They rapey and neurotic too… 

The Hilton Waikoloa on Hawaii’s Big Island is a tourist trap par excellence. Totally self-contained, far removed from the surrounding civilization, it creates a captive audience then proceeds to suck their wallets dry.

I was able to score a free three day stay a while back, piggybacking onto my wife’s work trip so I could get drunk poolside while she spent all day locked in a small room digging through piles of financial documents. The hotel had been stealing their employees tips and she was there gathering info for the class action lawsuit her firm had filed.

I’d shipped over my spear gear from Oahu. Big Island has absolutely amazing diving, due in part to near-shore edges that drop straight into the abyss, luring in deep-water prey and removing the unpleasant necessity of a half-mile swim to reach decent depth.

I realized within minutes of check-in that I hadn’t really thought things through. Our room lacked a kitchen, I wouldn’t even be able to cook anything I caught. Oh well, I’d just go shoot at roi (an invasive grouper) and enjoy the view.

Shortly after unpacking my gear there was a knock on the door. Two security guards stood in the hall. The bellhop had apparently told someone I was planning on spearfishing in front of the hotel and, possibly because I was a member of a party looking to drop legal damage on the business, that was a problem.

“We heard you have a speargun with you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re not allowed to have spearguns at the hotel.”

“Says who?”

“It’s against the rules. We don’t allow guns in the hotel.”

“It’s not actually a gun, it’s an arbalete.”

“You’ll have to leave it at the front desk.”

“No.  If you want it you’re going to have to come take it.”

And that was that. Security guards can’t do shit, and they know it.

The next day, as I was ambling down to the rocks to jump in, another pair pulled up in their little cart.

“You’re not allowed to spearfish here.”

“Yes I am.”

“No, sorry, there’s no fishing allowed.”

“Yes there is. This isn’t a protected area.”

“It’s against hotel rules.”

“Sorry, the hotel doesn’t get to make rules about the ocean.”

I proceeded to do what I wanted, and the poor folks tasked with dealing with me had to go suck eggs.  I guess this isn’t that interesting of a story. It’s hard to capture the sweet adrenalin rush that comes with confrontation and pin it to the page.

I spent the balance of my trip sucking down overpriced blended drinks, trying to not get caught staring at the under-age, but legal in Hawaii, daughters cavorting carefree in the sun with hairless boys their age, which is less than half of mine, and tipping people off their rented SUP’s in the man-made lagoon.

With a decent breath hold and a pair of long fins you can creep up on someone underwater from quite a distance. Surfacing at their back, grabbing both rails, and flinging them overboard is a good time. Especially when your alcohol consumption has well numbed you to their sputtering indignation. I made one little kid cry when he fell in. Luckily, his mother thought it was just as funny as I did.

One of the Hilton Waikoloa’s big draws is their dolphin swim encounter. Guests pay good money to commune with the neurotic beasts.

I guess I should say, I’ve no particular love for dolphins. They’re definitely impressive creatures, but intelligence-wise I’ve always considered them to be, essentially, thousand pound ocean monkeys.

Like monkeys, or apes I guess, they’re about as intelligent as a particularly stupid teenager. Which is to say not very intelligent at all.

And, like monkeys and teenagers, they’re kind of rapey, and their total lack of any notion of consequence makes them more than a little terrifying.

That said, the whole dolphin situation was pretty depressing. The holding tanks are about the size of a largish backyard pool, and if you sit and watch them for a while you’ll see they spend their days swimming manically in a circle, periodically stopping to bite the shit out of each other.

In the larger tank next door groups of life jacketed pasties who’ve obviously never seen Blackfish stroke and coo over whichever lucky fish gets to stretch its fins for a moment.

I spent a few hours one afternoon getting fall down drunk on strawberry margaritas, trying unsuccessfully to buy drugs from the scummier looking hotel employees, and hoping against hope I’d get to witness some poor sap get drug underwater and thrashed to within an inch of his life by one of the captive cetaceans.

Not as any sort of karmic retribution for their spendthrift obliviousness, but just because I wanted to see some carnage.

The rest of that day is a blur. I vaguely remember smoking a joint with a group of kids from Hilo, then vomiting bright red into the bushes. I’m not sure how I found my way back to our room, but I was passed out face down in the nude when my wife found me.

Here are some of my favourite dolphin attack videos.

Dusty is a famous Irish dolphin who likes attacking the stupid pink things that are always bothering him.

What an awesome day this little girl had! Not only did she get to experience all the fun of a wild animal bite, she has video proof of her parents lying to her face. Oh the bittersweet nostalgia, that day you learn mom and dad are just as trustworthy as everyone else.

Oh, hey there, human. Having a nice swim? That’s great! Do me a favor, stay right there for a second. What am I doing? Oh nothing much, I was just curious whether I could break your neck with a flick of my tail. Oops, guess not!

I’m only an amateur dolphinologist, but all my research shows that most wild animals absolutely adore having dumb bitches jump on top of them. Not Dusty the dolphin, though. Here he is again giving some pink thing what for.

Hungry dolphins love being teased. Almost as much as they enjoy delivering stiff shots to the sternum.

Until next time, gaze in awe upon the birth of a child’s trust issues.