Above: The curse of Pele?

This story does not begin in Tiburon. This story does not even begin in California. It begins in Hawaii, the big island, several months (and decades) previous. I had just returned from a walk on the beach and was showing my family the great lava rocks and coral I had found for my rock collection, but when the waiter returned, he carefully looked first at the rocks and then at me.

“I don’t think you should be collecting rocks here”

“Why not? Is it a state park?” I had previously met rangers who weren’t so eager for rock collectors to take any rocks home either.

“No. I mean its legal, but you know… taboo. Bad juju the locals say. The myth goes that Pele, the goddess of fire and the volcanos views all the rocks of the island as her children, and well… when you take her children away… bad things happen. Up at Mauna Kea park headquarters and the volcano museum they get hundreds of letters each year– sending back the rocks they took, hoping it will end their bad luck”

“Bad luck?”

“Lost jobs, car accidents, cancer and other diseases, pets dying, floods, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“That’s just a myth. But plenty of people here still believe in the old myths, and they would be upset if they saw you”

“Thanks for the warning.”

I discretely got rid of most of the rocks and tossed them back to the beach. Most of them. I kept two or three especially interesting ones. I suppose I couldn’t resist. Partly the scientific part of me disregarding myth and fascinated by such great specimens of igneus basalt; partly the adventurous, more dramatic side of me. Who wouldn’t want a curse? I mean you could blame the C on that calculus test on the hawaiian goddess of fire instead of the fact you didn’t study enough. Also, it’s one hell of a conversation starter. Hi, I’m Steve, I’m an aquarious. Oh yeah? I’m Mike. I’m cursed by the hawaiian goddess of fire. Beat that.

So I returned from Hawaii tanned, relaxed, and apparantly cursed (Not that it has done much. I was just as unlucky before the trip as I am now). But my curiousity was piqued. I made a couple searches online regarding the curse of Pele, and in the process, found the Lava House.

I’m going to quote here a bit from the excellent people at Atlas Obscura

“Built by Jerry Ganz (the fabulously wealthy man responsible for the mass production of seat-belts) in the 1970s, the Lava House’s chief architectural pull was its extensive use of imported lava rock. Construction stopped suddenly shortly after construction began, and it has remained empty to this day.”

Here’s the 5-1-1 on the Lava House. Built forty five years ago by an eccentric tycoon out of lava rock imported from Hawaii, left abandoned midway through construction, partly burnt down in a fire in 1997, and now the most paranoidly guarded site I have ever seen.

And I’m not exaggerating. The Tiburon police really had to print their own special signs in no uncertain words. None of that please don’t tresspass. ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. That’s right. All caps. They mean buisiness. There must have been at least one hundred signs on the property. Signs that for once, I obeyed to the letter.

The actual property itself was fascinating. Elaborate lava cobblestone patios, views of the Golden Gate, winding stair cases, underground rooms and tunnels, outside fireplaces and obelisks. Really worth the trip to check it out, even if for once I couldn’t get as close as I would have liked. Maybe the cops just are trying to confine the bad juju– who knows, if you take a rock from the house, do you get the curse? I don’t know for sure. My own curse didn’t exactly come with a handbook (by the way, that would be an awesome book. A handbook for the newly cursed. I’d buy it).

So The Curse of Pele. I leave it to you. Superstion or reality? Either way, it makes things more interesting.