What’s That Volcano Up To?

The biggest volcano in the world, Mauna Loa, just went bonkers the other day. I saw it from my front window because I live right next to it, here on the Big Island of Hawaii. I’ve been in this little cottage with my family for eight years and not once did I think, That gently sloping giant over there looks like the murdering kind that might shoot lava at me and my little girls. Not once. Of course there’s Kīlauea on the far side of the island which has wreaked havoc for decades. But we have to drive two full hours to see just a little bit of orange glow at night from her sizzling caldera. I didn’t like that either, knowing that beneath this whole island is a sea of lava ready to freak out and take out another town. But I can’t see Kīlauea from my front window. I’d nervously hike around Kīlauea at Volcano National Park with my wife and daughters, while turning off the common sense switch in my brain that’s there to warn you not to saunter about the lip of an active volcano, drive home, call my mom in Washington State and lie to her, pretending that that was fun. It’s not. It’s not fun to live on top of and around so many volcanoes. It’s neat sometimes because it’s unique and there’s immense cultural significance to the people of Hawaii. But fun, no.

It was five in the morning when stumbling towards my coffee-making machine, I caught a glimpse out the window, where just past our newly erected Christmas tree the sky was orange, and I thought, Pretty sunrise, but quickly realized it was an hour too early and the sun doesn’t rise in the south. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, walked up to the window, and saw a horrific spewing of lava from the right flank of that once-sleeping giant. Literal rivers of lava ran down her slopes like the overly long, orange fingers of a maniac reaching out for my throat. I woke up my wife and told her all about it, and that we should move because Mauna Loa was trying to murder us. With her eyes remaining closed she sleepily offered, “That’s good.” and “Not moving.” and strangely, “It was only a matter of time.” and fell back asleep. Not the shared horror I was hoping for, so instead I ran to the bedroom of my eight-year-old, Finley, gently shook her awake, and told her about the lava monster next door. She said, “I want to see,” and slowly rolled out of bed and walked to her window. Finley was at least a little more on my side of the panic trail, asking, “Is it okay? Are we okay?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

“It’s so, so, pretty,” she said in awe. 

Wrong answer. I left her there with her childlike, simplistic take on armageddon, and tried one last stop, that of my ten-year-old, Matilda. Matilda has always been sensitive. She’s the one to climb into our bed at least three times a week because of some nightmare about people made of paper blowing at her, sticking to her. Stuff like that. We get a lot of earthquakes here in Hawaii because of the unsettled ground and the underground rivers of lava ever-changing things beneath us. Each tremor, no matter how tiny, makes Matilda screech and run to the closest parent, or better yet, dive under the kitchen table, as if it might save her when the house collapses. She’s left shaken, rattled, every time. 

Of course! Matilda! Why didn’t I go to her first? She is, after all, my comrade in freakouts when life reminds us of our insignificance, our ant-like experience on this violent planet. 

“Hey sweetheart,” I whispered into her sleeping ear. “The Earth is blowing up. Do you wanna see? Might be the last thing we see… wanna see?” 

“What?” Even though she was half asleep I could already hear the tremble of fear in her voice. There’s my girl. 

“Come on, sweetie, I’ll show you.” 

“The paper people were on fire.” Clearly, she’d been in the midst of another paper dream. But they were on fire? From fiery lava, perhaps? Was she having a premonition? 

“Yes, the lava… it burns. It burns them up.” 

She sat straight up in her bed, now wide awake, eyes wide. “Dad?” she said nervously. 

“Come, I’ll show you.” I grabbed her by the hand and walked her into the living room, where the sky had come truly alive. The fountain of lava, now spraying two hundred feet into the air, the red-orange fingers traversing their way down the slopes… surely my sweet, frightened Matilda would appreciate this madness for what it was: Hell on Earth. 

For a long while she just stared, mouth agape, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, the full weight of her leaning into me. Finally, she turned away from the fire, the lava, the pale orange mushroom cloud ballooning high above the volcano, and looked up into my face. She had tears in her eyes, and they sparkled in the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Now, I thought, here’s someone who appreciates the dire state of things. “Dad?” 

“Yes, darling.” I squeezed her a little tighter and looked lovingly into her big brown twinkling eyes. After all, it might be our last moment together in this lifetime. 

“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” 

I am a man alone in this terrifying and unpredictable universe.