Don't Tick Off Pele

Author's Note: These stories took place long before the ban on taking sand from Hawaii's beaches was enacted in 2013. And my sand collection is kept in gem capsules, which are the size of six or seven quarters stacked on top of each other. We're talking amounts equal to two spoonfuls as a labeled sample. As with the rocks and shells, I only collect and have my friends collect from places where it's legal. Both collection sites were public beaches, and never in national parks. It is illegal to take lava rocks off Hawaii, but other volcanic rocks - breccia, tuffra, etc. - are okay if it's personal collection and not for sale. But no black sand, no green sand, no coral live or dead, no lava rocks. Any extra sand I'm given is used in the glass beads I make, as pictured above. It works better if the sand is mostly quartz, not broken shell, so I may have to do some sifting to get a good sample that won't break the protective layer of glass I put over the particles to keep them safe. With all that said, on to the stories:

If you've read my bio, you've seen the part about "sprinkle with a heaping pile of odd life experiences." This story would be one of the odder sprinkles.

I've also written about my grandmother and uncle, both of whom worked as archeologists a long time ago. It doesn't pay the bills, but it sure makes for some interesting stories, and whets the appetite for more tales of the long long ago. I grew up on fairy tales and cultural anthropology stories, and Mom read me National Geographics while I was in the womb.

To say my mental encyclopedia for historical stories is eclectic is a vast understatement.

To absorb a culture's stories is to learn about that people - what makes them tick, what they value, what is taboo. When I travel, I visit national parks and ancient ruins and places where yesterday's traces meet today.

I've never been to Hawaii.

There are reasons.

One of those reasons goes back to the 1990's, when me and my hubby were newly married. We were also pretty danged poor, just starting out and trying to live together and all the compromises that new living conditions entail.

Enter Chaos Incarnate - also known as Crazy Friend John.

He's not called Sane, Rational Friend John for a reason. Many reasons, in fact. Driving a 1960's hearse with landing lights of a DC-9 as the high beams, for instance, for twenty years till the thing broke down for good. It had a bumper sticker that said It's Still Not Weird Enough For Me.

CFJ would go on epic trips without much planning. In and of itself, not a problem. Not having a backup plan in case things went sideways? Much more of a problem, especially to a planner like me. When he swumbled up my then-boyfriend, now hubby, for an epic cross-country trip to visit his Crazy Uncle John in California, and the engine block cracked in Nebraska, did they rent a car? Come back home and try again some other time? Of course not, and I quote, "We're on a QUEST!" They sat in a hotel for two freaking weeks in the middle of Nebraska till the mechanic could get the replacement engine delivered and installed, and continued as if they didn't blow way too much money in food and movie rentals and hotel bills in freaking Nowhere Nebraska. Hubby was paying off his half of that for years.

But I digress. Talking to, or about, CFJ does that to you.

So he called, out of the blue, asking if we wanted to go to Hawaii with him.

Want to? Sure. Can afford to? Yeah, no. It took a while to convince CFJ that it wasn't going to happen, thanks for the invite. Because when it comes to things like Epic Quests, CFJ doesn't let things like debt get in the way.

Okay, fine. Is there something he could bring back for us?

Ooooohhhhhh, we have now stepped into dangerous territory. I collect sand, rocks, and shells. And state soils, for that matter. Unless you've been living under a rock (I have a few you could borrow if you'd like), you know about Pele's Curse.

Pretend you haven't. Pele's Curse goes like this: she's the goddess of Hawaii, and she doesn't like people stealing rocks from her island. You take a rock, or sand, and you'll get hit with a curse of misfortune the likes of which you've never seen before. There's a pile of returned rocks and stacks of letters on file at Volcanoes National Monument of lithic thefts and the tales of woe associated with them.

(Yes, I have the book Powerstones. Hush. This is MY story.)

So, sure, I'd like Hawaiian sand! BUT. And this is CFJ we're talking about, so I made it clear: do NOT take some Under Any Circumstances without paying for it! Pele doesn't like thieves, any more than you'd like someone coming in and helping themselves to your stuff in your house. But politely asking, and leaving gifts of fruit or flowers, that's acceptable. And only a tiny amount.

I could hear him through the phone: "Yeah, yeah, yeah-"

"CFJ, I am dead serious. Do NOT bring anything back for us unless you've paid for it!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, gotta go bye."

We tried to warn him. We knew what was coming.

We didn't hear from him till after the trip. And when he called, he was freak-screaming, telling the story.

Did one airplane engine blowing out soon after leaving Cali and the plane having to turn around, and blowing ANOTHER on the new plane after traveling further than the midway point, stop him? Oh, no, of course not.

He was excited! He was going to see the volcano erupting! See, CFJ is as much into geology as I am. The idea of Mount Kilauea's continuous eruption was a siren call too irresistable to resist. This was something to see! So he galloped off the plane with his intrepid companions, rented a car, zipped up to the parking lot halfway up the mountain, and speed-walked the rest of the way, leaned over the edge-

You see, it may be a continuous eruption, but there are pauses. More of an intermittent eruption, than continuous flow.

CFJ was not pleased.

And, being CFJ, CFJ expressed his feelings as only CFJ would. By realizing that there was nothing to see at this moment, and throwing his head back, and screaming "PELE, YOU B***CH!" at the top of his lungs. At the edge of the crater to her volcano.

You know that pause? The pause that says the universe heard you, and is now paying attention to YOU? Yeah, that one?

Even CFJ wasn't dumb enough to miss it.

Suddenly there was a puff of smoke where CFJ once stood, with a tiny "Oh sh*t" left in its wake. He hotfooted it back to the car, back down the mountain, through the city, to the hotel, where he determined to rent a rowboat for the rest of the trip and spend his time on beaches. Far, far away from volcanic craters and alleged lava flows.

At this point in the narrative, I felt compelled to let CFJ know his calculations left out some important equations. "Uh, CFJ, you do realize that Pele has sisters, and one's in charge of the water?"

"NOW YOU TELL ME?!?!"

So. Next day. On the boat, off the shore, enjoying the water. Clear, calm as glass. No waves in sight. You can see the fish swimming below...

And suddenly, out of nowhere, this huge rogue wave reared up right beside them, perpendicular to the beach, and tipped their boat over.

CFJ and friends get unceremoniously dumped into the water.

They come up, sputtering. They grab the boat, right it, get the seawater out. They're only in water up to their chests, so it's annoying but do-able to get back in the boat. They take stock. They check their possessions - one is missing their wallet. One is missing a scrunchie. One is missing their bikini top (we were ordered not to ask.) The water is clear - nothing is on the bottom, it's completely gone. "So, CFJ, what are you missing?"

They look around. "CFJ?"

Meanwhile, that wave has continued on its merry way up the beach, still paralleling the shoreline. You know, like waves really don't. Presumably it took the wallet, scrunchie, and half-bikini as trophies, but it also took CFJ.

The wave was rolling him along in its sandy undertow, and he was trying not to drown.

When it finally let him go, he stood up and sputtered and coughed and sucked in air. That's when the exact "where" of where he was made itself painfully clear.

It had dumped him in the middle of a colony of spiny sea urchins. Slightly poisonous ones. The owwie kind.

CFJ only got "spined" in two places: his tush, and the soles of his feet.

He said he had to sleep on his stomach, forget about sitting down, and walking on the outside edges of his feet gave him such blisters that he had to walk on the inner edge, which of course also gave him blisters.

He spent the rest of the week stopping at every shrine they passed - "DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY SHRINES THERE ARE ON THE ISLAND?!?" - why yes, CFJ, I do. He bought a lot of fruit, and a lot of flowers, and would mutter "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" at every shrine. I was also informed that he used fruit-flavored soda when he got the sand.

When we finally saw him in person, he threw the baggie of sand at me. Yes, only the regular white sand.

Cool story, hunh?

Fast forward a few years.

My parents are very active in their church, and the youth group has had a mission trip every summer since I was in it. Now, we'd go to places like West Virginia, and West Virginia. (Not a typo.) After I graduated and went to college, they went to places like Maine and Florida. Hmph.

So, Mom emails me - they're planning on a trip to Hawaii. One of the other adult chaperones wants to do a Bible study incorporating the traditional beliefs of the island, and knowing how much I dig that subject, do I have any stories to pass on?

Wow, universe, thanks, can you be just a tad more subtle? Hmm?

So I write up the story above, and email it to my mom. And I make it clear: "I know I have some beliefs that don't sit well with mainstream Christianity, that's fine. I don't answer to them. But I take the verse about Powers and Principalities quite seriously, and if I were to visit a royal in their palace, you bet I would bend the knee. So whatever your own beliefs, this isn't your island. It's Pele's. Don't. Tick. Off. Pele. Adjust this story if you'd like, but that's what happened."

Mom sent it to the chaperone unedited. She read it to the group unedited.

Mom tells me what happened next:

As soon as the plane touched down, our pastor rushed to meet the host church's pastor, with my printed-out story clutched in her hand and waved it at her. (Both female pastors.) The local pastor read it, chuckled, and said, "Yep, sounds about right." And while the group gaped, she went on to tell them that many of the local pastors, herself included, often joined the faithful to help sing the sun up in the morning on the eastern rim.

The group was apparently very thoughtful after that.

Wednesday was their designated vacation day. They decided to go to the beach, but kept looking at Mom. "Your daughter, her story, YOU pick an offering. None of us want to pick up a rock or shell till you do."

(There aren't many shells on Hawaii, since the waves and rocks tend to grind them to pulp before they get to the beach. Didn't know that then.)

Fair enough. Mom went down the hill to the local fruit stand, and bought the biggest, best, most perfect grapefruit. And then they went to the beach. Access is down this long sloping spit of long-cooled lava till it meets the sand near the sea. The whole time, Mom is leading the group like a mama duck and her ducklings, and they're seeing nice rocks and wanting to grab but "Oh, no, not yet" and "Oops, later then" and "Yeah, nice, but I'll get it when we come back." Meanwhile, Mom's looking back and forth, trying to find the perfect spot to leave the offering.

Finally, she sees it. To the side of the spit, some chunks have begun to shear off. This one happened to break off in such a way to make a triangular hole, and if you eased up to the hole and looked down, the shaft went all the way down to sea level, and there was some sand in the bottom. In that sand, a small tree had taken root and was beginning to grow. A tiny bit of green amidst the black and white.

Perfect.

Mom gently dropped it, avoiding smushing the seedling. It settled into the sand with a soft plop. Everyone watched her do it, then stepped back. One of the chaperones asked her, "Do you think it worked?"

Mom looked over at him, he looked at her, then they both looked back down.

The grapefruit was gone.

Black lava hole, check. White sand, check. Green seedling, check. One divot where one rather orange and hard to miss grapefruit used to be, check. No room for any cave. No quicksand. Sun shining down in such a way that you can see everything.

Unnerved, Mom said, "Iiiiiieeeeee.... think we're okay now."

Each person apparently spent a lot of mindful time picking just one or two legal rocks to bring home, and my parents picked two each. That's all. Personal souvenirs, nothing more. Like they knew they were being watched.

When Mom finished her story, she threw the bag of four rocks she and Dad collected at me. I was detecting a theme.

One of those rocks is sitting on my computer as I type this.

Don't tick off Pele, folks. Whether or not the curse is real, it doesn't matter. Respect the indigenous folk, and their beliefs, no matter where you go. They know things, and respect gets you a lot farther in communication and understanding than arrogance does.