Five - Zip

The quickest way to make a stock go down or have the favorite horse place instead of win is to let me have a piece of the action. No I didn't place a bet in the Derby and I haven't invested in Apple, so don't worry. But sure enough if I did, the stock and the jockey will tumble and I swear every one is looking at me, mouths agape in disbelief. Shrug.

Over the years I have also noticed that anytime I move some place I am plagued with the “worst ever” syndrome. That runs from “We haven’t had this much rain since…” or “I’ve lived here all my life and I ain’t never seen locust this bad before.” Or my favorite, “It never snows here.” I have the same power over wind when on a sail boat (it dies) or volcanic eruptions (it changes course). I’ve been to Kilauea five times now and have yet to see lava pour into the ocean, all due the the power of my presence.

Just last month this lava crossed the road,” the county employee explained. “See, here.” She pointed to recent photos sitting on the back of her pickup truck, parked near a pile of solid rock that looked like left over residue dumped from a road paver. A bit skeptical, I looked at the once fire breathing rocks oozing across the asphalt.

I examined the crystal like surface. Fragile and sharp, black ground glass. A chicken clucked underneath the county worker’s truck. Give credit to the foul that knew enough to stay out of the way when the lava decided to cross the road.

Sundown was a couple hours away. At least I could wait to see the glow and shower of cinders that are seen in the Hawaiian night. I grabbed a spot near the yellow caution tape to wait for darkness to come crawling out of the sea and settle around the gathering crowd.

We waited. I listened to the bits conversations. Nebraskans conversing with a Japanese family about how to get to Oklahoma. Locals explaining recent volcanic activity to visiting friends and relatives. Honeymoon couples discussing what time the plane leaves tomorrow night. I recalled my trek around Villarico, an active volcano in Chile. One night camped below the summit, we watched the caldera’s lava cast an orange glow on the underbellies of the clouds.

Steam billowed from the spot where lava plunged into the water. Lava was not visible. (Of course) A scene from the Wizard of Oz came to mind…don’t pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

As the last bit of daylight retreated over the shoulder of Kilaeua, the eerie glow of the lava and lava splatter reflected in the clouds of steam. Winds blew the white plumes away from viewing area. The night grew darker and the glow brighter. The crowd ooh’ed and ah’ed, the appreciative sounds heard at a good fireworks display. Then in the middle of the spectators a young woman choked up a startled gasp, unsynchronized with any natural display happening on the distant lava flow. I couldn’t interpret the sound, for it wasn’t of joy, or pleasure, yet it wasn’t one of alarm or distress. The sound was so misplaced, the crowd fell silent. She offered an explanation. "A mouse. It went down that hole."
We exploded in laughter.