Baptism

On my first morning in Kauai, I woke up next to my wife of two years, knowing I would see things of great beauty. Some of the planet’s newest land, as yet unsmoothed by time and tide. Plants and trees of startling vibrancy. And sea-life from the ungainly, and unpronounceable, humuhumunukunukuapua'a to the majestic humpback whale. But that day, at the suggestion of an old man, I would also experience something I did not expect.

My wife was beautiful - she still is - and as she lay stretched across the hotel’s sheets, I again commended the fortune that had brought us together. I touched her shoulder and felt the tanned warmth of her skin. She stirred and pressed against me. She was the reason we were there.

I had not been to Hawaii, nor did I have any plans to, until I met her.

She was from the East Coast. Of long-standing Yankee stock, she could trace her roots back to the birth of a nation. But, much as her ancestors had sloughed off their native soil and traveled thousands of miles to start a new life, she, her parents, and brothers had also uprooted and journeyed. They left the Bay State for the State of Aloha and set up shop in Hawaii.

The year before, as newlyweds, we had traveled to her family home in Oahu. We arrived at night, so darkness limited my first experience of the Pacific paradise. But in the morning, she led me to the lanai, which opened onto a lawn that ran down into a sea wall abutting Kāne‘ohe Bay. Across the water, blurred by the early morning mist, were some of the steep angular hills common to the island.

Behind the house ran Oahu’s glorious signature, the Koʻolau Range. This sheer prominence rises over 3,000 feet from sea level. Its razor ridge slices the island in two and divides it into its rainy and dry sides. It is all that remains of one of the two massive volcanoes that created Oahu four million years ago, making it one of Earth's youngest places. But I will leave my introduction to Hawaii there, as it is the second time I came to the islands that I saw the thing I want to tell you about.

With each trip to Hawaii, we landed in Oahu. Broke bread with my in-laws. And then traveled to a second island. The first time we went to Maui. This time we chose Kauai.

At breakfast, an elderly man approached us. Excusing himself, he said he had overheard us making plans and that if we wanted to see something memorable, we should drive to the caves. He pointed with a gnarled fingertip to a location on the map we had spread out on the table. We thanked him and took his advice.

Kauai, unlike the other islands, has no road encircling it. The traveler can choose to go south from the island’s capital, Lihue. And take the road that dies into a rutted, unpaved trail terminating at the ​​Polihale State Park on the island's west coast.

Or they can head North, as we did, on a road that follows the coast through Kilauea, Hanalei, and Wainiha before ending at Ke’e beach in Ha’ena. Beyond that, and accessible only on foot, is the Na Pali Coast State Wilderness Park. The park’s sheer cliffs rising out of the sea are familiar to anyone who has seen the movie, Jurassic Park.

When we arrived at Ha’ena, we parked and walked across the road to the bottom of a sheer cliff. There, a massive arched entrance opened into a deep-set cavern, stretching three hundred yards into the mountain. As we walked into its depth, the high roof sloped down and you had the sense that, should you continue, the earth would swallow you up.

This geologic formation, known as the ‘dry cave’, is named after Maniniholo, the legendary head fisherman of the Menehune, Kauai's mythic little people. Legend has it that an evil spirit, the Akua, was stealing their fish, so they dug into the mountain to set a trap for it. Geologists have a more prosaic explanation of its creation - but it lacks romance.

It is impressive and well worth the visit, but the experience pales compared to what came next. A short drive down the road brought us to two more caves, the Waikanaloa and Waikapala'e - the ‘wet caves'. Named such because in their depths are pools of cool water fed by underground springs. We walked past Waikanaloa and followed a series of inconspicuous signs pointing up a hill to the unremarkable entrance of Waikapala'e. Reaching it, I looked down. A hundred feet below, a pool of water lay in perfect stillness. Its glazed surface was unrippled as the cool humid air sat motionless on it.

Three local boys broke the silence with their chatter. Bare-chested and shoeless, they wore only shorts. Seeing our shadows, they waved up at us and told us to come down. We did. Reaching the pool, I put my hand in and felt the silky coolness of the mineral-rich water. It glowed a little in the sun streaming down on the surface.

And then the boys leaped in.

In Hawaii, wherever you go, wear a bathing suit under your clothes. You never know when you will stumble on a beach, mere yards from the road. Tourists may flock to Waikiki, and there is nothing wrong with that, but the state has over 1,000 miles of coastline, much of it rarely visited beaches. So, while I had no idea I would swim inside a mountain that day, I was prepared. Taking my shirt and shorts off, with my wife, I followed the boys' example. The water was cold and clear. And now that swimmers had rippled its surface, it caused bends and twists of light to writhe across the cave’s ceiling.

One of the boys swam over to the rear wall, flipped his head down, and disappeared underwater for minutes. I was concerned, but the other boys grinned as if at a joke. And then he reappeared. He asked me if I had been worried. I said yes. He laughed and said we should follow him. And he submerged a second time. And follow him we did.

As I swam down, I kept my hand on the rock. Within a few feet, it ended. It was not a wall. It was, instead, a projection of the ceiling that pierced the pool’s surface, suspended without foundation. We swam under it to the other side - and surfaced into a glow of bright green light.

The light was in the water. It was as if we were floating in neon. I swam to the middle of the pool and turned back. From there I could see the brilliance of the sunlight, streaming from the cave’s now hidden entrance, explode in a blaze of green.

There was something in the water or on the pool’s floor that luminesced in the sun streaming down from beyond the rock projection. Living or mineral, I could not say. It was unearthly, alien, and beautiful - both vividly tangible and yet ethereal. It was if I was floating in space and could touch stars. Time and distance lost all meaning. It was simply essence.

We had pierced the veil that separated everyday mundanity from the timeless majesty of this buried shrine. More accomplished poets than me could better describe the spiritual effect this wonder had on an atheist. It was as close as I had come since boyhood to believing that there was an active force present in the infinite stretch of the cosmos. And it had revealed itself in the bounded space of an enclosed cave.

It offered no guidance or moral instruction. Or deliver stone tablets of chiseled commandments. It did not demand worship or faith. Nor was it jealous, petty, or mean. There was nothing human about it. We were one with it. Part of it. But not from it.

I was raised in faith before shedding that superstition as a teenager. But now, twenty years later, I felt the power of baptism. I am not a new-ager. I do not do rocks or crystals, I do not believe in auras, ghosts or spirits, ESP, or remote viewing. I like to think I am rigorously logical. My wife will tell you I am closed-minded. It is not that she is some hippie or channeling her spirit guide. It is just that she is not so quick to shut things out.

It was at this moment that I saw the possibilities of our existence through her eyes. I do not know if I will ever have her sensitivity or imagination, but the experience started to erode my confidence that science was the only way to make sense of the world. It did not happen overnight. Like life, it has been a journey.

Eventually, we had to swim back under the rock to the main pool. But the feeling of awe lingered long after we got out of the water. To this day, it has been an unreplicable moment. And it remains the only time I felt I was in the presence of the divine.

I have been back to Hawaii many times. Every island is different. And each has some feature that stands in vast prominence. In Maui, Haleakala dominates. At its summit, you can see a moonscape emerge in the sunrise. On the Big Island, you can drive the 13,803 feet from sea level to the top of Mauna Kea on a gravel road in less than 90 minutes. And once there, you can stand in sub-freezing temperatures and watch people ski.

But for all their towering majesty, they show only a fraction of the grandeur found in a small pool in the middle of a mountain.

Since that day, my wife and I have had children. Their births and lives are miracles. When I see them, I remember my parents as they were when I was young - and they were the age I am now. They are dead, but they live in my soul and DNA. As for the woman who brought me to the place where I saw the green light? After years of joy and argument, and of strife and togetherness, we are still married. She has gifted me so much - children, love, friendship, support, and the time when I shed - if only for an hour - the ties that bind me to a limited and linear life.

I hope everyone experiences at least one green light in their life. And with luck, they will find someone with whom they can create a whole greater than the sum of its two parts.