Waves here are only remotely related to the ones that gently lap at most British shores. A nice empty expanse of ocean allows them to get a good long run at these steep Hawaiian beaches. The result is a classic curling roll of surf three to four feet high that kindly knocks you out of the way if you happen to cross its travel plans. The sea was actually pleasantly warm, but this was not the idyllic blue lagoon I had pictured bobbing in. It was more invigorating than relaxing. In fact it was more akin to a spin in a washing machine with a shovel full of grit thrown in for good measure. The waves were surprisingly intimidating up-close. And these were only tiny compared to the big winter waves to which surfers migrate. Those can reach up to 25 feet or more. It must take a great deal of nerve to purposely put yourself in the path of an object whose only intent is to convert you into a tossed salad.

The waters of Pearl Harbor are much calmer. This serenity was shattered on the morning of December 7th, 1941. The US had been on tenterhooks and its commanders were expecting sabotage - suspicion perhaps brought about by the large Japanese community on the island. But for weeks, from a sugar cane field high on the hillside overlooking Honolulu, a member of the Japanese embassy had been carefully noting down the movements of the American fleet in and out of the harbour. No one was expecting an aerial assault.

Waves and waves of Japanese bombers simulataneously attacked sites all over Oahu. The neat ranks of aircraft, lined up to prevent sabotage, became easy targets. The slumbering ships anchored alongside one another in the harbour had little chance. The greatest casualty was the ill-fated USS Arizona. A single bomb crashed through several decks and exploded, by chance, in her forward munitions store. In nine short minutes the still burning ship slipped beneath the green waters, taking an amazing 1,177 of her crew with her.

The memorial arches over the submerged ghostlike shadow of the rusting wreck. Only a single amputated gun turret breaks the surface. Rainbows bob gently on the green water - even after 60 years the tanks from one of the worlds first oil-burning ships continue to quietly leak. The white memorial building sags in an eternal sigh above the sunken graveyard. It is a stark contrast to the short, remarkable film shown immediately before the trip to the memorial. It is composed entirely of original footage, from the grainy images of the crew of the Japanese aircraft carrier on the morning of the attack to the silent shocking film of the Arizona being hit. The initial quiet scene is shattered by clouds of billowing black smoke blown out and upwards. The ship vanishes from view. So ferocious are the fires that smoke continues to boil from the waters well after the ship has sunk. It was an act of aggression that, by drawing the US into World War II, changed the course of history.

My comparatively insignificant course had also been changed. George Speight's disagreement with Fijian democracy had brought me to Hawaii. But it also helped me complete an inadvertent pilgrimage on this trip. From Aso to Rangitoto to Rotorua to Taupo - all on the path of Pele, goddess of the volcano. And here was a set of islands that were entirely volcanic; spewed from the ocean floor over the millennia by giant magma reservoirs beneath the Pacific plate. So, on my quest, I flew to The Big Island - the original Hawaii - home to (currently) the world's most active volcano - Kilauea.

I handed over my fifty bucks and boarded the air-conditioned van one Tuesday morning, bound for volcano country. Craters from various eruptions sit at the summit. They are huge - much bigger than I'd seen before. Tiny human dots beat a thin powdery trail across the cold hard basalt sea that lines these dents in the earth. The summit is pretty quiet these days as the gushing fountains of magma have ceased. In the early 1970s a crack appeared in the side of the volcano and glooping lava began to flow down the slope, covering trees, houses and roads before finally cascading, spluttering and hissing into the Pacific.

Huge black streaks stain this face of Kilauea, while the forest continues to grow in between, oblivious to the lava's presence. The original coastal road is abruptly bisected by this ten mile-wide black mass. On the surface the lava has cooled into the smooth congealed folds of viscous pahoehoe and the knobbly chunks of brittle a'a - the laval form that dominates the Auckland isle of Rangitoto. Meanwhile, deep underground, the lava continues to flow, insulated from the cooling air by the rock above. It finally emerges to plunge from cliff faces into the waiting ocean generating great pillars of steam that rise high into the sky.

And so our band - the sociologist, the medical student, the Qantas engineer, the Mancunian, the Japanese Peace Corps volunteer, the two English girls and I - followed our guide Brendon onto the Lava. It was oddly sturdy and not slippery as I had imagined. We paused a while overlooking a black sand beach. As the white surf crashed onto this satin blackness it looked like some strange negative image. Nearby, recently solidified lava had spilt over older cliffs like dripping candle wax. Trekking along this black barren landscape reminded me of hiking on the glacier in New Zealand. It had the same jagged alien bleakness and the steep surfaces were unexpectedly unslippery. Except I had swapped white for black and chill for heat. We laboured on, weaving our line across the twisted black plains towards the twin columns of steam rising from the ocean's edge four miles away.

As we drew closer, the ground became brittle and vitreous - recently supercooled rock crunched underfoot like breaking glass. Thin bubbles of rock shattered under the injudicious placing of walking boot or stick. On and on we crunched. Then, excitedly, Brendon indicated a point in the distance where a heat-haze shimmered. Cautiously we picked our way between the crumpled piles of rock and saw, spewing and oozing from a gash in the ground, a tongue of viscous red lava, its surface blackening and cooling as we watched. The heat was intense - hotter than the hottest blast from an opened oven door - from the bright red colour it must have been close to 500 degrees Celsius. The air above shimmered feverishly. And as the lava oozed and cooled, it clinked and crackled like a bowl of amplified rice krispies.

We started snapping photos and then Brendon pointed out another place around an outcrop of rock. Here a small river of red ooze trickled down the slope carrying chunks of cold rock with it. It was only then that we noticed that the cracks and fissures in the rocks we were standing on were glowing with a deep fiery red; a thin baleful eye glaring from the depths. The ground was too hot, even through our boots we had to hop from foot to foot. It was then that Brendon noticed that the rocks nearby had begun to split and crack as the lava below began to push them out of the way. Deciding this was too close for comfort he ordered us to beat a retreat. Having seen real live lava my volcano pilgrimage was complete. We had been scarcely three feet from molten magma, and frankly that was near enough for me.