating salted peanuts, and needs dexterity. (On a rocky point on Maui I have seen hermit crabs in old pipipi shells. The crabs have blue amazed eyes and black-and-white feet. There are several such promontories where waves wash over the disorderly rocks into shallow pools. They are violent when the seas rush in but are filled, nonetheless, with little sublime reef fish.)

It was quite late when we left the inn, and around Lihue on Kauai the place to go after hours is a Chinese restaurant with a sign hanging outside which says: "Wontun." Inside, you sit amidst fragrant steam at a wooden counter and eat huge bowls of wontun soup. Thus fortified (or purified) you drive home. Halfway to my hotel Tony sagged over the wheel, as if the last air had been let out of him; sort of giving up the ghost. He protested that he wanted to sleep by the side of the road. I took over and drove along the strange, winding, mild coast. It was then I noted the bufos hopping swiftly across the road at intervals, as though bound to a greater, ineluctable obedience. It was a benign spectacle and induced genial speculation, like a hot bath.

I saw them again when I went with Rick Fuller, a game area supervisor, to take a game bird census in Kekaha, also on Kauai. Much of Kekaha is a high, dry plateau; there is prickly pear up there. We struck out singly and, after walking for miles in the hot forenoon, compared notes. We had seen nine pheasants, 50 barred doves, seven chukars and a francolin. The bufos were by the water units Rick had built for the birds; green as jade, concealing princes.

Beyond my hotel, beneath the mountains where it is always raining, there is a beach on which feathery crabs run with great swiftness. They don't seem to touch the ground—indeed, to be bowled along by a private wind. At evening, when the crabs are in their holes, the people from the town where Tony lives cook spaghetti and octopuses on the beach. From the hotel window I could see their fires and the lights on the swinging masts of the boats moored in the bay distorted by the glass into dandelion seeds.

There is, providentially, no outdoor advertising in Hawaii but there are such signs: Do Not Trash Up The Road; Look Out For Falling Coconuts; Keep Out: Please No Pick, Bother Or Bust Up. Busting up is, apparently, a problem. On the island of Lanai, which is the world's largest privately-owned pineapple plantation, the Dole company erected picnic tables in a palm grove by the bathing beach. One night the tables were busted up. They were made of useful lumber. Dole replaced them and again they were busted up. Finally, the company set a small bronze plaque in the center of each new table. The tables are there today. The plaques read: In Memory of those Lanai Veterans who Died for their Country.

Lanai is the scene of an important game management experiment: in 1959 pronghorn antelope were introduced from Montana. Before this, Lanai's big game consisted of feral goats, axis deer and mouflon sheep, all imported in one century or another. There are some 35 square miles of tableland, much of it bound by the silvery, green-and-red, fragrant geometry of the pineapple fields. Too open for deer and not suitable for mouflon, it is the habitat of an occasional ringneck pheasant and its antagonist, the wild cat. It is a desolate, silent plain of red earth, shrubs, stands of pine and pale grass, soft but so thickly matted one can lie on it and be buoyed above the ground. Here and there are apparently haphazard designs made out of small boulders. They are not, as has been suggested, the work of the Menehune, a lost and legendary tribe who were two feet tall, had distended bellies, worked only at night and capriciously turned one another into stone. The designs were, in fact, targets for bombers making practice runs. Lyman Nichols, who was resident wildlife biologist from 1957 to 1961, noted that the old bombing range was similar to pronghorn country on the mainland, and in December 1959, 38 pronghorn were released on Lanai.

The project had an eventful but melancholy beginning. "One factor was overlooked in the release," Nichols has written, "...the antelope had never seen salt water, and were used to large fresh-water lakes in which to quench their thirst. They took one look at the large, blue 'lake' several miles down slope from the release area, and headed directly for the Pacific Ocean! Unfortunately, they bypassed the water units placed in the release area. Some time during the first night following their release, they found their way through the heavy algarroba [mesquite] forest lining the coast and came out on the narrow sand beach between the forest and the sea.

"The next day, they were found wandering disconsolately up and down the narrow beach, searching vainly for drinking water, and unable to return to the cooler, open country above because of the solid forest which they refused to enter. A crew of volunteers was immediately rounded up, and the antelope, now suffering from lack of water, were herded up the beach to an open ridge that led to the higher rangeland and water units. During the drive, some of the animals became confused and took to the water, swimming out over the reef towards the open sea; however, the surf turned them, and they returned to shore with no losses. A few became lost in the trees and did not make it up the ridge with the main herd. Most of these were subsequently chased—or captured and carried—up to the open range of the release area, but at least two died on the beach, probably from the effects of drinking salt water.

"The majority regained the release area and found the. water units. They remained there for a number of days before commencing to wander. By January 20th, the known survivors had been reduced to 18. A number had died from the effects of having their eyeballs punctured by the thorns on the algarroba trees while they were at the beach, and others had wandered from the main herd and could not be found. Most of the 18 were suffering from scours [dysentery], probably brought on by the severe change in diet, and it is possible that some losses were caused by this."

The antelope have since prospered; the herd now numbers 52 and the government hopes to declare a season in a few years.

At present the most popular big game in Hawaii is feral pig and goat. The goats came ashore with the early captains, such as James Cook and George Vancouver; the first pigs traveled across the South Pacific with the Polynesians who settled Hawaii. A second lot came in with Cook. Their welfare was assured by the fact that the early Hawaiians considered dog an equally succulent dish. Although still similar in appearance to their domestic counterparts, the pigs and goats have undergone certain physical changes during several centuries in the wilderness, particularly in size, coat and length and shape of tusk and horn. Goats have attained a live weight of 120 pounds; their horns are as much as three inches in diameter and grow in various, and extraordinary, screws and directions. Pigs have been killed that weighed up to 300 pounds undressed and had tusks as broad as the goats' horns.

I went pig hunting on the island of Molokai. Brownie, Dobie, Shepherd, Roscoe and Snoopy—these were the dogs, all mongrels, all quite skinny, all middle-sized. Most of them probably have since been killed and replaced from the pound in Honolulu. Conrad Pa said don't be sentimental about pig dogs. Kick them, rather. Affection is intolerable, followed as it inevitably is by loss. Conrad Pa, the guide, came before dawn in his jeep, wearing a blue T shirt and football shoes. Conrad Pa is a marvelous name; better is Ernest Uu, who has the U-Drive concession at the Molokai airport.

I sat isolated in the back of the jeep as we rushed through the dark and cold wind, embracing Brownie. I gave him all my spendthrift love and abundant sorrow. He was later wounded, as was Shepherd, by the tusks. We passed Junior, Dickie, Norman, Conrad's companions, with their guns and barking dogs in another jeep. They roared out after us. It was as though we were going to a revolution. At one point the dogs burst from the jeeps, chasing a cow or a deer in a pasture in the dim light. High in the rain forest Conrad drove over the rutted track with one hand, leaning out of the jeep to look for signs of pig. Eventually he was satisfied and braked. The dogs slipped away and we followed them into a forest of ferns higher than one's head and thickly set. It began to rain. The dogs were running and the boys chased after them across the spongy brown bottom of the forest. We came at last to a gulch through which ran an iron-colored stream. The dogs were splashing about in it, unable to get up the steep stone bank on the other side. Junior hoisted himself halfway up by vines and footings and, grabbing the dogs first by the scruffs and then by their bottoms, boosted them up and over the top one by one. Then they all scrambled after and vanished, tumbling down clefts, fording secret streams to deliver—like Odysseus in the windy hollows of Parnassus—the pig. Celebrated by dogs, it crouched in the foul shade of its sanctuary—its breathing gross and ragged, its tusks bright.

Conrad and I went back to the jeep and, taking a different track, clinging to the pitching jeep, drove to a high rocky point. As we went we heard several shots far off. From the point we could see down to the heavily foliaged spines and gullies. Conrad fired a round from his carbine, was answered from somewhere in the wild, bounded off down a path in his cleats and disappeared. When he returned we piled into the jeep again and rode to another part of the forest, where we reentered. Conrad took a length of chain with him. He left me at a small clearing and plunged down. Shepherd appeared quietly with fresh wounds on his belly and legs and lay down in the green, flickering light, sedulously licking. Two hours later the boys were laughing and swearing as they dragged the great, hairy black pig up by the chain. It had been cleaned, its entrails left where it had taken its final seat, back to cover as is its custom; there the dogs had clamped onto its hind legs and jaws, each to its duty, until Dickie, running first, walked up and rested the carbine like a wand or scepter on the heavy, suffering head.

Another day I went after goat on the Napalicoast of Kauai. No roads go there, not even tracks. There are a few perilous trails. A primitive airstrip is laid out on one of the beaches—Milolii—but to all purposes most of the coastal valleys can only be reached by sea. Even then access is sometimes difficult. At Honopu Valley, for instance, you have to climb a rope fastened to a rock to get ashore.

We took the government launch, trolling three lines in a shower of flying fish. Kim, the mate, caught a five-pound pompano on 130-pound test, or palpably meat, line. The cliffs, or pali, are sheer, dark and forbidding, a Hadean landscape of old, pocked laval rock; goats regarded us along the skyline. Birds the color of the rock nest there. At places beneath the cliffs are narrow beaches of sand or shingle. Where there are no beaches the water is a luminous green, like certain jades or aquas, and you can look down and see the pale coral bottom. Here and there grass grows down the cliff face like waterfalls or there is a banana tree defiantly rooted high up. Between the ridges is a sequence of green valleys extending and broadening back to the mountains. There are many caves and grottoes at the base of the cliffs.

A hermit lives in one long, low cavern. Kim said he was once a celebrated pediatrician from the Virgin Islands or Philadelphia. We passed while he was having lunch, sitting naked at a table in his cave. When he saw us he got up and put on a T shirt and Bermuda shorts. He has been there for several years. They say he had a bad time of it the first winter. No one had a very good word for him. He was, it seems, not an entirely successful hermit; he bored the occasional fisherman with long recitations and wasn't beyond a bit of filching from hunters' camps.

We anchored off Milolii and waded to the beach, which was littered with cowrie shells. Gerry Swedberg, a game biologist, and I tramped up off the beach through chest-high brush into the sunny valley. Beneath the lantana were lizards, blue-tailed skinks, a mouse and stone ruins that, Gerry said, were the remains of a Hawaiian temple. Cabbage moths fluttered about our knees. We heard goats baaing and then saw them moving high along the cliff, a herd of 17, black, brown, white, brown-and-black, white-and-black, turning their heads to look at us, jostling, butting each other; billies, nannies and kids, bounding and stumbling along a narrow trail. Gerry raised his .30-30 Winchester, Model 94, and sighted in on a fine black billy. I took the rifle from him and drew a bead, too; then handed it back. I told him not to shoot on my account. We had, I felt unalterably, already killed him; the range was only 100 yards. It would have been absurd to have pulled the trigger. Gerry had gotten permission to take a goat on a weekday (in this area goats could be shot only on weekends) but according to the regulations we couldn't keep the meat (dried goat meat isn't at all bad) but would have had to throw the carcass in the ocean. We weren't allowed to keep a trophy head, either. It was just as profitable to goat-watch. Under our observation the goats became disturbed, perhaps even a little neurotic, because of the presence of the gun but the absence of noise, death and confusion. Perplexed and agitated, they finally filed up the cliff and out of sight.

It was very hot, and Gerry and I went down to a narrow fresh-water stream which runs through the valley and, lying on our stomachs, drank the cold, sweet water. A creamy young billy with luxuriant bangs and a stiff, bushy mane, like an Athenian horse, came along a trail to within 10 yards of us. He bounded up on a boulder, turned to look again, shook his head up and down and wandered off. We left, too, crossing and re-crossing the stream to the bank that gave the best footing. It was tricky going; Gerry fell in the stream once but kept his gun dry, holding it above his head like Excalibur. We followed the stream to the rocky coast where it flows deviously into the Pacific.

Kaunakakai, Molokai's main town, is a pale, dusty place, not unlike a frontier western village. Occasionally a stripteaser from Honolulu is advertised. When she doesn't show they put up a sign: Saturday Night For Sure. Pub-crawling in Kaunakakai is a gas: there are three places. First, the Seaside Inn, a commercial hotel by the stinking mud flats, palms growing in Wesson Oil tins on a terrace with iron chairs and tables. The bar is connected to the front desk and the same man apparently works both. When I was there the bartender-desk clerk was a guest pressed into service until he worked out his bills. Next you go to the Midnight Inn, which closes at 11 p.m. If you want a Martini you have to get up and make it yourself. Lastly, Kanemitsu's Bakery. This comprehensive establishment includes a bar, bowling alley, bakery, general store and rooms for let. At Kanemitsu's I was presented with a whole steamed mullet, garnished with Greek olives, to eat with my Scotch.

Kaunakakai is, to most purposes, rural Hawaii. What is presented to the tourist as Hawaii is a stage set for an operetta. The Coco Palms Hotel, on Kauai, is an example. "Coco Palms is fashioned largely from materials that are Island," one of its brochures reads. "Beauty, Warm Friendliness, Music, Native Dignity mixed with soft laughter, Love." Some of the Coco Palms' rooms are furnished with materials that are Island; sinks made of killer clam shells (any island, evidently; they are imported from the South Pacific), beds built like outrigger canoes, goatskin drums for night tables and toilet paper in three colors. Like several Hawaiian hotels, the Coco Palms has a torch-lighting ceremony. Summoned by a blast on a conch shell, beach boys in red shirts whiz about firing kerosene torches while, in sepulchral tones, an announcer recites Hawaiiana over the P.A. The Coco Palms' matchbook covers call it the Home of the Movies. Segments of five films were shot there, among them Pagan Love Song and Naked Paradise.

One morning we went to Lahaina on Maui where the whaling ships were once so numerous they say you could walk across their decks to Lanai, 8½ miles distant. In 1846, there were 596 whalers wintering in the roadstead. On the way we stopped at a Japanese graveyard: a hot, dismal and barren patch of hard earth between two roads by the sea where we later watched suspicious children netting a kind of transparent crayfish among the rocks. Over many of the tombstones are little gallows from which hang Japanese lanterns, as pale and listless as abandoned snakeskins. Before one grave, dead flowers, shadows, pine needles in a jar of sand: no, they are punk sticks. Our Beloved Son Robert Masaichi Kiyonaga Nov. 14, 1929 (my birthdate!) March 20, 1930. Sawanotsuru the refined Japanese sake: a green bottle by an unmarked grave. Old fruit in saucers, peanuts on wax paper, stones, a pink-and-white cake, Wesson Oil tins, Planters Cocktail Peanuts cans, tumbled-over vases, remains of fires, Hills Brothers Coffee cans, stalks, seashells, cans wrapped in silver paper. Paper cups, with toy soldiers beating drums marching in a frieze around them, a shrunken orange, a boiled bamboo-sprout can full of sand, Kikkoman Shoyu Brewed In Noda Chibaken, Japan. Footprints of mourners—impressions of intricately designed soles in the dust—birds calling and the roar of the ocean beyond the road.

In Lahaina we found Ray following the shady side of the streets with a bag on. It was his big day of the week, the day he drove to Wailuku for the unemployment check. His wife surfs at dusk in the harbor, frightened of sting rays.

I sit by the seashore in a lean-to made of cardboard cartons and dried palm fronds. A windy afternoon on Molokai: at my front Keaweauni Pond, a fish pond; low stone walls advancing into the ocean. I am with Mr. Y. D. Yeng, an old Chinese in Bermuda shorts. He relates the history of the pond: unsolved murders and mysterious explosions. About our feet three nondescript dogs: Spot, Fido, Boysan. Spot's a mongoose dog, Fido a watchdog, Boysan has no talent. He is, Mr. Yeng says, the boss dog and, furthermore, points at butterflies. Samoan crabs with carapaces big as dinner plates wander in ambiguous transit on the bottom of Keaweauni Pond, recalling dark rooms, early delusions. Sea cucumbers down there, too, like irrelevant arms. Mr. Y. D. Yeng has traveled the world and recommends it. "Float," he tells me. "Float." Odd, repudiating currents bob us along, baffled and penitential, this shore or that. The implacable vision of Patricia in the surf at Makaha, for instance, or the antelope beyond the reef.


GETTING THERE: For swift (five hours) comfort, take Pan Am, Northwest or United jets to Honolulu; for slower luxury (four and a half to five days), Matson or American President liners. Two excellent airlines, Hawaiian and Aloha, with frequent daily flights, serve the outer islands. Tip: when booking through a travel agent, avoid the too-fast package tour that trundles the unwary from island to island with less than a day to spend on each. Rely on the Hawaii Visitors Bureau for island information.

STAYING THERE: The outer islands offer nearly 1,500 hotel rooms, from the almost Spartan to the very plush, operated under American and European plans. The quality of the food ranges from good international hotel type to only fair. Surprisingly little effort is made to offer seafood, Asian dishes or native specialties. Charcoal-broiled steaks are the big favorite. The Big Island (Hawaii) has plenty of hotels to choose from. The Naniloa, in Hilo, with 60 rooms, charges $30 a day per couple for a double room, American plan; $16, European plan. Best deep-sea fishing in the islands is off the Kona coast of Hawaii. The Kona Inn, Kailua, has 144 rooms. A double room, American plan, costs $30; European plan, $16. Northeast of Kailua, Laurance Rockefeller is building a luxury beach resort (similar to his Dorado in Puerto Rico), which will cover 2,000 acres of the famous Parker Ranch, have 200 rooms and a Robert Trent Jones golf course.

On Kauai there are at least three first-class hotels: the Kauai Surf, Hanalei Plantation and Coco Palms, all by the sea. The Kauai Surf is a brand-new, 10-story skyscraper at Kalapaki Beach. It has 104 rooms. A double, American plan, costs $34; European plan, $20. This is the hotel for extroverts: it has the liveliest bar on the island. The quieter Hanalei Plantation is one of the world's most beautiful resorts. American plan only: $50-$55 for a double room. The fashionable Coco Palms has 110 rooms. A double room, American plan, costs from $34 to $50; European plan is from $21 to $38.

Hawaii and Kauai get most of the tourists, and, as a result, most of the hotels on Maui and the other islands are smaller, simpler and usually cheaper. On Maui, up to now, there is only one really good hotel, the Hana-Maui. Rates begin at $45 a day for a double room, American plan, and there is a four-day minimum. The new Sheraton-Maui will open in December. The best bar on Maui is the Whaler's Grog Shoppe in the Pioneer Inn, Lahaina. Molokai has one delightful inn in the foothills, the Kalae Lodge, but it has only four rooms. A double room costs $14; meals on request. Mrs. Lilyan Yuen Anderson, the owner, will cook da bin lu, her Chinese specialty, if she is in the mood. Lanai is not generally considered a tourist spot, but it does have one inn, the Lanai, with 10 rooms and a restaurant.

HUNTING: An estimated 100,000 wild pigs inhabit the island ranges; about 20,000 are bagged annually. In addition to goat, mouflon sheep are hunted and about 2,000 are taken each year. Four hunting guide services are available on the Big Island: Slim Holt, Box 1425, Hilo; Lloyd Hing Lai, Box 248, Hawi; Henry Ota, Box 51, Holualoa; Kenneth Kohata, 284 Silva Street, Hilo. A two-day hunt costs about $90 per person. For bird hunters there are Chinese ringneck and Japanese blue pheasant, quail, dove, partridge and pigeon. Guns can be rented and an all-inclusive license costs $10. The state requires a guide to accompany parties hunting the 300,000 public acres. At present, it is best to confine hunting and fishing to the Big Island since guides are hard to come by elsewhere.

FISHING: Deep-sea fishing for marlin, yellowfin tuna, dolphin and barracuda is sensational. Fishing charter boats are available at Kailua and Hilo on Hawaii. No license is needed for salt-water fishing. The Division of Fish and Game, Department of Land and Natural Resources, Honolulu, has up-to-minute details on hunting and fishing and publishes a newsletter describing best fishing locations and conditions. Snorkeling and spearfishing are excellent in most outer island waters, since they are much less frequented than Oahu. The surfing—at Oahu the world's best—can be fine at the outer islands. Local people will cooperate with tips on best surfing, fishing and diving places.


Eagle (-2)
Birdie (-1)
Bogey (+1)
Double Bogey (+2)