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August 2006 Issue
A Perfect Life: The Waterman's Tale
The Story of Chadwick Lanakila Ching
By David Pu’u
What constitutes perfection in the way a person leads a life? I mean, from the pespective of terminus, would you view your time on earth as being well spent, let alone perfect? Say if you had a chance to lookdown on the entire timeframe of am existence? Regrets if they are there, would likely arise from not pursuing your given opportunities to live a life that fulfilled your heart’s desires. Of course, both opportunities and wishes vary from person to person, and culture to culture. But for a seven year old Hawaiian child at the threshold of his life, standing at the edge of the sand in Waikiki in 1959, the wishes would appear decidedly few and very clear, eating being first and foremost.
Dino, as he eventually came to be known, the kid with an English first name, a Hawaiian middle name, and a Chinese last name, grew up under the guidance and supervision of a tight knit group of watermen who tourists know as beach boys. His tenure began that day in the end of the decade, and his interests, as a Hawaiian, proved to be anything relating to water. His middle name, Lanakila roughly translates as “champion” or “victorious one” That day, the young boy was tossed into what would become his life’s avocation, that of a waterman.
The term beach boy is actually a job title. The job consists of providing beach services and equipment rentals and representing Hawaii to the vast number of people who fly into Honolulu each year in search of their own version of tropical paradise. To the bulk of those people, that dream includes the chance to surf, sail, canoe, swim and/ or, do whatever one fantasizes about from the aquatically barren existence of the average human being. So the beach boys are watermen. A waterman is someone who is completely at home and knowledgeable about anything that goes on in the water. Typically they are very adept athletically. A waterman is as at home out in the middle of the sea on a dark night, as an uninitiated person is at home in front of the television on a relaxing evening in.
“ We have to hurry”, a fast moving Bobby Friedman barked at me. The paddle out is about to happen. In the hubbub of Honolulu airport, we threw my gear into the back of the tandem surfer’s truck and blasted through clouds of exhaust spewing, tourism buses towards Waikiki. “Oh, good to see you” Bobby smiled. He is an interesting character, having moved to Hawaii to be more of a part of what spawned his life’s pursuit of tandem surfing, the culture of the beach boy. “We have about 45 minutes before the paddle out for Dino’s brother Bon. I am diving a rock from the family emu pit down and placing it in the reef where the two of them grew up swimming and surfing at Queen’s”. We were going to a funeral it appeared. “Do you want to shoot it?” I was aghast at the question as I consider people’s privacy a sacred thing. “Do you think I should?” was about all I could muster early that hot, Hawaiian morning, fresh off the jet with all the other visitors that day. “Hmmm, I will introduce you to Dino. Maybe ask him if it is okay?” I was not a fan of the thought.
We dropped the car off at the elegant lobby of the Hilton with some friends of ours. I grabbed a housing and pulled on some board shorts and we jogged across busy Kalakaua boulevard, sweating and a bit harried. On the sand, behind the big statue of Duke Kahanamoku, stood an umbrella and a calm, apparently pensive group of people in the middle of which was a man who Bobby introduced me to. Dino Chin would paddle his outrigger out to the reef that day with the lava rock, leis, and a small group of friends. He greeted me pleasantly enough and I asked. “Dino, would it be okay if I came along and took a few photos?” He smiled softly and quietly said, “yes sure, that would be okay”.
Minutes later two canoes were slipped into the water and we glided through a placid, azure sea out past the two footers a large group of surfers and tourists glided shoreward upon. The sweet coconut smell of sunscreen hung in the still air. A perfect day. Outside past the break we stopped, and I slipped off ama side into warm, blue, velvety feeling water. I shot a few photos quickly and unobtrusively.
After a brief word to Bobby, asking for him to give me give me a few seconds, I swam down towards the reef and after 20 feet or so had passed, turned and looked up to see him rocketing down towards me, lei wrapped rock gripped in big strong hands, looking all the world like a human missile headed straight to the bottom. I shot a few frames as he rocketed by, then followed him down as he found a good place, and wedged the rock into the reef. Bobby does stone work in Hawaii. The big guy was a perfect choice for this task apparently. He pushed up off the bottom and as he rose I shot a few more frames. Near the surface I stopped and realized one of the leis had come off the rock. I shot a few frames up through its leafy spirals at the canoe Dino slowly paddled. The emotion, one of peacefulness and synchronicity, was tangible as I began my slow final glide to the surface. I swam back to shore trailing the canoes as people played at Queens. I did not know what my camera had captured, but inside felt that all was just perfect.
The call came as much bad news does, out of blue nowhere on a busy day. The voice in my ear through my cel phone, choked and terse sounding made itself clear in the static of my day: “David, Dino is dead” and in tears, Bobby Friedman told me what had happened. Dino had left work early the other day, complaining of not feeling well. When he got to his apartment bad news greeted him about his best friend Ashford. Ashford had been diagnosed as terminally ill with cancer. The following day Dino did not show up at his place on Kuhio beach. Dino never missed a days work as a beachboy. Family found him by noon that day, having died in his sleep as his brother had, of an apparent heart attack at the age of 52. Bobby asked the inevitable, “Hey remember that day at Bon’s paddle out? Do you have any photos around?” I went home and through the files and found it, the best one. The image depicts a waterman at peace having said his goodbyes to his brother at sea. In front of him, a man I did not know paddles.
Dino Ching, was born in 1952 and lived on Waikiki beaches from 1959 to July 8th 2006. Father, grandfather and friend to many, he served the community as a representative of Hawaii and purveyor of aloha throughout his lifetime. Dino was made the youngest canoe captain in history in his teens (A position reserved for tenured watermen in their thirties). He was a US National junior surfing champion. Dino was the lone beach boy who to the end, was never regulated by the State of Hawaii and made to pay the twenty five to fifty thousand dollars a month rent for his stretch of sand on Waikiki. Famous for his shirt that read in Japanese: “Ask me about surfing lessons” he was an admirer of Japan and it’s people and customs. His apartment was decorated in minute detail as one would be in Japan. His long time girlfriend, K, is a Japanese tourist who fell in love with him.
For 45 years Dino showed up for work early each morning and stood beneath what became his trademark umbrella. Two weeks before his death the umbrella was stolen. On July 9th it re appeared. Dino will not only be remembered by Hawaii and his family, but his impact on countless thousands of people who were given a waterman’s initiation to Hawaii by the man. My guess is his umbrella will be on Kuhio beach for quite some time. It ought to be.
Found on a table in Dino’s apartment after his death was a letter from the State of Hawaii, granting him a plot of Hawaiian homestead land. His new land will go to his children. There are so many stories surrounding Dino, I guess those of you who made your way on to his stretch of beach may know some of them that I do not. But in looking back at this man’s existence I would have to say that for Dino Lanakila Ching, his life was as perfect in it’s ending, as in it’s living.
Bobby Friedman rang me again, he was driving to the beach for the memorial paddle out for Dino. Hey David, you know the guy paddling the canoe in front of Dino in the photograph?” “Yea, you guys ever figure out who it is?” I asked. Yea, Bobby laughed. “It is Ashford, his best friend.” Perfect.
Solitude on Santa Rosa Island--Kayak Adventure
By Chuck Graham
The bugle that bellowed from above the ridgeline disturbed my deep slumber while
tucked away in a gritty alcove. I sat straight up in my sleeping bag, while fumbled for my headlamp. My eyes adjusted, with the benefit of a full moon, while I watched the rangy silhouette of a Roosevelt elk loping across rugged Santa Rosa Island.
Camping is allowed on all the islands in the Channel Islands National Park, but the second largest island in the archipelago is the only one that allows beach camping, that is, if you can get there. The only way to get to those nameless coves and deserted beaches while exploring its nooks and crannies, is by hugging the coast in a kayak, and camping on beaches where potentially the only footprints found are your own. Restrictions apply, and self sufficiency is a must, but the rewards abound while dodging rogue waves and communing with curious pinnipeds peering above the canopy of kelp forests.
Nose to Nose with Spilogale gracilis amphiala
I left my tent at home. I wanted to travel light, move quickly and break camp with little fuss. Sleeping under the stars was the way to go. There’s one place though where you don’t want to lie your sleeping bag out in the open. Endemic deer mice will use your downed mound as a potential playground, scurrying across your body, playing tag with their siblings and cousins.
I solved this conundrum at the Water Canyon campground by simply throwing my sleeping pad on top of a picnic table. The campground was deserted and I slept soundly. Around three a.m., a steady thump on the bench of the table woke me. Quietly I grabbed my headlamp, affixed it to my matted head, switched it to the on position and looked down below. Before I knew it, I was literally nose to nose with a inquisitive spotted skunk. Skunks are native on Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Islands. This one didn’t flinch, except for its snout that twitched with each sniff to determine what I was. After my spotted visitor determined I wasn’t a threat, it stomped its padded paws and continued its foraging for food. It wasn’t alone. It had two little ones with it that waited on the ground creating quite a ruckus while thrashing through the parched grass.
Elephants of Santa Rosa
While kayaking around Sandy Point, the northwest tip of the island, blubbery behemoths--northern elephant seals--swam near my boat; their big, bloodshot eyes gazed
my way. Without warning two sub-adult males rose up, breaking the surface of the water
on either side of my kayak. Their huge wakes and their sudden appearance in close proximity startled me, nearly causing me to capsize. I righted my boat, dug in and quickly paddled away from the craggy point fingering its way toward San Miguel Island which was three miles away. Another elephant once roamed these parts. About 20,000 years ago, the archipelago was one immense island named Santarosae. At the time, the channel crossing from the mainland was a mere five miles. Imperial mammoths made the swim across to the island of Santarosae which totaled 724 square miles.
About 2,000 years ago the islands reached their present size, after the polar icecaps melted. Over that time span, those massive Woollies evolved into a pygmy species. Given enough time--thousands of years--and isolation, large animals stranded on islands can evolve into smaller species. In this case, pygmy mammoths were as small as four feet at the shoulder. Over 50 archaeological sites concerning mammoths exist on Santa Rosa, and a complete pygmy mammoth skeleton was discovered in 1994, the only one of its kind.
The First Islanders of Wima
That’s what the Chumash Indians named Santa Rosa.
After landing my kayak on another nameless beach, I nestled into some freshly groomed sand dunes, then explored a long, lonely stretch of coast. Sheer bluffs hovered above crashing surf. California brown pelicans, cormorants and western gulls roosted on rock outcroppings, enjoying the warm sun and the occasional light spray from the exploding waves. Some young sea lions, the best body surfers on Santa Rosa, frolicked in the tubular conditions. Far beyond the cresting swells and the swaying kelp beds, a lone dive boat anchored motionless on the horizon.
I scrambled up a short but steep bluff with my pair of binoculars and scanned 360
degrees, this empty paradise. The plume from a whale’s spout floated offshore, a couple of black Oystercatchers pried at barnacle encrusted shells and a pair of Kaibab deer frozen by my presence, stared back at my binoculars.
Then I found a popular beach hangout on one of the many marine terraces on Santa
Rosa. From a fair distance I inspected a dense pile of broken abalone shells, sun-bleached fish bones and spineless gutted sea urchins lying encrusted in the ancient earth. Known as a Chumash 'midden', it was an example of everyday living on the windswept island. Various sites similar to this along with villages, burial grounds and tool making quarries number in the hundreds throughout the chain. Santa Rosa Island contains the oldest positively-dated human remains in North America, dated at 13,000 years ago.
Rounding Carrington
Paddling along the frontside of Santa Rosa was tedious and lengthy. For 18 miles I
dodged persistent swells and tried to avoid howling winds by kayaking in the thick kelp
beds that force the winds to lie down. On a couple of occasions I ducked inside secluded,
tiny coves with just enough beach to rest and hide from the relentless wind. Closing in on Carrington Point, a colossal wall of fog engulfed my point of reference, while bearing down on me. When it swallowed me up I couldn’t see a quarter mile in front of me, but the misty haze cooled my skin and offered respite from the glaring sun. However, as quickly as it arrived the overcast skies opened up and the sheer cliff of Carrington dominated the horizon. When I rounded its eroding mass, shimmering Becher's Bay came into view. The end of my journey was bittersweet; I was thrilled to reach my final destination and grateful for my discoveries, but equally dispirited that my circumnavigation of Wima was finished.
Island Info:
National Geographic Maps Trails Illustrated of the Channel Islands National Park
shows where you can camp and where you can’t on Santa Rosa. The topographic map
explains those restrictions. Call (800) 365-CAMP for a beach camping permit. Boat
transportation, call Island Packers (805) 642-1393. For more information contact the
Channel Islands National Park (805) 658-5730, http://www.nps.gov/chis/.
Posted August 2006 Blue Edge Magazine. All rights reserved.
