Like many I’ve long been drawn to oceanic volcanic islands. Interweaving layers of history, geography and culture made Hawaii’s effect linger in the heart particularly long. To the visitor life in the archipelago may seem idyllic. No doubt the reality might be harsher for some, but the energy remains elemental, primal. The climate consumes yet preserves worldly things like postboxes and vehicles in a stasis that could remind one of Garcia Marquez’s 100 years of solitude. There’s a certain carefreeness about life on oceanic islands, where nature’s raw energy provides so much, man-made things exist to serve quite a clear outcome, autonomy, self-reliance, self-actualisation even. Whether that’s a speargun, a surfboard or just a patch of sand to call your own for a day. That’s the way I like it at least: an outrigger cutting deep in the swell, fat on a catch of fulfilment and meaning taken from the sea of simple things.
