{"id":1187,"date":"2023-03-30T16:31:05","date_gmt":"2023-03-30T16:31:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/?p=1187"},"modified":"2024-01-05T21:53:01","modified_gmt":"2024-01-05T21:53:01","slug":"in-the-islands-and-everywhere-else-are-a-thousand-winters","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/in-the-islands-and-everywhere-else-are-a-thousand-winters\/","title":{"rendered":"In the Islands, and Everywhere Else, are a Thousand Winters"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/a>
Illustration by Meg Studer<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The coldest I have ever been was on a beach in Hawai\u02bbi. It was four in the morning, and the pitch-black waters of Waimea Bay could have been a void but for the thunderous sound of waves crashing 100 yards offshore. A steady stream of headlights on the main road illuminated the crags of cliff faces and silhouetted the zombie-like mass of would-be spectators descending on the beach. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was February 2016, and it had been announced that the Eddie was on. My wife and I and our friends Emily and Jen packed beach bags, set our alarms for 3 a.m., and drove to the North Shore of O\u02bbahu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational is one of the most famous surf competitions in the world. Named for Hawaiian waterman and North Shore lifeguard Eddie Aikau, who died attempting to rescue the crew of the H\u014dk\u016ble\u02bba, the famed voyaging canoe, in 1978, the Eddie is held only when swells in Waimea Bay reach a minimum of 20 feet. That might not sound very tall, but a 20-foot wave can have a face\u2014the towering, near-vertical, concave surface a big-save surfer carves their way across\u2014of 40 feet or more. (For reference, a six-foot wave, the minimum to be considered \u201coverhead,\u201d is capable of snapping a surfboard in half or holding a person underwater for several seconds.) <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Eddie has been held just 10 times since it was established in 1984 (most recently this past January, when Honolulu lifeguard Luke Richardson edged out returning champion John John Florence). In 2016, our plan was to beat the crowds, snag a prized spot on the beach, and snooze until sunrise. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unfortunately, half the island had the same idea. By the time we reached the North Shore, cars lined the highway for miles in either direction of the competition site. We left our car by the side of the road and joined the throngs trekking the four miles to Waimea. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In shorts and tank tops, we were unprepared for how cold it was. Temperatures had hit near-record lows in the night, dropping into the low-50s. Having moved to Hawai\u02bbi from Chicago, I was accustomed to thinking of 50 degrees as balmy. Fifty was a number I waited<\/em> to see on my weather app. But temperature is tricky\u2014and subjective. How we experience temperature depends on everything from expectation to our unique physiology to how and where we grew up: In 2021, a pair of researchers<\/a> reviewed existing literature on cultural background and thermal comfort and found that, \u201cindividuals with diverse cultural backgrounds develop different levels of tolerance and comfort perceptions. A person\u2019s previous exposure to [an] environment can determine differences in thermal perception through various habitual, technological, and psychophysiological adaptations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Huddled on the beach, waiting for the sun to rise and the Eddie to commence, we utilized the few technological adaptations we had access to. We wrapped ourselves in our thin beach towels and pressed our shivering bodies together as tightly as we could, a spoon train to save our lives. We only peeled ourselves apart when dawn finally arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hawai\u02bbi exists in the cultural imagination as a place where summer never ends. A tropical paradise where the sun is always shining and the plumeria are always in bloom. During the seven years I lived on O\u02bbahu, people often asked me, Don\u2019t you miss seasons? And I did at first. But I quickly realized that Hawai\u02bbi does<\/em> have seasons. They\u2019re just different. And the more time I spent in Hawai\u02bbi, the more aware I became of the subtle changes\u2014in light, in temperature, in the colors of the ocean\u2014that differentiated one from the other. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hawai\u02bbi is still in the Northern Hemisphere, which means the archipelago experiences many of the same general patterns as North America. In the winter, the sun\u2019s angle is glancing and less intense. Seasonal \u201cKona lows\u201d bring more rain. And temperatures dip from highs in the upper-80s to highs in the upper-70s. (I know, I know.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the most noticeable\u2014and, for many, consequential\u2014shift is not in the air, but in the water. During the summer, the waves along the south shores of the Hawaiian Islands gradually grow in intensity until waves reach six, eight, ten feet high, driving hordes of surfers to the lineups of the most popular breaks. In the winter, all that energy moves to the north sides of the islands, the monstrous waves crashing into Waimea Bay set into motion by storm systems swirling thousands of miles away in the northern Pacific. (Summer swells are similarly caused by far-off storms to the south.) For surfers in Hawai\u02bbi, the difference between winter and summer is as dramatic as night and day. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not just the ocean. I queried a few Hawai\u02bbi friends about what they love most about winter. The first response was, predictably: \u201cThe surf.\u201d But others wrote about changes in the light: \u201cMore morning rainbows and softer lighting during sunsets.\u201d \u201cThe sunlight, I love the shadows, [and the rain] makes the colors more vibrant.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Honolulu, I grew accustomed to telling time through these at-first-subtle-but-then-obvious changes. Biking through the city, I knew what month it was by how glassy the ocean looked from Kal\u0101kaua Avenue or how many of the leaves on the ketapang tree near our apartment had turned red\u2014a sign that winter, and more rain, were approaching. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I anticipated signs of winter\u2019s arrival the way others await the crispness of autumn air or the first tantalizing flurries of snow. More rainy days meant more time inside reading. The end of peak tourist season meant more bike-friendly streets and easier seats at beach hotel bars. By December, the humpback whales had returned from their feeding grounds off of the Aleutian Islands, 3,000 miles to the north. We watched them frolic from the sea cliffs at China Walls or from the deck of the catamaran we sometimes booked when friends came to visit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It would be especially absurd to suggest to Hawaiians<\/em> that the islands exist inside some sort of static atmospheric bubble. An intimate knowledge of the islands\u2019 seasonal cycles sustained the Hawaiian culture for more than a thousand years, passed down in mele (songs), mo\u02bbolelo (stories), and \u02bb\u014dlelo no\u02bbeau (proverbs). As cataloged by Collette Leimomi Akana and her daughter Kiele Gonzalez, the Hawaiian language contains hundreds of names for rain, hundreds more for the various winds and clouds that carry it. Such linguistic abundance comes not from stasis but from near-infinite variation\u2014and careful attunement to it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Hawai\u02bbi, the winter season roughly coincides with the season known as Makahiki, a three-to-four-month period of feasting, celebration, and sport during which, historically, most types of work were forbidden. Marking the Hawaiian New Year, Makahiki begins not on a particular day but with the rising of the Makali\u02bbi, the constellation more commonly known as the Pleiades or Seven Sisters, typically sometime in November. Traditionally, once Makali\u02bbi was visible in the eastern sky, Makahiki would begin at the next new moon. \u201cThat\u2019s what the stars do for us,\u201d Kalei Nu\u02bbuhiwa, a Hawaiian lunar practitioner, told me several years ago. \u201cThey give you a sense of time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As it happened, the Eddie was called off that day in 2016. The waves never reached the necessary height. It was held two weeks later. Only my wife made it back up to Waimea to watch. And yet that night is a reminder that how we experience an environment has as much to do with our assumptions and the \u201cadaptations\u201d we\u2019ve developed as it does with whatever the temperature gauge says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stereotypical depictions of winter suggest that, worldwide, the season is all snow drifts, chilly gray skylines, and wool sweaters. But Hawai\u02bbi taught me that what winter means<\/em> isn\u2019t determined by weather, or the Gregorian calendar, or even by the stars, but by culture. Our lives may be shaped by the seasons, but we shape them in turn, through ritual, tradition, and cultural practice. Which is to say that winter is not one thing but many things. This world is full of winters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Far from dulling my senses, living in Hawai\u02bbi heightened them. I learned to look more closely, listen more intently, feel more deeply. But you don\u2019t have to travel halfway across the world to find a\u00a0winter\u00a0that differs from the one you know. Chances are your friends and neighbors already inhabit one.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Originally published in <\/em>Weathered<\/a>, a seasonal newsletter that publishes writing on cities, places, and the built environment from December 21 to March 20.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The coldest I have ever been was on a beach in Hawai\u02bbi. It was four in the morning, and the pitch-black waters of Waimea Bay could have been a void but for the thunderous sound of waves crashing 100 yards offshore. A steady stream of headlights on the main road illuminated the crags of cliff … Continue reading In the Islands, and Everywhere Else, are a Thousand Winters<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1187"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1187"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1187\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1189,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1187\/revisions\/1189"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1187"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1187"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.timothyschuler.com\/home\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1187"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}