Sweet fruit of theft
is farmers’ bitter harvest

Summers in college years weren't much different from the other seasons. We just spent more hours on the job than in the classroom. But as the warm days of August dwindled, my group of friends would take off for a real vacation.

These were usually thrifty affairs. We'd pile into whichever of our cars was in semi-working order and camp out around Oahu. If we were flush, we'd spring for cheap airline tickets, pool assets for a rental car and cruise a neighbor island. Accommodations were mats and smoothed-out sand on the beach. We'd dine on peanut butter-honey sandwiches, bananas and plate lunches.

On Maui one time, we drove by a roadside stand with a sign that said something like "Dollar hamburgers, 4 for 25 cents." Cash running low, we jumped at the deal for a quartet of bargain burgers that normally sold for a buck.

Turns out the description, "dollar hamburgers," was true to the form of a silver dollar, tiny sandwiches with meat patties no more than an inch and a half in diameter. Suckered, we protested, but went away still hungry.

We complained as we rolled along, a fat rising moon behind us, purple twilight in the western sky in front. Suddenly, the friend who was driving pulled the car to the side of the road and hopped out to peer at a field where precise rows of spiky plants stretched into the gathering darkness. Through the windows, the familiar scent of ripe pineapple slipped into the car.

There were hundreds of the fruit nestling in the sharp leaves, driver-friend pointed out. We would snatch just one. In such abundance, one would not make a difference.

Not being a great fan of pineapple -- cannery work cured me of that craving -- I neither encouraged nor dissuaded him; at least that's how I rationalize my complicity. He picked his prey, and we got out of Dodge as fast as we could.

By rights, that stolen pineapple should have tasted acidic and sour, but it didn't. When we cut it open after pitching camp that night, we feasted on its sweetness, then waded into the sea to wash away the juice that trickled to our elbows. The guilt remains sticky.

I thought about the pineapple when reading about the farmer who was charged last week with shooting a man he suspected of stealing his crops. I thought about how many of us had pinched pine over the years, how it was almost a rite for passage for kids who grew up here.

I can imagine how frustrating it must be to seed a field, battle pest, disease and nature, irrigate and cultivate, then discover that thieves have made off with the fruits of your labor. I'm not saying it's OK to kill another human being, even if he may be a thief, but I can understand the flash of instinct to defend the crop that pays the rent.

At the farmer's market Saturday, vendors talked about how disturbing the incident was. Most had been victims of theft, had had fruits and vegetables, whole rows of plants, disappear overnight, had opened a shed to find shovels, plastic bags, strapping, wheel barrows, fertilizer, gas cans all gone. Some of them called the cops. Others said they no longer bothered because authorities tell them little can be done, the thieves are long gone by the time police show up, and it's hard to distinguish one papaya from another.

Various laws have been put on the books in attempts to curb agricultural theft, but farmers with acreage large and small are pretty much left unprotected.

Too bad, because agriculture is a big industry in Hawaii. Not as big as tourism, but farmers deserve as much security as visitors' wallets at scenic overlooks, as much as retailers, manufacturers, utility companies and the corner hot dog man.

"The government has to hear us," a farmer pleaded at a meeting in Kahuku Sunday night. "How can they protect us?" No one yet has an answer, but one must be found.