The Molokai Airport, locally known as the Hoolehua Airport, was a short 9 miles from the hotel, with an estimated drive time of 16 minutes. However, the concierge had been very clear. High tourist season could ruin everything. Not sure how the traffic would interfere with our mission, we left with two hours to spare. Hurrying through the hotel lobby, nothing had changed overnight. Attendants and associates were standing at the ready to answer questions or fulfill any needs of the guests. The guests must all be sleeping, because, we saw none.
VST would spend the day driving around the island, looking for interesting activities. There was at least one golf course on Moloka’i, along with the complete rodeo arena, available for rent to be used for company team building. There were miles of beaches to explore, and a tiny town stocked with any supplies we might need.
Down the road, a little way from the hotel, there stood a lone bird. Just sitting there, motionless, with no intentions of flying. The closer we came, the more still it was. Just sitting there looking our direction, almost as if it had never seen a car before. We were the only auto rolling along on the clearest of days with the most brilliant sky overhead. Surely it would move. The closer we got, the more still it became. Closer. Larger. Closer. Larger. Closest….. Whoopsie….. We continued on, in quiet contemplation after that.
The airport was an open air venue, as so many places in Hawaii are. With perfect weather, windows aren’t needed. Just a roof to protect people from the sun. We parked within feet of the front door and hurried in. We had 1.75 hours to spare before departure. Inside, we found a complete crew at the ready. Ticket agents. Baggage handlers. A small kiosk in which to purchase a bag of candy or the latest magazine. A restaurant serving coconut milk and pineapple. The one thing missing was any additional passengers. We were the only ones needing assistance.
Once checked in, we now had 1.70 hours to spare until departure. VST was getting a bit antsy as we waited in very uncomfortable plastic chairs. The more we waited the more it was clear he was returning to the husband I knew and loved. The one that never in a million years would willingly visit Molokai. That one.
Finally, after a few snacks and a little patience, a small plane landed and pulled up within feet of the airport. Because there was no wall or door, the engine noise was deafening and silence appreciated when the pilot turned it off. The airplane door flung open, and out stepped a very handsome, uniformed pilot. An extremely small plane, it held seats for eight. Sauntering in with real swag and ego, he approached the ticket agent and they exchanged niceties.
“Just one. Right there.”
He turned to glance my way. After a few minutes conversing with the adorable ticket agent, he walked over to us.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes, I sure am.”
Quickly kissing sweet VST, I followed the pilot to the plane. He reached inside and threw out a cheap door mat, and then motioned for me to enter. Wiping my feet, I hunched over and got in. It was the smallest plane I’d boarded in some time. While I got settled and belted in, he grabbed a chipped clip board and penned a few numbers. I never saw him complete a pre-flight check of the plane. He just gunned the engine, swung around, and, in seconds, we were in the air.
The ascent was immediate and steep, as the expansive ocean and view spread out in all directions. Passing over the huge mountains, just as quickly, we descended immediately at a steep angle. Just like that, a $100 plane ride delivered me to the Kaluapapa Airport. I smiled to myself that the mule ride would’ve included three hours of saddle sores. I’d chosen well.
In preparation of my visit, I’d read a little about the residents. During tours, the residents prefer to stay indoors, away from prying eyes. There was one resident that loved watching the airplanes come and go. I could expect to see a rather old pick-up truck by the airport, with one lone man observing tourists from a distance.
The airport was by a cliff next to the shore far below. It was nothing more than a shack, with one solid wall and three open sides. Protection from sun or rain, it stood empty. No one worked at this airport. The pilot would have the roster of those he was taking back to town or Oahu. His roster showed he was transporting four away from Kaluapapa, and indeed, four waited.
In a flash, I was off the plane, the four were loaded, and gone as quickly as we’d arrived. At 3 PM, he’d return for me. For the moment, I stood alone. Other than the empty airport, no buildings were within my sight. Ocean waves crashed on the deserted shore below. I turned and looked in a complete circle. I was totally alone. Just me. In this very sad and lonely place known as Kaluapapa, there wasn’t even a bird in the sky.
Then, I remembered what I had read about the lone man. Sure enough, about 1/4 mile away, sat a pick-up truck, a single person inside, watching. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Just me, there, at this broken down “Airport”, waiting for the Father Damien Tour Bus.
I didn’t need to wait too long. Rolling in, squealing brakes trailed by a cloud of dust, it arrived and I flew out the only door in the airport. The very, very old school bus was painted navy blue, with “Father Damien Tour’s” stenciled on the side. The driver flung the doors open, and was making notations on a small clipboard.
“Hi. Sir? I’m supposed to take your tour?”
“Return to the airport and wait until I come for you,” he barked. He was a gruff, no-nonsense kind of person who wasn’t going to put up with anyone who got out of line. I scurried back inside the airport. For minutes I stood under this lean-to, while he sat in his empty school bus just looking at the ocean. Finally, I heard his footsteps approaching the airport.
“Come now,” he barked sternly.
I followed him quietly to the bus.
The driver was 6′ tall and trim, was true law enforcement. Estimating his age in the early 70’s, he had a tan, weathered exterior. Even in the heat, he wore blue jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Ruggedly handsome, I wondered how leprosy had scarred him. His face and hands were intact, unlike so many victims. Leprosy is caused by a bacterial infection of Mycobacterium leprae. It usually affects the skin, eyes, nose, and nerves. If caught early enough, the disease can be cured, or at the very least, controlled.
“Wait here,” he pointed at the ground outside the bus door.
Once seated, he pulled out his clip board and asked if I had authorization to visit Kaluapapa. I present the handwritten ticket and he took a long, serious look at it. How would I have come to this place unless I had authorization? It seemed an odd question. I couldn’t swim or walk this far. Hitchhiking wasn’t for me.
“It seems this is in order. You may board.”
With that, during HIGH SEASON, his one passenger boarded the tour bus. Making a large turn in the dirt, we rattled off down the gravel road towards town. He introduced himself as Richard Marks, the Sheriff, and a long time resident of Kaluapapa. His story unfolded as we bounced along an empty and barren piece of land. With sadness, he told me he had been diagnosed with leprosy as a young man, and was banished to this little town. Many adoptive relatives were buried on either side of the road on which we traveled. In this huge expanse of land, he explained, were thousands of graves of victims who died after suffering from leprosy. For a very long way, I didn’t know what to say or ask. As we rolled on, he finally told me that we were on the way to pick up the mule riders, and then, the tour would begin.
The old pick-up truck bounced along far enough behind us to avoid our dust. Indeed, it had been the man I’d read about. The one that longed to see the visitors come and go. Sheriff Marks knew him well, as they were old friends with one very sad thing in common. Leprosy.
Leprosy is a disease well-controlled in 2021. Effective medications and treatment had been discovered years before the residents were ever told. When leaving was finally a choice they could make, many decided to stay. According to Sheriff Marks, for the men and women that chose to leave, sterilization was mandatory. When I visited in 2013, a handful of residents still called Kaluapapa home, and could visit Honolulu for medical care. Some stores had special hours, providing the residents privacy from prying eyes. As Sheriff Marks told me stories along the way, I received my own private tour from someone that had a lot to say. These residents had endured not only the ravages of the disease, but true cruelty from a place that boasts Aloha.
The day was filled with walking and listening. Visiting the very land in which Father Damien provided the holy sacrament to so many unfortunate victims was overwhelming. Mother Marianne and Father Damien, through tragedy, brought people into a place of love, faith, and family fellowship. Both produced real miracles in the face of hopelessness for which they achieved sainthood in the presence of Man and God.
Father Damien ignored social distancing and face coverings. He ate with the residents, as well as provided them medical care. He dressed wounds and hugged the children. He held church services and gave last rights. For years and years, he remained strong and healthy, until he finally contracted leprosy and died from the disease in the spring of 1889.
Lunching on a shady cliff overlooking crashing waves underneath trees coated with Strangle Figs, Sheriff Marks told us that parts of Jurassic Park 3 were filmed in this most beautiful place. All the vegetation had been brought to Kaluapapa. When the first residents arrived, this part of the island was barren. Looking at the lush growth now, it was hard to visualize what hell it must have been for the first victims, thrown overboard in shark infested waters to swim ashore.
Driving through town to visit the docks, only one small store was open, selling ice cream bars. Other than that, the town lay quiet and empty.
Eight mule riders spoke of their journey down to Kaluapapa, criss-crossing the steep trail on switch backs. I was never so happy in my life that I had chosen the easy route. Soon, the visit was over, and it was time to return to the airport and back to VST.
Sheriff Marks and I chatted like old buddies on the way back. The canonization of Father Damien was occurring at that Vatican in the fall, and he’d been personally invited to attend, along with any other residents that could make the trip. Deciding on travel for he and his wife, he considered their advanced age and declining health.
Saint Damien of Moloka’i and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i attained the highest honors of the Catholic church by living exemplary lives. They had taken people without hope, faith, or even love, and created a thriving community, orderly and functional. A society cast away from others. That was the supreme miracle they performed, creating the legacy of Kaluapapa.
Just as before, the small plane landed on the bumpy strip. The same pilot jumped out, threw down the mat, and invited me aboard. Within minutes, I was back at the airport kissing VST Hello!
“How was it?”
There was no answer to that question. Although I’ve visited many beautiful places in this big old world, Kaluapapa is a place that will nest in my heart forever. Since my trip, the mule rides have been discontinued, and tours are not allowed due to Covid. Sheriff Marks passed on a few years after my visit, leaving a widow to grieve his passing.
In the most serene of moments, I was the only human on cliffs above the crashing shore near the tiniest of airports outside Kaluapapa, Moloka’i. No car horns. No laughter. No voices. No sounds except those of nature. A true adventure of the best kind, during the middle of High Season.