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specialists in enhancement and management of human performance |
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12/23/99, Kauai Island, State of Hawaii Another day of mild sun, variable surf and easy slow-down. Late in the afternoon, Beth and I drove to the end of the road on the North Shore, Haena Beach. Here today, in late afternoon, the surf had risen to five-foot swells. That's a ten-foot wave face, and the sets were coming at ten-second intervals. A wild sea. The kind that reminds you never to turn your back on a closing wave, lest it take you from upright standing to a prone sandy face-plant in less than a second. Most folk forget the weight of water when watching the pretty waves. Let's see: a gallon of sea water at 70° weighs about eight pounds. A cubic foot of water equals 3 gallons. A cubic yard is 9 X 3 X 8, equals 216 pounds, conservatively. The portion of a wave with ten-foot face hitting an adult Homo sapiens equals about 5 cubic yards--slightly over a 1,000 pounds. About the same as getting hit by a Yugo moving at 7 mph. Not catastrophic, but enough to engender great respect after one hit, you'd think. But look at the beachsiders being pounded, wave after wave. Darwin was wrong, and God must like fools! Beth and I watched the surf for awhile, strolled south down the beach to where we could see and sense the massive weighted walls of water in ten-foot swells, a quarter mile from shore. We retreated back to the parking lot and, because it was still light and because it was there, we started hiking up the cliffs at the beginning of the Napali Coast Trail. Labeled an advanced (Class 4) trek, it's a bit like climbing muddy, uneven stairs for three flights, then leveling off through a corridor of green leaves for 100 yards, then climbing more lava rock and slimy dirt stairs. Even in the cool of this cloudy day, it was not long before we were covered with that fine olive-oil-sheen of tropical humidity sweat. An occasional opening in the foliage and prevailing Northwestern wind refreshed us, and we pressed on and up. Elizabeth is a real trooper, at times. A lady willing, despite her back problems and relative lack of aerobic conditioning, to always go around the next corner, especially if it hints at a better view of the sea. Her enthusiasm shamed me to continuing, despite my desk-rider lungs and corporate-cubicle flab. After 45 minutes of toil, we'd gone a little over a mile, horizontal, and 1,000 feet, vertical. Rounding the curve of the eighth eroded razor-sharp ridge we could see north, up the Napali coast through a cloud of silver mist that seemed to scale the near-vertical mountainsides. Waves pummeling the cliffs below do not crash, but rather boom, like a submarine breaking a sound barrier below the blue and white foam. If you pause, soul-deep in concentration (a thing not done with a conscious mind), you can sense the tremor through a thousand feet of ancient lava stone. Following along this path, avoiding the tangle of roots and oily, slick red mud, I am touched by the thought that perhaps this route (or one very much like it) has lasted a thousand and thousand years. Humans born a quarter of a world away, and more than a millennium ago, pushed away from familiar shores in large canoes filled with food, family and a tradition of sea faring by stars and sunrise. They came to these islands and created a marriage with the land and sea that allowed them to sustain five times their current modern population with no reliance on import or tourists. Matter-of-fact, Kauai was the only island in the chain never attacked nor conquered by the various chieftains who attempted to combine the clans and tribes of all the islands. The mightiest warriors lived and trained in these mountains, on this forbidding coast. The majority of the population (not realizing the protection the sea and prevailing winds provided) selected their strongest young men to exercise combat and live apart. Deemed unfit for any art other than war, they were isolated from those they protected--a human arsenal that trained daily, but was never truly used. Appreciated and fed by those that drafted and needed them, but always feared, never brought back to an easy life, home and family. I think such practice went on for hundreds of years. It is said that those who do not learn from their histories are destined to repeat them. In my training with NLP, I see the truth of that with individuals who make the same relationship or employment mistakes repeatedly. In the news, I see it in nations. And here, mud on my feet, in a paradise which could provide enough food and shelter for both survival and ease with just a bit of human cooperation, I wonder if we can yet evolve. Will the new next thousand years be enough time to pull us away from the tyranny of our earlier brains--the ones hard-wired in fear, scarcity and competitive survival? And yet, standing on the outcrop of this wildest of coastlines, I am stopped by two beauties. One the sheer, green elegance of the land, back-dropped by the panorama of blue sea and gray-white misty foam now gathering and reflecting the deepening gold of the descending sun. Two, this woman beside me, not panting but breathing heavy, her eyes greedily pulling in the distant shoreline to the south. Her hair, wind waving and matching the gold of the lowering sun. She is radiant as the end of the day. I can abstract her anytime--past, present and future. In this moment she heals me. I hear the lone conch shell horn calling for the end of the day--a local custom of some pleasantly peaceful Zen sect who have found shelter and sustenance on this little piece of planet. The waves still sound subterranean thunder against this resistant shore. I hear their fury. But it is a fury of nature, not necessarily a fury that is the nature of man. Elizabeth takes my hand and I lead her down the mountain. We cooperate. She leans on me. She does not slip. I look out for her in the dimming light. An older part of my brain wants to hurry, to be first. But a newer part of my mind enjoys that we are together. There will be enough time, enough soul for us both. The conch sounds a long last sigh into the coming darkness as we reach the parking lot, not quite chilled and not scathed. Coming down from the test of the mountain, coming back from the fury of the sea. People warn that the coming down is more treacherous than the climb up. But Beth and I have cooperated, assisted each other (now for fifteen years), fought less and loved more. Taken our time, like all warriors who must sooner or later climb down from their isolated heights, though the descent be more treacherous. Perhaps, in this next thousand years there will be time for all of us to come back home. To family, to friends and lands that will heal, welcome and sustain us. To places where we can be at peace. An intimate companion. A simple accomplishment. Time away in a place with sights more ancient and bigger than business. It just might be your executive edge. P.S.: The Hanalei Letters were a number of entries I wrote for Beth's father, Gene and his wife, Jeanie, who had arranged for the entire family to congregate for a millennium celebration. Gene and Jeanie could not attend because of health problems diagnosed as terminal, but they insisted the children gather. I wrote every evening and emailed a letter to them in their home--a kind of thank you, and way to be together, though almost a hemisphere apart. (NOTE: Allies Consulting offers a menu of programs that can help you become masterful at your performance skills, or your staff to do so. They will meet or exceed your expectations: they are designed to deliver real results. They also leverage our other programs, magnifying your ROI!)
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