You will want to know what it feels like to be pulled by the strong hands of Jason Momoa from the cyan waters of the Pacific and then to flop, into the belly of a canoe, like some recently netted fish. It feels, I can tell you, wonderful.

This was on a paradisiacal morning in mid-July, just off the Western coast of Oahu. From the wing of a bright orange outrigger canoe, Momoa, casual in a sleeveless shirt and striped pants, like a god on holiday, pointed out the beach where he had learned to surf, the reef where his umbilical cord is buried. His father, Joseph Momoa, lay beside him, cradling an enormous conch shell.

“Aloha, what’s up, my boy?” Joseph said.

“What’s up, Pops?” his son answered as the canoe sped through the water. “This is awesome.” In mellow moments like these, I could al

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