I go insane if I don’t get to drive for a while everyday. There
is just something about driving that calms me down. Maybe it’s the myriad
of possibilities that lie just off the road, or maybe it’s that if you
don’t stop, you can just drive forever. It never seems to matter where
the night takes me while driving but somehow I always end up on the same stretch
of road at the end of the night. Between Sandy Beach and Hanauma Bay there
is a narrow stretch of two-lane road that has no real name, save that it is
part
of Kalanianeole Highway. Here, the road becomes a shroud, a sanctuary, a different
plane of existence. The long, smooth black of the asphalt becomes the floor
of heaven, with a glass ceiling made of moonlight that can hide you from the
prying
eyes and expectations of the sleeping city as you fly faster, always searching
for the next curve that lurks just beyond the fringe of the headlights. Whether
this road is a place to hide, to bleed your anger out in a cloud of exhaust
and rubber, or a place to come out and just enjoy a nice, clear night in the
moonlit
company of friends, this road is the nameless friend who is always there. No
matter who you are, or what has happened throughout the day, the quiet sanctuary
provided by the mountains and ocean become a different place, where road racer,
commuter and tourist alike are all old friends to the weathered and weary old
asphalt.
Full moon nights are the best nights to drive most anywhere, but on this road
in particular, the starlight-soaked view is breathtaking. The road always begins
in fourth gear, a slow cruise down Kalanianeole past Koko Marina, under the
bridge between the church and the elementary school, and finally through the
pass between
Koko Head and Koko Crater. A bit of gas up the hill brings the whine of the
engine up to 4,300 rpm as the darkness swallows you halfway up the hill, when
the last
streetlight flashes quickly in and out of sight in the rearview mirror. A small
lookout zips by on the left, then the Hanauma Bay entrance to the right. The
hill crests, dumping you down the road between a wall of rock on the left and
one of the most spectacular views of the ocean anywhere on the island to the
right. On a night when the moon is full, the waves glimmer and sparkle like
silver blanket of diamonds on the water. The waves here hit hard and fly high,
spewing
their angry mist on jagged coastline pockmarked with cliffs and coves that
can be as violent as they are beautiful. Here, on a full moon night, fierce
battles
are waged between cars that fly past couples making out at the lookouts- the
stark contrast of the two events mirroring so well the very nature of the coastline.
It is always easy at this point to drop the car into fifth gear and just enjoy
the view but leaving it in fourth is much more rewarding. The view goes out
of sight for a second as a small hill flashes by, a wake up call that sends
you
accelerating quickly against the curve of the gently sweeping left turn. As
the rocks drop out of view, a clear night rewards you with a stunning view
of Lanai:
a shimmering collection of streetlights and distant lives on the edge of the
horizon. I sometimes cannot help but wonder if there is a road on Lanai that
is not unlike the one that I am on. I wonder if there is someone looking at
me too, but I am always fairly sure that I am lost to them, smaller even than
a
thought, as they so often are to me.
Still in fourth at 4,500 rpm and the road begins to drop, rocketing you down
the straightaway till you pass the gun range on the left. Then, if you catch
the sharp right at just the correct angle and speed, a quick shift and a satisfying
thump into neutral and you can enjoy the view to the right for just a moment,
drifting silently past Lanai lookout until the cliffs and mountain loom ominously
ahead, ready to smother you again under a blanket of darkness and stone. Back
to third gear, and a smooth climb to 4,000 rpm sends you floating over the
elevation changes of the sweeping s-turn, all the while hidden from everything
but the
moon and the faint glow cast by the millions of stars that you could never
see from the city. Around the bend to the left, and the water drifts lazily
back
into view through the faint glow cast by the millions of stars that you could
never see from the city. Around the bend to the left, and the water drifts
lazily back into view through the faint mist of salt that haunts the moonlight
like
a bad mood. On a bad night, if the road racers stir the night too violently,
the misty night air is sometimes tinged with blue and red, the ocean drowned
out by the din of wailing sirens, another casualty to the darkness where guardrails
and hesitation threaten to mangle and twist the life out of you to the tempo
of the violent sea below. On these nights, the road seems to cry as the mist
thickens and the waves crash higher- a cry, as if the road were sad to have
lost another friend. The small, colorless ribbons that adorn the scuffs and
scrapes
on the guardrail always make me sad as the journey meanders through this part
of the road.
Somehow, the moon always seems to be perfectly in the middle of the water at
the next curve, casting an ethereal blue glow just bright enough to see the
lines and reflectors that sparkle and fly past you, hovering over the pitch
black of
the asphalt like tiny plastic yellow and red fireflies. On a still night, there
are two moons staring at you. The moon in the water glows luminescent, as bright
as it’s reflection in the cloud-speckled sky. A quick bank to the left
in the road leads you past Bamboo Ridge, the fishermen’s cars, then past
the nameless monument: a rock in the middle of a concrete circle that overlooks
the ocean. Somehow, it always eludes me as I whip past the silly stone, why
anyone would want to take a picture of a rock. I always smile here as I downshift
and
a bit too much gas coaxes the car eagerly into the next turn.
Another quick turn to the right, and a bit of complaining from the tires sends
you flying almost sideways past Cockroach Cove, then the Blowhole, as you glide
past the dwindling mountain, until the barren, jutting cliffs melt into Sandy
Beach, and finally into the long smooth straightaway that signals the end of
the road, as a traffic light and the first streetlight for miles begin to cast
their unwelcome glow in tones of green and orange, ruining a road that had
been perfect a mere 100 yards ago. Every night I drive this road, and every
night
the road begs me to turn around when I stop at the light to turn left, back
to civilization, to expectations, and to my responsibilities. Most nights I
make
the left.
On the rarest of nights though, the call of the road wins out and I do turn
around and drive past the scenic points, bathed in moonlight – a knife
sliding through the mist. The road always beckons, like the grandfather who
has seen
everything: from the creation of the heavens and earth, to the passing of the
thousands of visitors who stop here every year to gaze at the stark collection
of rocks and water that are the heart and soul of the road, and finally to
the residents of the East side of Oahu: we who are blessed with this road as
a long
surreal driveway, the familiar gate that signals that home is near.
The best part about this road is that you will not find it in any tourist guide.
Nowhere in Oahu weekly, any tourist site on the internet, and not in any book
does this road appear, save for slightly less than lip service as “a large
touristy turnout between Hanauma Bay and Sandy Beach” (shorediving.com),
as if the sweeping turns and postcard perfect views were simply a means to
an end.
The history and folklore of this road extend only as far back as the memories
of the men who built it, carving it out of the very mountain way back when
even Honolulu proper was still an infant. No, to most people the majesty and
raw beauty
of this road is lost in a flurry of maps and looking for parking for the various
scenic points that are mentioned in the tourist rags, and the hustle of weary
people trying to get home. Somehow, in all of the commotion of life happening,
the beauty of this road is lost in he translation from point a to point b.
For me though, it is not the stops on the sides of the road that I love, it
is the
drive. From the constant pull and tug of the road that dances the car deftly
through the turns, to the damp smell of the salt in the air, to the darkness
and shadows that grow thick and deep in the shadows of the mountain, the gentle
hum of the rubber on the asphalt, and the whine of the engine that can hide
the crashing of the waves if you don’t listen carefully- the curves of
this road are heaven.
Here the asphalt is covered with the faded and tattered traces of lifetimes
of precious moments, memories of laughter and smiles, and of sorrow and tears
that
have long since dried up. A coastline that was once ruled by Mano the shark
amakua, has become infested with surfers and boogie boarders. The swampland
that once
nourished the thirsty mountain has left if dry and barren. The lush valley
beyond the hills that was once hunting ground and homeland to the Hawaiians
of old has
become landfill and track homes. The fish are gone now, even at Hanauma Bay
where they have been replaced with red tourists that float like strange lobsters
in
the key made by the reef, current, and father time.
Modern days have changed and shaped the whole of Oahu, especially in recent
years. The city has grown and become crowded, buildings are knocked down and
rebuilt,
but this road remains nameless and surreal, the place between awake and sleeping.
So will it remain until long after I am dead and gone. Generations will pass,
and this road will still be the same magical, awe-inspiring, priceless stretch
of asphalt that it has always been, calling to anyone who will keep it company
sometime in the magic hours between dusk and dawn. So if you haven’t
already driven it, try it sometime, you will see what I mean.
Kapiolani
Community College