Maui Adventure - Day 5: Wait for It, Snorkel Edition

[Composed 1/5/2026]

Our snorkeling experience at Ahihi-Kinau Natural Area Reserve unfolded in three acts. Act I: the understated, self-pay parking lot. No signs, vendors, or anything resembling excitement.

Though we did get an important clue. As we started toward the beach, we overheard a kid — maybe ten years old — walking out with his family, turn to his dad, and ask: "Can we come back tomorrow?" Whoa, we thought. That's some high praise.

Act II: the short walk to the water. Now things started to get interesting. The trail led over stark black lava rock with only the occasional bit of vegetation peeking through. This is the sort of other-world ecosystem I totally dig. Though it felt nothing like beach-friendly terrain.

One flower caught my attention: a white bloom with a starburst of long stamens, growing from a low woody shrub. I took the photo and kept walking.

We don our snorkel gear and make our way down a steep ramp to the water's edge. I brace myself for the chill and duck my head under. Act III begins.

Into the Water

The contrast is immediate and total. The surface: alien, black, inhospitable. Below: fish everywhere, working the coral in every direction. Reds, blues, silvers. No catamaran, no guided tour, no rental shack. You walked over a lava field, and it was just there.

Two Fish, One Plant

Underwater photography is its own skill set, and one I need to sharpen — my Kodak WPZ2, a budget waterproof camera, shares some of the blame. Most shots came out too blurry to identify, but two frames were worth naming.

One dark fish caught my eye — almost black, with a single vivid orange stripe near its tail. That's the Achilles Tang, called pākuʻikuʻi in Hawaiian. It's named for the myth: the orange mark sits exactly where the Achilles heel would be — but on this fish, that spot isn't a weakness. It's warning coloration marking the retractable scalpel spine. The heel is the weapon.

The parrotfish — uhu — stopped me immediately. Large, unhurried, bright blue. Then I noticed they were biting the reef. And that mouth: it's a beak. An actual beak — roughly a thousand teeth fused into one, I learned afterward. They scrape coral, grind it through their digestive system, and excrete it as fine white sand. A large adult can produce over a ton a year. Ever wonder where fine white sand comes from? Parrotfish poop.

That flower I photographed on the trail — I looked it up. It's a Capparis sandwichiana — maiapilo, the Hawaiian caper, endemic to Hawaiʻi. It blooms after sunset and closes by morning, so I caught it at the end of its night. Hawaiians used it to treat broken bones, pounding the plant and applying it to the affected joints. That sounds like folk medicine until you learn the plant's biflavonoids inhibit the same inflammatory pathway that modern anti-inflammatories target. They were doing the right thing without a double-blind study to back them up. It's also listed as vulnerable, threatened mainly by feral goats — a story for the next post.

The Kid Was Right

We didn't go back the next day. We had places to be. But "can we come back tomorrow?" was the right sentiment. This place is amazing.

Maui Adventure - Day 5: Big Whale and Little Beach

[Composed 1/5/2026]

Day 1, Maui got off to a slow start. Even on our flight's approach, eyeballing the island from the window, we were underwhelmed — fine, but no fireworks.

Twenty minutes in, we came around a curve on Highway 30 and I made Shira pull over at a coastal overlook. The final moments of sunset were on display, the storm clouds cracked, the ocean stretched out, there was even a wind-bent tree silhouetted on the lava below.

Day 5, same overlook, en route to the beach. Shira and I eagerly scanning the horizon with my budget Pentax binoculars. A white puff appeared in the flat gray water.

Whale! Then another!

This is Papawai Point, between mile markers 8 and 9 on Highway 30, just west of Ma'alaea. The channel between Maui and Kahoʻolawe is one of the primary humpback calving and breeding grounds in the Pacific — which is why, during whale season, the Pacific Whale Foundation posts a naturalist here most mornings with exhibits and loaner binoculars. Even my basic set did the trick. We spent maybe fifteen minutes. No tour boat, no ticket.

Two visits, two different gifts. That's Papawai Point. Worth stopping every time.

Yesterday's trip to the Maui Ocean Center made me a whale expert. OK, maybe not. But it made the sighting mean more — this wasn't just a big animal, it was a communicating, learning, parenting, grieving mammal. Worth every minute I almost didn't spend there.

The Checklist

A few years ago, Puerto Rico taught us we were beach people — just not in the conventional sense. We don't want a packed swath of sand with umbrella rentals and a bustling boardwalk. Since then, I've compiled a mental checklist: privacy, shade, fine sand, warm water, snorkeling, shelling.

Research pointed to Little Beach — a secluded cove tucked at the south end of Makena — as the best fit on Maui. The obvious caveat was that it's 'clothing optional', but we figured that would help make it just the private spot we'd enjoy.

Getting There

We arrived early. The sky was overcast. Big Beach — the long, dramatic main strand at Makena — was nearly deserted. Had we had kids — teens or little ones — in tow, this probably would have been our destination. But as it was just the two of us, we were glad to leave this behind.

To reach Little Beach, you walk to the end of Big Beach and scramble up and over a lava rock bluff. The trail is 0.3 miles, steep, a little slippery, and entirely worth it. There are steps cut into the rock. It's less a hidden beach than a beach that requires a little want-it.

The Beach

On the other side: a smaller cove, almost no one in it. At peak, we'd see maybe four or five other people. We basically had the place to ourselves.

As it turned out, the early timing and overcast sky worked in our favor. What felt like a compromise checked the box that mattered most: privacy.

OK, the water wasn't exactly warm and the shade not quite plentiful. The sand felt good underfoot, and the views were extraordinary.

Much to Shira's chagrin, I like to hunt for stuff on the beaches — shells, interesting rocks, whatever the tide left. The main expanse of Little Beach was basically shell-free. On the shoulders of the beach, though, the conditions turn to a mini-lava field. Among the lava rocks: washed-up coral in stark black, red, and white. Shelling checkbox: checked.

Unlike some beaches that encourage shell collection, the entire state of Hawaii is a dead zone for beach combers. Hawaii Revised Statute §205A-44 prohibits removing sand, dead coral, coral rubble, or rocks from the shoreline. Even dead coral is considered part of the marine ecosystem. Dang it. So, plenty to look at (and photograph!) but you can't take.

Little Beach is clothing-optional — Maui's unofficial nude beach. It was mostly just naked dudes, though not everyone was. The atmosphere was relaxed in a way that's genuinely hard to describe. In some respects the whole scene felt less scandalous than walking a crowded beach where swimmers are trying to show as much skin as possible while still wearing clothes. The chill atmosphere isn't just my observation — it's backed by science: without clothing to signal profession or status, social interactions tend to become more genuine. A mere 300 feet from the main beach, and yet an entirely different space.

The Snorkeling

A man who'd been sunbathing nearby — dressed now — overheard me asking someone about the water and stepped in with better advice. He knew the cove well. His advice: start at the northern edge where it gets rocky, and swim around that point.

Between the razor-sharp lava and crashing waves, that seemed mildly terrifying. I went anyway.

Around the point: a tucked-in reef, calmer than it looked from shore, with fish working the rocks. Not the most spectacular snorkeling of the trip — that was still ahead — but a solid payoff for swimming into conditions that looked uninviting. The man's advice was right.

With my woefully incomplete knowledge of tropical fish, all I could do in the moment was furiously snap pictures with my cheap Kodak WPZ2 and think: holy smokes, those are real fish! In among the rocks: one species was unmistakable — bold black vertical stripes on a silver body, like a prison uniform. That pattern earns them the common name Convict Surgeonfish. The "surgeon" part comes from a retractable spine near the tail, sharp as a scalpel, deployed when threatened. In Hawaiian they're called manini, which means "small." They are small. They've found a workaround.

What I didn't know at the time: the manini's survival strategy is coordinated mob action. Coral reefs are carved up by territorial damselfish — small, aggressive fish that defend patches of algae and will fearlessly chase off fish many times their size. Individually, a manini has no chance. So they don't go individually. They form schools of hundreds, descend on a guarded patch all at once, and graze it down while the damselfish can only chase one at a time. It doesn't matter how territorial you are when two hundred fish show up simultaneously. The patch gets stripped. Biologists call it trophic mobbing.

OK, manini, I see you.

Next Time

We had two more adventures planned for the day. After about two hours, we scrambled back over the bluff.

Good morning: a whale sighting, a quiet cove, a stranger's tip that paid off, better-than-expected shelling, a hidden reef. Little Beach hadn't been perfect, but it more than did the job.

On the drive back that evening, a thought hit me. I like trying new things on vacation — new foods, new experiences, whatever the place uniquely offers. Little Beach was clothing-optional, nearly to ourselves, completely relaxed — and it never once occurred to me, in the moment, that I could actually try that. I'd mentally filed it under "for others." Turns out it wasn't in that category at all.

The research is almost funny: newcomers to naturist spaces typically normalize within minutes — the expected awkwardness never materializes — and afterward, it's no big deal.

Shira was not moved by this realization.

Next time I'm at a clothing-optional beach, I'm not opting for clothing.

Maui Adventure - Day 4: The Aquarium I Almost Skipped

[Composed 1/4/2026]

I'll be honest: I was not excited to visit the aquarium.

My vacation philosophy leans hard toward the serendipitous and the real. I'd rather crouch over a tidepool, squinting at whatever tiny creature the tide left behind, than stand in front of a tank engineered to impress me. The tidepool requires patience and luck. The aquarium is prepared, packaged, ready-made wonder. I prize the unprepared version.

The thing is, that's not always the right call. And the Maui Ocean Center is Exhibit A.

We arrived at 2pm on a day already packed with tidepools (which were a sealife bust!), a hula show and a wildlife refuge. The aquarium closes at 5pm. I'd pushed it off as long as I could. It was now or never.

The Maui Ocean Center is smaller than Baltimore's National Aquarium, which I've visited a handful of times and consider a gold standard. Size turns out to matter less than execution. A world-class art gallery doesn't need to be the Louvre. What it needs to do is make you stop, look, and feel something. The Maui Ocean Center does exactly that. If you walk out unmoved, I don't know what to tell you.

The Octopus

The highlight of the standard exhibits wasn't the sharks or the coral — it was an octopus.

A keeper had her arm in the tank, and the octopus was moving across her hand and forearm. As it moved, it changed color. Not slowly, not subtly — in real time, pattern shifting across its skin like someone flipping through channels. Red, then mottled brown, then almost transparent-gray, then red again.

I knew octopuses could do this. Knowing it and watching it happen two feet away are very different experiences.

Sharks

The main tank is a multi-story reef packed with sharks, rays, and everything else — adjacent to a tunnel that lets you walk through as sharks glide overhead. Classic aquarium setup. Standard or not, it's breathtaking.

More thought provoking was the shark presentation. Most of it covered familiar ground, but one insight stuck: sharks aren't malicious. They don't hunt for sport. A well-fed shark has no biological reason to expend energy chasing something it isn't going to eat. Before any diver enters the water, the keepers feed the sharks — thoroughly. A sated shark is an indifferent shark.

The presenter's point: every other predator stops when it's full. Only humans eat past satiation by choice. That struck a chord. By the end of the afternoon, it came back to me.

She Becomes He

One display described a Hawaiian reef fish — the wrasse — with an unusual life strategy. The fish are born female. When the dominant male in a group dies, the largest female undergoes a full sex transition and takes over the male role completely.

Just try telling Mother Nature something is impossible.

A History Lesson I Wasn't Expecting

Between the tanks, the aquarium has displays on Hawaiian history and culture. I stopped at one with the understated title: "U.S. - Native Hawaiian Relations." It gave a timeline of the annexation of Hawaiʻi. I realized that while I knew Hawaiʻi was a state, I'd never asked how it became one.

The short version: in 1893, a group of American and European businessmen — backed by U.S. Marines who had already landed the day before — overthrew Queen Liliʻuokalani and dissolved the Hawaiian Kingdom. The driving force wasn't ideology or democracy. It was sugar. Hawaiian sugar had enjoyed preferential access to American markets; when that advantage was eliminated, annexation became the only way to restore it. The businessmen wanted back into the market. The military wanted Pearl Harbor. The math wasn't complicated.

Queen Liliʻuokalani surrendered under formal written protest, explicitly stating she was yielding to the "superior force of the United States of America." President Cleveland investigated, concluded the coup was illegal, and tried to restore her. He couldn't. His successor finished the job: Hawaiʻi was annexed in 1898 via a joint resolution — specifically chosen over a formal treaty because a treaty required two-thirds of the Senate, and they didn't have the votes.

More than 38,000 Native Hawaiians — out of a population of roughly 40,000 — signed petitions against annexation. At the ceremony, the Royal Hawaiian Band wept. Most Hawaiians refused to attend.

As I pondered this heartbreaking origin story, I realized that on the same day we visited the aquarium we had woken to the news that the United States had launched a military operation to remove the leader of Venezuela — a sovereign nation sitting on top of enormous oil reserves. Trump's own words, days later: "The Oil is beginning to flow." Sugar. Oil. The details had changed, but that insatiable appetite had struck again.

I like to think we're more evolved than our predecessors. That we understand sovereignty now; heck we formally apologized for our actions in 1993. We're better than this. And yet, waking to the news that America had invaded a country whose resources it eagerly planned to exploit, while standing in a country that had suffered the same fate — it was hard to make that case.

The Quirkiest Find on Site

Outside, across from 'Turtle Lagoon' and in 'Nursery Bay' sat an object that had no obvious business being there.

Torpedo-shaped. Six to eight feet long. Small stabilizing fins. Vintage in aesthetic — the kind of thing that looks technologically serious but also clearly old, like a prop from a Cold War thriller.

The placard explained: a Soviet submarine communication device. A sub running at depth would tow it on a long cable; the buoy would skim the surface, letting the sub transmit and receive radio signals without surfacing and becoming a target. Single-use. Disposable. It had washed ashore in Hawaiʻi, and nobody knew what it was.

First off, what a clever solution to a baffling challenge. Submarines that surface are a far easier target than one at depth. But, radio signals can't be sent or received at depth, so you're literally and metaphorically in the dark. This fix, surface a cheap, almost drone-like middle-man, neatly solves the problem. The sub doesn't have to expose itself, yet radio signals can find a way into the murky depths. Genius.

If that had been the deal with that exhibit, I'd have been impressed. And yet, there's a whole other level of cool with this artifact. When I went home and researched this artifact, the first link that came up was this Reddit thread. Turns out, someone found the thing on the beach, posted a photo to r/whatisthisthing, and the internet collectively identified it. A cross-post to r/WarshipPorn confirmed it as Soviet naval hardware. The aquarium didn't conduct archival research or consult a naval historian. The cherry on top: they cited the Reddit thread on the museum placard.

I respect that enormously. The answer was right, the source was credited, and a piece of Cold War hardware found a home in an aquarium reef tank because some guy posted a picture and the internet knew what it was. Distributed knowledge working exactly as it should.

The Blue Whale

The aquarium charges extra for the 3D film, and there's a wait between showings. We paid and waited.

The waiting area primes you with text panels covering everything the film is about to show: blue whale song, calving behavior, the complexity of whale communication, the emerging argument for recognizing whales as something approaching persons — the term "non-human person" appeared, which I'd never encountered before. By the time the doors opened, I'd read the whole film.

It didn't matter. The film was breathtaking anyway.

The kids seated near us kept standing up, reaching toward the screen as the whale came at them. You can know everything that's coming and still be moved by how it arrives. The Maui Ocean Center figured out something a lot of filmmakers haven't: 3D works when the thing filling the screen is something you already care about. A blue whale at full scale, emerging from the dark, is one of those things.

We left as they closed the doors at 5pm. Three hours turned out to be exactly right — enough to be moved, not so long you get complacent. I'm glad I didn't skip it.

Lesson learned: serendipity is great. But sometimes the prepared walls have something real inside them. You just have to be willing to walk in.