Sixteen crew members align on the M/V Imua’s eastern rail, the mood a brew of anticipation and drowsiness, mixed alacrity and somnolence that particularly characterize pre-dawn work life. In a few hours the sun will beat down with searing, skin withering intensity, but just now it floats as a brilliant orange singularity on a boundless black horizon. Aflame at the apex of its arc it will command attention, but at twilight it exists with eminent allure into which all eyes willingly opt. If indeed there is a Sun God, she seems to be a morning person.

Resounding sonorously, the call of the pū breaks the silence. Aiming his instrument toward the rail and beyond, Kalaʻi Sim blows as though he hopes to be heard by the closest civilization 700 miles away, if not by the sun itself. Vivacious and jocular, the vastness of the Pacific Ocean (to say nothing of the solar system) is an inconsequential barrier to Sim. He and his teammates sail on an ocean of vast distance, and of vast time. Below swim sharks over coral reefs, each having appeared on the scene tens of millions of years ago. Words from antiquity are given a new life of melody and of gravity as Kauʻi Aguiar begins to chant the oli. Crew members join in, mindful of the many people who preceded them, ready to make the most of this new day, aiming to achieve success on their “Mission to A Million.”

PMDP staff prepare hoʻokupu (ceremonial offerings) as a sign of respect and honor for Papahānaumokuākea. (PMDP/Andy Sullivan-Haskins)

Kauʻi Aguiar shares an ʻolelo noʻeau (Hawaiian proverb). (PMDP/Andy Sullivan-Haskins)

A “Mission to A Million” starts at zero. Although NOAA had historically run marine debris cleanup efforts in Papahānaumokuākea, by 2019 they had ceased- zero pounds were removed that year. Looking to rejuvenate the moribund Marine Debris Program in Hawaiʻi, the non-profit Papahānaumokuākea Marine Debris Project (PMDP) was formed. Five years later, with a wake of accomplishments trailing behind them, PMDP’s founders Kevin O’Brien and James Morioka have unquestionably achieved not just a renewal but an enhancement of marine debris removal in Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument.

However, before a single mission could be conducted or the first scrap of debris removed, countless details needed to be addressed- from permits to paint swatches, full inboxes to dual outboards. No detail escapes the meticulous O’Brien, who at any given time seems to be solving some problem with his mind while his hands work on crafting a solution to another. It was those deft hands and strength of will that were needed to transform an empty building into a workshop, an office space, a headquarters. Boats were bought, and built, and battered, and fixed up like new. A superlative staff was hired, and they raised the organization higher. This groundwork of conceived ideas, hatched plans, and devised visions became the platform for an organization, a mission, and ultimately a positive impact on Papahānaumokuākea. Add to that a little luck, and just maybe a million pounds of debris could be removed.

Directly following its founding in 2020, PMDP dove straight into the proverbial deep end. It was to Lalo (French Frigate Shoals) that the non-profit went for its first marine debris removal operation. Within the atoll is located Tern Island, once a naval facility and now, after years without maintenance and following Hurricane Walaka, a scene as reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic horror movie than of the unspoiled wilderness the Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument is acclaimed for. In partnership with NOAA personnel, the ingenuitive O’Brien and affable Morioka were joined by their first employee, Kaʻehukai Goin, one of PMDP’s cultural advisors and a man capable of balancing hard work with epicurean diversion. Together the team removed lumber, roofing, steel cable, scrap metal, boat hulls, and the more standard fare of abandoned fishing nets and buoys, amassing over 82,000 pounds. Additionally, they created easements and escape ways to mitigate the danger to wildlife posed by the dilapidated infrastructure. PMDP was off and running, and there was no shortage of work awaiting them.

Since then, PMDP has conducted nine missions, a nearly ten-fold increase in operational tempo from the pace achieved by the precursory NOAA program. Despite the years of experience accumulated by PMDPʻs crew (O’Brien and Morioka combining for 30 years of experience alone), wrangling rubbish on the high seas remains fraught with unpredictability. Weather fluctuates, machines break, and unexpected curiosities literally come from out of the blue (wrecked life boats, a flotilla of duck decoys, and unicorn bicycle helmets are just a few of the unusual types of debris the organization has contended with). No two days are quite the same. PMDP’s Geographic Information Systems expert Charlotte Frank, poised yet disarmingly friendly, explains, “If Plan A doesn’t work, luckily the alphabet has 25 more letters- sometimes things go exactly as planned and sometimes you need lots of backup options. Mission planning is so essential to be efficient, successful, and strategic in our cleanup efforts. It can be a grueling task but it is so satisfying and rewarding seeing how much ground we cover and how much debris we collect every single day come to life on the map.”

Despite the variables, the PMDP team has developed an operational routine that efficiently turns their individual skillsets into a coherent and effective force, adaptable to each day’s peculiarities. After ʻoli there is time for breakfast (respect and sanctity coming in many forms), then the crew, clad in hardhats and lifejackets, circle on the ship’s deck for a briefing detailing safety and the day’s assignments. Action-oriented and salutary vernacular characterize the crew’s dialogue, everyone always eager to “schlep” something heavy, “fire it up,” or prepare for a “big day.” Frank will have worked late into the previous night methodically mapping survey areas for each of the four Zodiac teams, and it’s at this point the group will take one last look at her orchestrated plan. With all salient concerns addressed, and a reminder from the Imua Captain; Hans Bishop, to “have fun and be safe,” whirring decibels of the crane’s hydraulics signal the imminent launch of the Zodiacs.

Peering up through sunglasses, sun-bleached blonde hair issuing luxuriously from her hard hat, Team Lead Lauren Fraser clips to the crane’s hook to Zodiac MD1, known affectionately to its passengers as Honey Girl. “Launching the boats from the ship provides a unique set of challenges that helps us hone in our coxswaining skills to a new level,” the abidingly cheerful Fraser says of the task. With dexterity and proficiency reminiscent of a NASCAR pit crew, the team can have the Zodiac lifted, loaded, and leaving the ship’s side in less than three minutes- next stop, debris country.

Aerial image of Manawai (Pearl and Hermes Atoll). (PMDP/Andy Sullivan-Haskins)

Although Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument extends over 580,000 square miles (a swath of ocean that would span Texas to California), it is within the atolls and on the tiny islands that the marine debris accumulates. The Imua remains outside the atolls’ dangerous reefs and surf, the navigation of these obstacles being incumbent on the Zodiac’s coxswain, which in many localities arranges for some of the most enviable morning commutes imaginable. In Manawai (Pearl and Hermes Atoll), for instance, the “Small Boat Pass” can be used to enter the south side of the atoll. Surf peels left neatly along a wedge of reef into a channel well defined by clear water, calm and luminous. If dolphins don’t appear as graceful gray torpedoes below the surface or conducting comedic aerial antics above, it is a rare day. Using a combination of GPS waypoints, the astute eyes of teammates, and some close quarters maneuvering, the Zodiac is navigated to the survey area.

For PMDP, swim surveys are the pillar on which marine debris detection stands. In character with their other work habits, the crew sets about this task with fins flying. Hundreds of acres can be traversed daily in search of nets. But racking up the freestyle stroke mileage is perhaps not even the most physically demanding aspect of the job. Once the marine debris is located, it must be hauled aboard the Zodiac. In some instances, derelict nets weigh several thousand pounds. Add in friction and the disadvantageous body positions posed by being on the boat’s Hypalon sponsons, and the task of pulling in debris the size of a compact car can seem insurmountable. However, clever Marine Debris Technicians, always jonesing for their next fix of rubbish removal have devised a number of tools and methods to accomplish the task. Parbuckles, ice lines, and bread knives are all pressed into service strategically. If all else fails, they can always avail themselves of the “phone a friend” option, rallying assistance from a nearby boat team.

PMDP divers, Cascade Mayer and Kamaliʻi Andrade lift a large derelict fishing net into the boat. (PMDP/Andy Sullivan-Haskins)

Although the removal operation inside the atoll runs from 8AM-4PM, time always seems short. It seems inevitable that the presage of a deadline unveils the largest and most tangled nets. Often this becomes a showcase of the most impressive work, bread knives sawing at a rate that would make a sous chef’s jaw drop and nets being deadlifted aboard as though it’s a new Olympic sport. Laden with debris piles sometimes surmounting 3,000 pounds, the Zodiacs begin their slog back to the Imua, once again an enviable commute as by this point in the day the mound of nets seems as luxurious a seat as anything made of full-grain leather. Once alongside the Imua, the debris is clipped to the crane accompanied by an emphatic shout of “ON!” Away it goes, and as with many good times, quite a mess is left in the wake.

A PMDP team returns to the Imua with a day’s load of derelict fishing nets removed from the reefs. (PMDP/Andy Sullivan-Haskins)

Perhaps you’ve seen a timelapse of scavenging creatures, probably insects, perhaps some glossy little beetles, setting upon a deceased animal and leaving nothing but glistening skeleture in short order. That, too, is how a Marine Debris Technician cleans a boat, zipping around, over, inside the boat, seemingly with six limbs all going to work. Rangy and loose-limbed, the Deck Boss Ossian Nichols bawls orders and appears everywhere- here with a shop vac, now there with a wrench. Though weary physically and mentally, the team carries out this last chore of the day with exacting standards.

Despite their training, experience, and collective prowess, the team’s goal of tipping 1,000,000 pounds of marine debris was a fairly audacious one. In September, with one final summer mission remaining, PMDP had only collected 875,000 pounds, 125,000 pounds short of their goal. A record setting performance would be needed to hit their mark. Of course, at this point it should be clear that asking for more than has ever been done is like flipping the “ON” switch for PMDP’s Marine Debris Technicians. Working in Manawai, they would set a record just to break it the next day. Momentum built, and despite the improbable odds, strenuous work, and constrained time facing them, you would have had to bet on PMDP’s team. On September 29 they achieved their goal, MD3 (known as Rudolph, to its operators) bringing in the millionth pound. Altogether, PMDP would remove over 175,000 pounds that trip, bringing the organization’s total to 1,046,407. “Hell of a job,” reflects a smiling Morioka.

Making of a Milestone

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