A vast blue desert stretching farther than the eye could see. But beneath that endless water, far below the waves, the Earth was stirring.
Deep inside our planet lies a restless heart, a molten engine. It churns and pulses, and sometimes, it leaks upward through the skin of the world.
In one special place beneath the Pacific Plate, a hot spot—a plume of heat rising from the mantle—began to melt rock, making it buoyant and eager to break free.
Imagine molten stone, glowing red-orange, pushing upward for thousands of years until—at last—it broke through the ocean floor. The sea hissed and boiled as lava met saltwater. Bit by bit, eruption after eruption, a new land began to rise from the deep. That was the beginning of the Hawai'ian Islands.
But here’s the magic, Hawai'i is not a single island, but a story told in chapters, one after another, spread across millions of years. You see, the Pacific Plate is always moving—slowly, but steadily, like a great raft drifting northwest. The hot spot itself doesn’t move. It’s fixed, like a candle’s flame. So as the plate slides across it, new islands are born in sequence, while the old ones drift away, cooling, eroding, and eventually sinking back beneath the waves.
It’s as though the Earth is sewing a necklace of emeralds and sapphires across the ocean, each island a bead in the chain. Kaua‘i, the eldest, is weathered and softened, its sharp volcanic ridges worn into velvet valleys. O‘ahu, Maui, Moloka‘i—all follow, each younger, each shaped by fire and rain. And finally, the youngest, Hawai‘i Island—often called the Big Island—still burns with creation. Its great volcanoes, Mauna Loa and Kīlauea, continue to pour molten rock into the sea, adding new land even as we speak.
If you were to trace this island chain beneath the waves, you’d find it stretching far, far beyond the horizon. More than 130 undersea volcanoes, some worn down to nothing but lonely seamounts, extend in a long arc that reaches all the way to the Aleutians near Alaska. Together, they form the Hawai'ian–Emperor Seamount Chain—a testament to 80 million years of volcanic storytelling.
But Hawai'i is not just fire—it is also shaped by water and wind. Once the lava cools, the islands begin a second life. Rain falls, carving valleys and canyons. Trade winds sculpt cliffs and carry seeds. Plants take root in the fresh, black soil, and birds bring new life in their feathers. Over time, forests rise where once there was only ash. Coral reefs grow along the shores, ringing the islands in color and light.
Imagine lying back now on a beach of fine sand, still warm from the day’s sun. Behind you, the green slopes of ancient volcanoes rise, and before you, the sea glitters in moonlight. The air smells of salt and flowers, plumeria drifting on the breeze. The very ground beneath you is alive with the heartbeat of the Earth, still creating, still dreaming.
And just like all stories, Hawai'i’s will continue to unfold. South of the Big Island, deep under the ocean, another volcano is already forming. Its name is Lō‘ihi. One day, perhaps tens of thousands of years from now, it will breach the surface, joining the island chain.
Children not yet born will stand on its shores, and perhaps they will listen to stories of how their land came to be—just as you are imagining it now. I know that two of my dear nieces, M & M, are doing just that and I think of them and the beautiful shores they call home.