I'm in the backwoods now, baby. So goddamned far away from civilization that they would have to helicopter you out.

Yes, remote. Too remote for a cell phone but the nice lady at the park's edge has a counter and a radio, probably lives over the next dune or so.

Pretty hills out that way.

I meet her at the water's shimmering edge. The pool stretches forever and I've been here before both physically and meditatively.

We are at the shore, nearly enough. At one time these pools were called sacred by tour operators looking to make a buck, but any more they hit Hana and turn around and leave the legend making for motivated Haoles.

And here -- and perhaps this is whats most strange -- we are haoles together. On the food chain we are both equally n------, the last ones believed in any confrontation, the last ones served at the restaurant, the one you eyeball suspiciously as you drive by, the one you howl at, the one who howls back.

She's Mexican and I, nearly island white boy, as far as you can get today.

She coms in my car, and this is not any weird expectation on my part, but she drives too. Has the clear calm of a professional who knows what she's doing and is calm with the understanding that the wheels will not move without her.

Beyond here, not far is perhaps some of the most spectacular backpacking and biking that one could ever wish for. The land here is forgiving.

Beyond that, again not far is a spooky land of forests and trees. Heading this way from the far side is a treat. One climbs over one of the strange volcanic crevasses, rather blown out of the side of the mountain by erosion helped along by man. One enters a fierce microclimate where rain falls regularly and everything is green and lush. If you speed by, as most including myself on this day will do, you'll miss a lot of kind of friendly-weird stuff as you go by.

Menehunes live here, I'm fairly certain of it. Strange island folk who travelled alongside the polynesian still populate the backwoods of these places and while we're less than an hour's flight from civilization, we are truly out among God's more desolate plans out this way.

For my friends at camp, the pool is a lot like upper falls were you some giant. If you've ever taken the vista point just one stop further towards Bear Valley, you know what I mean, though include upper falls at regular size in that panorama.

Over hard rock pans the river in a shallow channel. Crossing is relatively easier, either through the mass of water or across stones along its top.

High cliffs rise here -- you are in a narrow canyon, at one point one can imagine that the top of the water is considerably closer to the cliff's edge and has steadily been boring towards sea level ever since.

She and her companions are island cute themselves, though they clothes themselves in a Victorian manner.

Here we are both haoles and identifyably so. Not even island haoles, but mainlanders.

Here we know no race beyond that. You are either islander, or off to some privledged ghetto you go. You will be kept from the real deal at every turn no matter how long you live here because you never went to Ala Moana or Kensington, the Bishop place.

You are uncaste.

She has classic angles, poster material in a tragic sort of way. Correador of the Torreador, like that. She and her friends are from, perhaps, Los Angeles. Maybe as far away as Nogales. People for whom summer is easy even if in the middle of a long tragic winter that riddles bullets as it passes by.

Her nose says high-blood Indian, some land far away from this place. Its sharp, a wonderful angle. Speeks highly of good breeding.

She wears her wrap lightly but not in island style. She still holds that some things need to be hidden, covered up from corrupt western eyes.

There is that which is forbidden.

Down here is a different story and that violates a sacred rule of being Hawaiian on most of the island -- dress for every moment of your day as if the best part is to spring before you. For most, this means beach attire. If one is headed from the dressing rooms, say, down to the water's edge, one is compelled a bit to go as natural as you are.

Some modicums of skin tone, traffic, airborne debris patterns and wind chill may play a factor however.

I think the solvent difference is that the one gives you something more to revel, the latter just lets it all hang out.

And there are both here at the back of the mountain. Local guys who swilled beer all teh way here, no fear of finding a restroom when you are, at least, island haole.

They act like dissaffected youth anywhere, though being particularly white as a group, they stand closer to my sort than any of the blessed breedings of the island people.

Across the far edge of the pool is one of those prior resevoirs. At one point this pool was shallow as hell and fifteen to thirty feet higher. Gravity has been exerting its force via rushing water for the last fifteen million years and a lot changes in that time.

The ledge is a bit hairy -- sparse vegetation with drifts of unsettled clay over polished rocks. One can travel this way if one is brave and has sufficient backup to relocate oneself off the island en masse.

Its mostly the young and hairless who go out there -- youth and old guys trying to make a point to their kids about what it means to be a man, and how they are failing.

This is the passion play as we arrive.

Father: JUMP! JUNIOR!

Junior jumps. He's got fairly good form, though his legs are laid back in an unsustainable movement -- a "Superfly Snuka" of the the top rope. One must burn motion gained in the leap to correct that before entry or face serious consequences.

This kid knows that. In bright blue suit he reminds me of a super-hero.

A cliff-diving superhero.

His dad is some shlub and after junior perfects his dive to Olympic Kid Standards, he's proven his brother a wuss unless they all three go out and make the curve.

Father goes out while Bobby stays. "Jump, Bobby, Jump!" He exclaims.

Bobby does not jump.

"Its okay," says Junior. "I'll jump for you -- I'm ready."

Junior jumps while Bobby stands far away from the edge.

The edge is clearly where things get hairy. The water falls off next to you into two pools and you swear to christ that you don't want to go over the rushing stream again.

Up there its a fairly short platform across the edge. Slipery-edged and nasty as the water rushes scours the lava. In a few million years this dam will be worn away too.

For now it serves as a "no backs" route. The only motion is forward motion and expectant jumpers wait in line like snowboarders before the tube or surfers before the set.

Quiet. Nervous. A little cutting loose but they are past the dangerous cliffs and onto the treacherous ones where things get a bit more severe. Nerves are cut, some people turn back here.

But beyond the stream, man, hardly anyone turns back.

We all sit on the stadium seating God and erosion have combined to make. It is the world's most perfect viewing platform for diving.

Below a new edge is forming, wanna-be lifeguards stand here, myself included. It'd be a long stroke out to get Bobby if he fails and the current takes him.

More competent men than I stand careful watch at the confluence with the next lip, the next safest place to catch a body before it went down once and maybe once more before being washed out to the ocean.

The surf pounds amazingly at this side and one would expect the perfect house to be a wedge made out of some monster plating with compressive hatches at the top of the action to keep the eventual hurricane out. Perhaps lined on the bottom as well so if the lcliffs go out you have some marginal chance of surviving seaward.

Whole communities dot these little spits of land. Some have made it better through the years than others. A few on the Blue Book guide (assholes, they yell at us as we drive by) are clearly sheltered from the commotion and have a line-of-sight view of the terror washing over the villiagers on the other side.

These people have landslides and flash floods, though, so its not like everyone has a swell time all around.

The boy huddles back across the rock as traffic once again continues. There's little way the old man can cross without the procession continuing. Bodies need moving, places need exchanging.

Its an old Boy Scout puzzle: Dad needs to get around fifteen bodies to the edge of the first pool and somehow claim line privledge (gladly given) as it makes its way through to the other side. Nobody wants to be jostled here and nobody wants to be a jostler. Make it happen, line.

A few people jump. The haole hesher double date, fresh in from the vine hops out. The big guy seems to have nearly no connective tissue but is amazingly strong in the water. His dates look ten times cuter without him around, be this the nature of the company or what. I think they become more amazing as they stand there, look deep and test their inner nature.

We do the same, Molly and I.

When you turn to look at someone and they are turning to look at you -- you know what I mean?

We are an impossible society for a minute or two total time. Where else could this happen but here and now?

God, feel the depts of passion.

Feel hurt that its not like this all the time.

Wonder why its not.

Outside, thunder and lightening beat down.

In the island, its only ever rain.

Bobby gets down eventually, thrown in an assist by the old man in a cringeworthy fashion. Nothing like having a hundred and fifty people all critiquing your parenting all at the same time to fuck things up royally.

Bobby does not go in face first, tucked in a ball. Dad corrects this behavior. Rewinds the action for a moment or three.

»Wouldn't you like to be a writer in LA with me?« I write.

Bah, be (with) an Angel(in)o? Never. she writes back.

Concrete rivers, emotional barriers. Never want to be seen eating a white guy, out there. Never want to be seen dating other than a white girl, out here.

On the mainland we got problems.

Out here, though, out here though we're alike, no two more the same. We could pick up our things. Move quietly towards the jungle.

Once there, just live -- survive. Backtrack to the commune and remind them to be careful of snakes. Wonder what it is we might be able to get in trade. Find some cave, some hippie ideal.

We would both get long and shaggy and rule an empire of modern menehunes.

Her dad could do the land deal.

We are the real California and we will beat the rest of you motherfuckers down with it if you say otherwise.

Ah, latinas. I wonder if she is somewhere writing in spanglish to me.

The drive back is cool. We drive across the moon, the barren landscapes of cattle station. Played chicken with guys in big white trucks until we proved smarter, more deadly.

We rolled in convoy along alien landscapes, crazy ruins. Its as if you are on a small moon and escaping around to the backside for a quiet evening's drive.

Those who went before us know our schedule. We are to check in, make OK our arrival. We will be missed after a few hours.

Team Texas is a cool bunch of fuckers. We aren't quite alike but we make well both our own camp and those times we rondesvous with the other camp.

Lunch: sacred pools, check. Pools: Sacramento makes it to island branch two hours later or will call with ETA arrival, panic after nine.

We teleport into strange towns that have long since been locked up. I've been through a few of these, usually in the wrong direction such as now.

Tourists who usually collect at such places stare at you with wide eyes as suddenly you appear through some portal no one was expected through and you are greeted with port arms and a sudden urge to act casual as you race by, rally-style at a hundred miles an hour.

Back long south Kihei we stop for Shabu Shabu because it sounds exotic and we are hungry.

Roy makes the sullen uncle play the part and break down shabu shabu for us. Its casual there, we could probably instruct ourselves but Roy is the clever uncle himself here. He knows his conduct will be judged and plans accordingly like the international businessman that he is.