Mike in the Wild

I was reminded a lot on my recent trip to Maui that nothing is more exciting for a snorkeler than an encounter with a green sea turtle.  And it's becoming easier and easier to admire how graceful, peaceful and gentle these Hawaiian creatures are thanks to decades of conservation efforts.  The species has been protected since 1978 under the Endangered Species Act.  While its population has increased significantly since then, it is still only at a fraction of its historic level.  Meanwhile nesting sites on the biggest Hawaiian islands are still rare.   Green sea turtles are mostly not afraid of the humans that swim so close to them, gliding right by you as you're exploring a reef.  Sadly, they're oblivious to the harm that mankind is capable of wielding.  Turtles are easily entangled in the lines and nets of fishermen, in addition to the garbage increasingly filling the ocean.  And run-ins with boats and their motors' propellers can harm or kill one of these large reptile

Beautiful Maui.  I'm still pinching myself that I was part of the first wave of tourism when Hawaii reopened their doors to COVID-free visitors on October 15th.  Of course, it didn't take long for me to acclimate to the windward breezes, the tropical sun and, especially, the picturesque beaches with their beckoning coral reefs just an easy swim offshore.  As soon as the surf shop opened on my first morning in the Aloha state, I rented snorkel gear so I'd be ready to dive right in during my seven-day stay.   I only had to walk a hundred feet from my hotel room to find a good site to snorkel: Napili Bay is one of the easiest and most rewarding places for underwater exploration in Maui.  Green sea turtles were feasting on algae at the south end of the cove when I first entered the calm ocean.  While reacquainting myself with these gentle creatures was just what the doctor ordered, it might have been identifying a few new fish that really captured the excitement of my long-dela

Riding the first wave of tourism back to Hawaii when the state started allowing COVID-screened visitors in October, I was starved for the type of travel that had been on hold for most of the year.  Part of that hunger was a drive to swim in the water off Maui and to reacquaint myself with the many denizens of the sea.  I was especially heartened when I quickly stumbled upon a relatively uncommon fish for me, the pink-tailed triggerfish. It's in a family with the reef triggerfish, a fish that epitomizes snorkeling on Hawaii's reefs like no other.    It's impossible not  to spot this animated, striped resident of the coral reef every time you enter the water; no wonder it's the state fish of Hawaii. The triggerfish is called as such because it can erect and lock its dorsal spine to hold itself tightly in a rocky crevice as a means of protection.  It can only unlock this bone by the 'trigger' of a second dorsal spine that holds the first in place. I regularly see a

Last year I wrote about snorkeling at Kauai's Poipu Beach Park.  The spot had something for everyone:  sugary sand, a protected kiddie lagoon, surfing, rest rooms, picnic areas, restaurants, lifeguards, hotels, coral reefs and, yes, terrific snorkeling.   Much more recently, in fact just two weeks ago, I snorkeled at Honolua Bay on the island of Maui.  Its wildness draws quite a contrast with Poipu in almost every way except one: some of the best snorkeling in the Aloha State.  Honolua is in the extreme northwest of Maui, one of the last stops in a string of tourist attractions that starts with Lahaina eleven miles away.  Lahaina is a colorful, lively town that retains many of the buildings and architectural styles from its booming whaling days in the nineteenth century.  To the north is the sprawling beachside resort development of Kaanapali, followed by the snorkeling hotspots of Black Rock and Kahekili Beach.  Up the coast is the affordable hotel district of Kahana and then the

I wasn't checked into my Maui hotel for more than five minutes before I noticed  a Pacific golden plover  inspecting the lawn in front of my room's lanai.   This long-distance migratory bird divides its time between arctic environments like Alaska, where it breeds, and tropical lands like Hawaii, where it just feeds.  It stood out in stark contrast with the many other birds populating the resort's tropical beachfront landscape: all of them, year-round transplants.  They were introduced during the past two centuries and fill the voids left by the native birds that started disappearing at the same time man settled the islands almost a thousand years ago. Plovers almost certainly began visiting the Hawaiian islands long before the first Polynesians discovered the archipelago.  While I saw one hunting for insects in my resort's manicured St. Augustine grass, it's just as likely to forage in nearby habitat that hasn't changed over the millenia, like along the sandy b