Manoa Falls Terror

One day, I came across an old photograph I had taken at the top of Manoa Falls in the late 1970s. Looking at that picture brought back memories flooded with terror and awe. Here’s the essay:

The most comical and tragic thing about youth is believing you have all the answers. That bold confidence nearly cost me my life that day.

This morning, I turned pages of one of my many writing practice books and found the story I wrote about a hike to Manoa Falls in the 1970s. I looked up the height of Manoa Falls on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. I hiked that trail quite a few times in my youth. It’s a leisurely 1.5-mile hike to the falls with only a 600-something-foot elevation gain.

Two friends and I set out for the falls. At the base, someone, perhaps me, or maybe the warning sign itself, threw down the challenge to climb to the top. The sign read “Danger: Keep Out,” but we were undeterred. With a collective, “Let’s do this!” we plunged ahead, unaware that our hike was about to turn into a rock-climbing ordeal.

Scrambling up a steep hill, I pulled myself up inch by inch, refusing to look down. Not because I didn’t want to see my two male friends underneath me staring at my backside, I was too innocent to consider the possibility. I dreaded seeing the dizzying drop below. If we all ended like jelly splat at the bottom, it would have been fitting. They, for their wandering eyes; me for my reckless defiance of ignoring the sign.

Time stretches endlessly when adrenaline and fear hold hands. At last, we reached the top and discovered a narrow ledge to follow horizontally to the upper pool.

We crept along the slippery, mossy ledge. Halfway across, dread set in. I walked myself into a deadly trap. Terrified to go forward, turn around, or retreat, I pressed forward. Going back would mean my companions would have to back out, too.

Normally, we chattered nonstop. Not that day. We moved in silence, concentrating on each careful step forward on a terrifying, slow journey. I pressed myself against the wet rock, refusing to imagine the return trip.

At last, we reached the pool perched above the 150-foot drop. I exhaled, letting the tension drain away, and took in the breathtaking view overlooking Manoa Valley. Far off beyond the forested valley, Waikiki’s tall towers rose against the crystal-clear, turquoise-blue ocean.

Manoa Falls is nestled in a tropical rainforest on the island of Oahu. The waterfall ends at the back of Manoa Valley, one of the long valleys that springs from the lee side of the volcanic mountains and flows down to the sea.

We spotted a rope dangling on the opposite side from where we came in. Did we want to continue up the rope to two more waterfalls? We looked at the treacherous, slick rocks we would have to navigate to reach that rope. Unanimously, we agreed we would stay put. I stripped down to my bathing suit and waded into the pool. One of the guys handed me my camera, and I photographed the pool in front of me with the valley and Waikiki in the background.

The pool just below the one I waded beckoned, its cool depths invited me to slide into it.

Without a word, I handed off the camera, perched atop the little waterfall, and slid down into the next pool. As I descended, a wave of sheer terror overtook me, and I splashed into water below.

Instantly I grasped at my reckless leap. As I displaced the water in the pool, I landed what seemed like mere inches away from plunging over the 150-foot cliff to a sure death below.

I glanced back at my friends. Their faces mirrored the terrifying predicament, as if they were watching a horror film, and I was the main character. Panic surged, and I scrambled to escape.

Meanwhile, down at Waikiki Beach, people swam, surfed, and played in the sand. Below me, people looked up at the falls, oblivious to my dangerous struggle above them.  Each attempt to climb out of the pool ended with me sliding back.

My friends watched in shock as I struggled. I called out for help, and one brave one entered the pool above me and inched their way towards me. He reached over and, with a steady hand, pulled me up the slick boulder to safety.

Out of immediate danger, I climbed up and sat on the ledge, my body trembled uncontrollably. We sat in silence for a long time above the rainforest canopy, looking out over the valley. The relief of being safe was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the fear I had just experienced.

I remember sitting in silence for a long time. I don’t remember the descent or any part of the rest of the day. Did I apologize for my reckless stunt? I hope I did. This experience, however terrifying, was a lesson learned.

Two weeks later, we heard the tragic news. A 12-year-old boy fell to his death at Manoa Falls. I shuddered, thinking I could have been one of those sad headlines in the newspaper. The poor child. The poor parents. The poor family.

Years later, I returned with my parents. This time, I wisely stopped at the base of the waterfall, making it our final destination.

This morning, many decades later, I read about the numerous tragic deaths around the falls. I am one of the lucky ones, and I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude for my survival. It was a powerful reminder of life’s fragility.

I’ve not been back since.