Hoʻokupu

By kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui

“Hoʻokupu” (“Offering”) was written in memory of Gavin Kimo Malunao, who, along with another young bruddah, Cy Spencer, were killed when the vehicle they were riding in was struck by a drunk driver in Hilo in 1994.  Raised in Carson, California, Kimo was an alakaʻi for Kumu Hula Sissy Kaio’s hālau. He had a passion for Hawaiian culture that was hard to match, and moved to Hawaiʻi in order to reconnect with his Hawaiian roots.    
 
I first met Kimo at Uncle Herbert Hoe’s Hawaiian cooking class at Kamehameha Schools in 1994.  My Tūtū, Sarah Poniʻala Kakelaka Meyer and Uncle Herbert knew each other from Waikāne Congregational church, and I would pick her up once a week and take her to his class. She was curious, because Uncle Herb promised they would learn new ways to prepare Hawaiian food, like taro, ʻuala, andʻ ulu stuffed chicken. The class prepared a different dish every week. For the final class Uncle Herb had a “formal” dinner. Kimo and his hānai brother, “Son” Kaio were there, wearing a coat and tie. Noticing all the other kāne were wearing jeans, aloha shirts, and slippers, Kimo whispered to me, “I thought this was formal.” “Brah,” I replied, “in Hawaiʻi, this IS formal.” An instant friendship was formed.  
 
Kimo had always bugged me to write a mele for the homeland of his ʻohana, Hakipuʻu. I always thought I would have more time to fulfill his request before he was taken so abruptly from us. I am sad to realize that so many of us experience such tragic loss. “Hoʻokupu” couldn’t have been written without Kimo’s encouragement and aloha for the lāhui and our culture he worked so hard to perpetuate; it is my offering of aloha to him, and to the larger lāhui. “Hoʻokupu” is a story about loss, but also about how we go on after experiencing tragic loss. It is a work of fiction, comprised of many stories and experiences within my ʻohana, and told to me by friends and students over the years. Kimo is the one who gave me the courage to tell it.   
 
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E hō mai ka ʻike mai luna mai ē. O nā mea huna noʻeau, o nā mele ē.
E hō mai, e hō mai, e hō mai ē…
 
Mōhala sat on the front porch with the worn wooden cutting board placed firmly on the table in front of her, carefully cutting the hala fruit she had gathered from Tūtū’s tree in the front yard. Slowly and methodically she cut the sides of each key, slicing in, and then down at an angle, just how her older brother Lehia had taught her only two years ago. She had begged him to teach her how to cut the hala into the beautiful five–point stars that were then strung with lauaʻe into long strands; tied together with ribbon it made a perfect lei. He had said she was too young to handle the sharp knife necessary to cut through the tough hard skin of the hala fruit, but Mōhala had persisted. When Lehia was cutting and stringing a hala lei for their cousin Puna’s high school graduation that year, Mōhala had made a particularly passionate plea to learn. Lehia finally relented, and soon regretted it. He showed Mōhala how to hold the knife blade like a scalpel in her right hand while grasping the hala fruit with her left. “Press down and in at the same time,” he had instructed her, “and mai poina––the knife is sharp––watch your fingers.”
 
Lehia had passed the old cutting board to her, the wooden one Tūtū Kepa had made from the trunk of a large mango tree. Lehia favored the wooden board because it had more grip than the new plastic ones sold in the markets. The rough wooden grain helped keep the fruit from slipping as it was being cut. As Mōhala pressed down on the ripe fruit, cutting into the fibrous flesh, the sweet fragrance was released, perfuming the air around her with its pungent scent.  “Mmmm––smells good,” she said, and pressed harder. Just then the knife slipped and cut through the fruit, slicing into her finger. The trickle of red mixed in with the moist yellow stains left on the board by the previously cut hala, leaving a pretty orange pattern. “Auwī!” Mōhala said dropping the knife, as she swiftly stuck the injured finger into her mouth. The knife clattered to the ground, barely missing a baby toe. Lehia laughed. “I told you––akahele!” he said as he took the board away from her. He showed her again how to do it, and then let her practice until she got it right. Oh how the tips of her fingers had ached afterwards! She didn’t realize then that as she pushed the point of the blade into the resisting skin of the fruit that the back of the blade resisted, too. It pressed deeply into the sensitive tips of her young fingers, making a deep indentation. She thought of that now as she strung the sweet–smelling crimson fruit onto an old rag; key after key alternated with diamond–shaped pieces of lauaʻe until they made four strands long enough to reach from her neck to her waist. “Cloth mo’bettah den string,” Lehia had told her, “cuz da string cuts trew da soft fruit.”
 
When she was pau she picked up four long broad ti leaves from the table and held them together by their stem, wrapping the lei around them. Then she carefully folded each leaf up and twisted the ends, tying them into a neat bundle. When the pūʻolo was complete, she carried it to the kitchen and placed it in the refrigerator, alongside the ones which held the red fish Daddy has speared the day before. Aunty Aulani was standing at the stove, stirring canned corned beef and Maui onions into the sizzling hot black iron skillet. “You pau already?” She asked, as she sprinkled in the Hawaiian salt.  
 
“Yeah,” Mōhala said, rummaging through the refrigerator.  
 
“When you goin’ out?” Aunty Aulani asked, placing the poi bowl on the table.  
 
“Tonight,” Mōhala answered.
 
Aunty said nothing as she set Tūtū’s blue tin dinner plates on the table. Mōhala counted them out in her head: one for Aunty and one for Tūtū, one for Daddy and one for Puna, one for her, and one…missing. She couldn’t forget; now there was one missing.  
 
“Goin’ where?” Puna’s question interrupted her thoughts. She looked up at her cousin coming in the kitchen door carrying three fat ʻuhu strung together on a line. Mōhala couldn’t help but think that as she sat on the porch stringing hala, her cousin was a few hundred yards away in the water, spearing fish and stringing them together like a lei. The salt water glistened on his dark brown skin as he set the fish on the counter next to his mother.
 
“You like me fry ʻem for dinner?” Aunty asked, as she reached for the shiny dead fish.  
 
“Yeah, Ma,” Puna replied, as he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. “Ho, you shoulda seen da menpachi; man, had plenny! But that frickin’ shark came at me again today wen’ I was  tryin’ fo’ spear ‘em, an’ he wen’ scare me! Next time we go divin’ me an’ Russell folks goin’ take his faddah’s gun an’ try shoot da bugga,” Puna said, grabbing the dried ʻōpae from the cupboard.  He sat at the table with Mōhala, and took a long swig of his bottled beer. “So Mo, where you goin’ tonight?” He said, focusing his attention on her. 
 
“You know where I goin’,” she said, returning his gaze. “To the koʻa.”
 
Puna stared at her with a look of annoyance. “Da koʻa?  Why da hell you goin’ ova’ dea?  Ma, why you guys lettin’ her go ova dea?” Puna said, turning towards his mother.  
 
“Eh, it’s her choice Puna, let her go if she like,” Aunty Aulani said, as she dropped the cleaned and salted fish into the smoking hot oil.  
 
“Da koʻa. Eh, Mo, you don’know about that kine stuff like your braddah, no make la’ dat. You goin’ get hurt.” Puna said, throwing a handful of dried ʻōpae into his mouth like popcorn.  
 
“Eh, I know,” Mōhala replied. “You da one who doesn’t know.” She stood up and spun around abruptly, and headed out the door. She jumped down the stone steps and landed lightly on the soft grass with her bare feet and ran towards the ocean.  
 
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“Come on Mōhala, I goin’ beat you!” Lehia’s laughter echoed in her mind. She remembered how they would run and chase each other down to the beach almost everyday after school since they were little children, each racing the other to be the first to dive into the cool Pacific water. “Lehia! Wait! Don’t leave me!” She would cry as her little legs raced to keep up with her older brother. “I not goin’ leave you, Tita,” he would say, and wait for her to catch up before diving into the welcoming embrace of the sea.
 
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The coarse pink sand crunched under foot as Mōhala reached the sandy shore. She walked the hundred or so yards down the beach to the koʻa, the fishing stone that sat at the edge of the water in the middle of the small bay. First she had to cross the muliwai, the mouth of the small streamlet that fed into the bay. The icy brackish water made her shiver as she stepped into the ankle–deep water. Tiny, nearly invisible fish darted around her, and long streaming limu ʻeleʻele tickled her feet as she made her way across the shallow stream. When she reached the koʻa she ran her fingers over the black stone, polished smooth from years of abuse by winds, waves, sand and salt, covering, exposing, and covering it again.  
 
Lehia had told her about this koʻa. It was a stone altar dedicated to Kūʻulakai, the Hawaiian fishing god. “Our family ʻaumakua is the manō, the shark. In the old days when someone in the ʻohana died, they would turn into a shark. Their mana would protect the rest of the family,” he had told her. She hadn’t believed him back then. It was just another stone on the beach; there were lots of them. How could this one be any different? She had asked Tūtū about it, hoping to prove Lehia wrong, so she could have something to tease him about. But Tūtū had confirmed his story. “When I was young,” Tūtū told her, “that pōhaku was a place for the manō to come and hānau. It was a kapu place. When people fished out here, they always went to the koʻa and left a hoʻokupu on the stone. Red fish, heʻe, whatever they catch. They always left the best. When the tide would rise, the rock would be completely submerged. The manō would come for the fish. Most of the time, the water there is too shallow for the sharks to swim, but when the tide is high, they can come in. They like that place to hānau, because the water is warm and calm, and there is plenty of fish because of the muliwai. That is why we don’t fish there; that place is kapu to the ʻaumakua.”
 
When Tūtū was telling her this story, Puna had walked in, and laughed. “Not,” he scoffed.  “Tūtū, that’s bulai. No such ting as shark gods, an’ get plenny fish there; why gotta be kapu for some stupid sharks?” Tūtū stared at him and shook her head. She had been through this many times with Puna already. But he was stubborn, “poʻo paʻakīkī,” Tūtū called him; he never listened.  
 
Puna and Lehia were first cousins and the same age. Mōhala couldn’t understand how two boys the same age raised in the same house by the same family could turn out so differently. Lehia had been so proud of his Hawaiian heritage. He loved the ocean: swimming, surfing, diving, anything. Daddy used to tease him that he was a fish with legs. He loved the mountains, too.  Wasn’t he the one that got everyone all gung ho to go up mauka and open up the loʻi kalo? No one in the family had planted taro there in decade, not since Tūtū was a little girl. But Lehia was all for it, even though Tūtū and Daddy––and of course Puna––had complained that it was hard, backbreaking work. “Why we gotta plant taro?” Puna had complained. “Nobody like eat ʻem. Me, I like rice.”  
 
“Hū, Lehia, I do’know,” Daddy had said, “my body too old fo’ dat kine work.” But Lehia had persisted. “Why we goin’ ruin our health with haole food?” Lehia asked them.“If we Hawaiians like get anywhere, we gotta help ourselves.” And with that, he went mauka and started clearing and planting. Within a few days, curious neighbors stopped by to see what he was doing. “We no can change anything unless we help ourselves. You wanna get off food stamps? Plant kalo! You wanna show your kids you somebody? Plant kalo! You want sovereignty? Plant kalo!” Lehia had told them. Soon they were working side by side in the loʻi, planting huli, pulling weeds, and planning new patches. They planted bananas along the muddy banks, and sweet potatoes on the fertile slopes. They built fishponds from scrap wood and heavy plastic and experimented with raising tilapia. They met with Waiāhole and other Windward farmers to find out about their water rights, and when they discovered their water resources were being stolen in order to green leeward golf courses and urban development, they organized mass demonstrations.  Within the first year, the crops were productive and demonstration successful, resulting in some water being returned to the Windward side, and everybody celebrated. 
 
“This is jus’ the first step,” Lehia reminded everyone. “We gotta do more. We gotta learn our culture, and take the lead. Haoles at the HVB define Hawaiʻi fo’ Japanese tourists. They sell our land to the highest bidder. Haoles at the University teach our language to Japanese students.  Then they go teach in da DOE. What’s wrong wit’ us? Why we no define these things for ourselves?” He demanded. “Everyone’s scared get one ‘edjumacation’ as Uncle Bu Laʻia calls it.  Why?  We like dis’ the Hawaiians at the University, call them ‘high makamaka.’ They not ‘high makamaka.’ We are. We da ones too vain and too scade fo’ ack.”  
 
Most people had laughed him off, teasing him. “Eh braddah Le, no worries, no worries. Grab a beer an’ chalang–a–lang wi’d us guys. Here, braddah, grab my ʻuke. You know the one by Kaʻau Crater Boys, yeah? Da ʻopihi song. Yeah brah, grab a beer an’ come drink wi’d us.” Most people had laughed him off back then, especially Puna. “Ho, cuz, why you make la’dat? Jus’ kick back an’ play music. No worries,” Puna had said, putting his arm around his cousin’s back, handing him a beer. Everyone had laughed. But not Mōhala. She had sat and listened. And not Tūtū or Daddy, either. “That boy is gonna be something one day,” Daddy had said, admiring Lehia’s charismatic way with a crowd, how he showed no fear when he stood up in front of them. “I sure wish I had that kind of guts when I was his age.”
 
“Oh, you did,” Tūtū replied slowly, with a distant look in her eye. “But times were different then. Who could have known things would turn out like this now?”  
 
“What you mean, Tūtū?” Mōhala had asked, sensing an edge to Tūtū’s tone of voice.  
 
“Oh, I do’know. We were taught to be ‘American,’ whatever that was supposed to be. Back then it meant not speaking Hawaiian. It meant being ashamed of how you looked, of being Hawaiian. I just wanted my keiki to have the best opportunity I could give them. So I never taught them Hawaiian. I sent them to the English Standard Schools. Your Aunty, she seemed to adapt all right, but not your daddy. He questioned everything. But things were different back then.” Tūtū had that same faraway look in her eye. Mōhala followed her gaze.  She was staring at Lehia.
 
It wasn’t until the day after Lehia’s speech that Mōhala had ever consciously thought about being Hawaiian. It never occurred to her before, not even all the times Lehia had tried to show her and teach her different things. “Aloha kuʻu kaikuahine, kuʻu hoa hānau. Pehea ʻolua?” He had asked Puna and Mōhala one day as he walked in the kitchen door, straight home from classes at Windward Community College. They were sitting at the kitchen table eating sour poi and raw ʻaʻama crab seasoned with inamona.
 
“Huh?” Mōhala replied, wrinkling her nose at him as her teeth cracked a shiny shell. 
 
“What da hell you wen say?” Puna inquired, as he slurped down some crab innards, and licked his fingers clean.  
 
“I said, ‘Aloha.’ Howzit to you guys, my sistah an’ cousin.’ I learned dat today in my Hawaiian language class at WCC,” Lehia replied. “Pretty cool, yeah sis?” He asked, as Mōhala sat at the kitchen table with her mouth hanging open.  
 
“Hawaiian language? Why you like take that for?” She asked.  
 
“Hawaiian language?” Puna repeated, “Hawaiian’s a dead language.”  
 
“ʻAʻole pololei e kuʻu moʻopuna,” Tūtū called from the other room.  
 
“E Tūtū, pehea ʻoe?” Lehia called to her with a huge grin on his face. “Hiki iaʻu ke ʻōlelo iā ʻoe?”  He continued.
 
“ʻAe, kama, hiki nō.” Tūtū replied, as she came into the kitchen. She, too, had a big smile.
 
“Shees,” Puna said in disgust, biting into another crab leg, “speke English.  Dis’ America you know.”  He sucked hard on the soft dark shell, slurping the yellow contents into his mouth. 
 
“ʻAʻole,” Lehia replied, “this is Hawaiʻi.  He Hawaiʻi au, mau a mau.”
 
“Aʻoia,” Tūtū replied, and they both laughed, a deep, satisfying kind of laugh.  
 
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Mōhala sat quietly on the rock, gazing out into the distant water. “E kuʻu kaikunāne, ʻauhea ʻoe?” She said, addressing the water. But there was no reply, only the soft lapping of the sea at her feet. She stood up and slowly walked back to the house. By the time she got back everyone had finished eating. Everything was put away; all the dishes washed and stacked in the cupboard. Only the large green ceramic poi bowl sat in the center of the table, covered with a blue checked dish cloth. Mōhala softly opened the kitchen door and went straight to the refrigerator. She grabbed her hala lei and the pūʻolu of red fish Tūtū had prepared the day before.  
 
“Tita girl, is that you?” Tūtū called from the other room over the blare of the television. She was watching Hawaiʻi Starsagain, her favorite show.  
 
“ʻAe, Tūtū, it’s me. I’m getting my hoʻokupu to take down to the beach.” Mōhala replied. Tūtū slowly walked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane. “Oh, this arthritis; sometimes, real pilikia. Your brother had the best hands for lomilomi, make the pain go away real good.” Tūtū slowly sat down in the chair nearest to where Mōhala was standing, and gently placed Mōhala’s young smooth hand into her older wrinkled one. “Your brother would be proud of you, you know. Holomua. No matter what anybody say. Mai hilahila, mai makaʻu. You doin’ the right thing; the ʻaumakua know that; they goin’ take care of you.” 
 
Mōhala leaned down and gave her grandmother a hug, and kissed the top of her forehead. “Mahalo, Tūtū,” Mōhala said softly before grabbing the hala leis and pūʻolu of fish and heading out the door. 
 
“I dunno about you, cuz,” said a voice out of the shadows on the porch. “You jus’ as lōlō as your braddah. Lose money dat kine stuff.” 
 
Mōhala turned slowly and looked at Puna’s drunken gaze.  He was sitting in the creaky old rattan chair with his feet up on the railing, his ʻukulele resting on his chest. For the first time she noticed his little pot belly, the result of too many plate lunches, too many beers. She stared at him for a long, long time. Finally, she spoke, softly and deliberately.  
 
“You know Puna, it’s Hawaiians like my braddah dat try and help our people. He did his best fo’ teach us how fo’ respect our culture. How fo’ be proud of who we are. He wen back to the ʻāina and dug deep into da land, searching fo’ his roots. He wen go college and look at da palapala fo’ find his future. Our future, as Hawaiians. He was gonna be a great leader. He did things. Where were you at Merrie Monarch? Sitting at your girlfriend’s house, drinking beer with Russell guys?  Lehia was there in Hilo, chanting the story of Tūtū Pele on da stage. He was there aftah hours and hours of practice wit’ Aunty Hattie’s hālau.”
 
“Yeah, but they neva win,” Puna retorted.
 
“That’s not the point Puna!” She hissed, her anger growing. “What about the protest marches?  The sovereignty rallies? The Kahoʻolawe trips? Where were YOU? Where were your ‘Hawaiian Blood’ friends? Ho, you know,” Mōhala paused, taking a deep breath, “Hawaiians like you make me shame.”
 
“What!” Puna yelled, jumping to his feet.
 
“Yeah, that’s right! You make me SHAME! Go, get all mad and start yelling! What you gonna do, bus’ me up like all your braddah–braddah friends down da road? That’s how you guys ‘handle,’ yeah? That, and drinking beer. Always drinking beer. You no care about where you came from, where you stay, or where you going. It’s Hawaiians like you––”  Mōhala paused, “that wen kill my brother.”
 
“Eh!” Puna yelled, “I neva kill nobody! I wen’ love your braddah too, you know; we ʻohana.”
 
“No,” Mōhala replied, “you nevah kill him. It’s your attitude, and all the braddahs like you. ‘No worries, no worries,’ you always told him; ‘here, have a beer.’ Well that’s just what someone else’s cousins and so-called friends did to him. ‘Here, brah, have another beer.’ I can just see it now. ‘Have another beer and no worries. Gotta drive home? Nah, cuz, chance ʻum. Ne’mind dat get adda braddahs on da road stay drinkin’ too. Ne’mind get cops. No worries; have another one; yeah, one fo’ da road.’ So what you thought, Puna, when the phone rang at one ʻo clock in the morning, and da Hilo police told my Daddy that Lehia was dead? Hit by one drunk drivah on his way home from one party. What you thought about that? Did you tell my Daddy ‘no worries’? Or Tūtū? Lehia was sitting in da back of the truck an he nevah do no’ting wrong. You hear me? He nevah do no’ting wrong! And you say you nevah kill him? You might as well have!” Mōhala yelled, tears of anger, hurt and pain streaming down her cheeks.
 
“What’s going on out here?” Aunty Aulani called, as she and Tūtū made their way onto the back porch. Mōhala and Puna were silent, glaring at each other, each with hot tears staining their flushed faces. “Well?” She demanded, looking from Mōhala, to Puna, then back to Mōhala.
 
“No’ting!” Puna finally said, and stalked off into the darkness. “Shit!” They could hear him say, as he made his way down to the beach, melting into the darkness.
 
“You okay, kama?” Tūtū asked, as she reached out for Mōhala.  
 
“ʻAe, Tūtū,” Mōhala replied, sniffing back more tears. “I gotta go.”   
 
“You want company?” Aunty Aulani asked, and put her hand on Mōhala’s back.
 
“ʻAʻole, Aunty, mahalo,” Mōhala replied. “I like be alone for a while.”  
 
“Okay Tita girl, hiki nō. Bumbye.” Aunty Aulani said, as Mōhala picked up her packages and headed across the yard toward the koʻa.
 
Aunty Aulani turned to Tūtū and sighed. “Hū, I’m glad she nevah like me go. That place give me da creeps. I nevah go back since we wen scatter Lehia’s ashes aftah the funeral. Not like I went there much before, either. Puna says since then there’s a big black shark hanging out around there. Keeps saying he goin’ kill ‘um one of these days.”  
 
“Puna has a lot to learn,” Tūtū replied with a grim look, as she turned and went back into the house.
 
The moon was a pale sliver in the sky, rising quickly into the starry night. “Hilo,” Lehia would have told her. “The new moon is the night of Hilo.” Mōhala made her way back to the koʻa, the cool sand crunching underfoot, the gentle ripples of the kai lapping at her feet. As she crossed the muliwai, she saw a glowing speck in the distance. “Damn,” she thought. “I no like anybody else be here.” As she approached the koʻa, Mōhala recognized the hulking shape of her father sitting on the rock. He was slouched over, his gaze fixed on the dancing water. Mōhala noticed for the first time how old he really was. “Eh Mōhala, I was wondering when you was coming,” her father said warmly, crushing out his cigarette in the sand.  
 
Mōhala said nothing as she joined her father on the rock. They sat in silence for a long time, looking at the moonlight sparkling on the ocean surface. “I didn’t know you was coming,” Mōhala said, more to herself than to her father. 
 
“I couldn’t come for a long time, you know,” her father replied slowly.  
 
“Yeah, I know.” Mōhala replied. They relapsed into silence. A soft breeze carried the scent of līpoa to the shore, as the waves broke on the distant reef with a rumble. 
 
“Whenevah you ready,” He finally said. “It’s your call. I–––I don’t know what fo’ do,” he finished, almost in a whisper.  
 
“Don’t worry Daddy,” Mōhala replied, as she stood and unwrapped the pūʻolo. They stood in silence as Mōhala placed the red fish and the strands of red hala and lauaʻe lei on the smooth rock. Soon the rising tide slowly engulfed the lei, swishing it gently in the dark water. The sweet fragrance wafted up and floated into the cool night air, mixing in with the scent of salt and līpoa.  
 
As the moon slowly rose above the clouds, Mōhala was reminded of the kupua Māui, child of the moon goddess Hina; moonchild Maui, born here on earth. Māui who tried to help his people by snaring the sun, slowing it down and increasing the daylight; by stealing the secret of fire from the ʻalae bird. Māui who fished up islands for our people to live on; Māui who died too young, trying to find the secret of immortality. “He died here in Hakipuʻu, you know” Lehia had once told her.
 
After a few moments Mōhala began to chant; soft and tentative. But then her voice rose like the tide itself, slowly, gently, but sure and confident, calling to the ocean, to their manō ʻaumakua, calling to the ancestors to hear their plea, to cleanse their pain, calling–––
 
            Ua hala ē, ua lele wale ē                                          Eia ka iʻa ʻula e Kamohoaliʻi             
            Ua hala ē, ua lele nō                                                 Eia ka ʻawa no ʻoe ē   
            Lele i uka, lele i kai                                                     Kiaʻi kuʻu kaikunāne 
            Ua lele wale nō                                                          E hoʻomaluhia i ke kai            
            Piʻi ke kai koʻo o Puna                                                Ua hala ʻia o Māui i Hakipuʻu           
            Piʻi ka ʻehu o ke kai                                                    Ua hala ʻia o Lehianoʻeau i Hilo       
            E Kaʻahupahau mai kuʻu iaʻu                                   Kiʻai iā ia e Kamohoaliʻi                    
            Nānā i Lehianoʻeau kau keiki                                   Kaikunāne o Pele, kuʻu ʻohana ē       
            Haʻalele i ka lani                                                        Lawe mai ia i kona wahi kau pono     
            Haʻalele i ke kai                                                         I kahi pono o nā kūpuna ē.     
                                    
The stillness of the air was broken only by the soft lapping of the water, and the light chatter chatter of the rustling palm leaves, whispering delicious secrets to each other. Mōhala stood in silence at the water’s edge, as the cool liquid licked at her toes. Her father sat motionless in the dark, hesitant, not knowing what to do next. He cleared his throat, before speaking, the words coming slowly, “That was beautiful, Tita girl. Too bad I no can unnastan’ wat you was chanting.”
 
Without turning around, Mōhala began to recite the kanikau she had composed for her brother:
 
            It has past, it is gone                                            Red fish for you Kamohoaliʻi
            It has passed, gone forever                               ʻAwa for you alone
            Gone to the uplands, gone to the sea              Guardian of my beloved brother
            It has flown...                                                       Protector in the sea
            The rough seas of Puna surge forth                 Māui died at Hakipuʻu
            The sea spray of the ocean rises                      Lehianoʻeau died in Hilo
            Kaʻahupahau don’t forsake me                         Guide him, protect him o Kamohoaliʻi
            Search for you child, Lehianoʻeau                    Brother of Pele, my family
            Departed to the heavens                                   Bring him here to his rightful place
            Departed to the sea                                           The home of the ancestors.
            
Her father let out a heavy sigh. “Your bruddah would be proud of you, Tita,” he finally managed to say.  
 
“I had a lot of help,” Mōhala replied as she turned and went to sit with her father on the pōhaku. “I went to Lehia’s Hawaiian language kumu at WCC,” she said, “and he wen help me compose da chant. Did you know Hawaiians used to write chants to honor their loved ones who wen’ make? They call ‘um kanikau.”  
 
Her father turned to look at her, and put his arm gently around her shoulders. “No, Tita, I nevah know dat. Get plenny kine tings I nevah know dat yo’ bruddah was teaching me.” He sighed a heavy sigh again. 
 
“Daddy,” Mōhala asked, leaning into her father’s large, warm body, “why is Puna so mad allatime? Why he like kill da shark?”
 
“I dunno, Tita,” her father replied. “I tink Puna feels bad what happened to yo’ bruddah, an’ he don’ know how else fo’ ack. Some people get lost in their sadness; sometimes dat turn into rage. I tink your cousin li’dat.”
 
Before Mōhala could reply, a large dark mass moved swiftly through the water, causing the black water to undulate in hurried little ripples. Mōhala and her father both sat up. The large shape swam past the koʻa a ways before turning sharply and swimming back. “What––” Mōhala’s father started to ask.  
 
“The manō,” Mōhala replied, in a reverent whisper.
 
They watched in awe as the huge dark creature rose slowly to the surface of the water, exposing its perfectly triangular fin and broad, shiny back. In one swift motion as graceful as a hula dancer, the manō grabbed the fish offering in its powerful jaws. It clutched the offering gingerly for a moment in its mouth as it swam by, like a dog with a prized toy. Mōhala and her father watched, mesmerized, as the manō slowly closed its powerful jaws around the fish, gently shaking its head from side to side. They heard a faint cracking and gurgling sound as the manō snapped its jaws closed one last time as it glided silently through the water. Mōhala couldn’t be sure, but the manō seemed to be looking directly at them as it swam by, regarding them with its cool, shark gaze before turning to navigate the intricate reef passages, swimming back out to sea.     
 
Mōhala and her father sat motionless and watch the manō swim away, too stunned to speak.  Without warning, three sharp sounds pierced the air, “BANG! BANG! BANG!” The report of the rifle shots reverberated through the little valley, and echoed through the silence like thunder. It set off a round of barks and howls from the neighborhood dogs up and down the valley, and crows of alarm from the resident roosters. Mōhala and her father jumped to their feet. “What the––” her father started to say, as they heard drunken laughter coming from down the beach.  
 
“Puna! Puna, is that you guys?” Mōhala screamed in anger, as the laughter died down to giggles. There was no reply.
 
“Puna!” Mōhala’s father commanded, “Get ova hea!”
 
“‘Kay Uncle,” came a feeble reply. Soon a large shapeless silhouette appeared from down the beach. As it approached, it divided itself into three lanky forms, one of which held a rifle. It was Puna and his friends Russell and Wayne. In the distance, Mōhala saw the porch light come on, and Tūtū and Aunty Aulani peering into the darkness of the yard, trying to see beyond the blackness to where they stood on the beach near the koʻa.
 
“What da hell you guys tink you doin’?” Mōhala’s father said to Puna and his friends. By the sound of his voice, Mōhala knew he was angry. 
 
“Uh, sorry eh, Uncle,” Russell responded. “We neva mean fo’ make trouble. We was jus’ tryin fo’ nail da shahk. E’ry time we go dive, he always come boddah us.” Russell hung his head a bit, waiting for Mōhala’s dad’s response. 
 
“Why you guys make li’dat?” Mōhala screamed. “You don’t even know what you doing!”
 
“You da one who do’know wat you doin!” Puna responded, yelling back at her. 
 
“Eh!” Mōhala’s dad interrupted, “Enough. Puna, I know you guys no like da shark boddah you in da wattah, but no shoot ‘um. Tūtū tol’ you––das kapu. No touch. You gotta show respec.  Mālama da ʻāina an da ʻāina goin’ mālama you.”
 
“Ho Uncle,” Puna said with disgust, “No tell me you believe that bull too.”
 
“Puna,” his uncle replied,” I dunno why you so hahd head. I been live a long time on dis ert, an I see planny tings. I dunno who right; the Christians say dis, the Buddhists say dat. An da Hawaiians say someting else. But I know dat if you stay angry, and you take’um out on innocent creatures––even shahks, li’dat––dat no good. It goin’ come back on you one way o’ da oddah way. Which way you like um come back on you?”  
 
Everyone was silent. Wayne and Russell shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, the coarse sand crunching beneath their feet. Puna stared defiantly at his uncle before he spoke.  “You not my faddah,” Puna hissed, “An you no can tell me wat fo’ do. Dat fricken shahk no belong hea. I goin’ do someting about it, an you no can stop me!”
 
“Puna––” uncle started to say, but Puna stopped him. 
 
“No tell me wat fo do!” Puna whined. “Come on boyz, we go.” Russell and Wayne stood there uncomfortably, looking first at uncle, then at Puna, then back to uncle. “Come on!” Puna commanded. They glanced at uncle with a pleading look in their eyes, and jogged away after Puna.
 
Mōhala turned to her father, “Why you let him talk to you like that?” She said, tears in her voice. “He has no respect for anything!  Not sharks, not you––”
 
“Not himself,” her father whispered, as he watched them disappear down the beach. “Let’s go back to the house so Tūtū folks no worry.” With that he turn and trudged up the beach towards the house, his footsteps heavy in the sand. Mōhala watched him for a moment and then looked back at the still water. She couldn’t see anything move. Did they hit the shark?  Was it injured, or worse yet––dead? She turned back and ran after her father, the sound of her feet pounding the sand like a drum, pounding in time to the beat of her heart.
 
 
Mōhala walked down the long cool corridor, the sound of her sandals echoing through the building. It was a cool and cloudy noontime, a typical day in the usually rainy Kāneʻohe. Outside the steep green cliffs of the Koʻolau mountains stood cloaked in clouds of gray and white. Majestic and imposing, it was a regal backdrop for the Windward Community College campus. She was looking for Kumu Keawe, Lehia’s Hawaiian language teacher. Since Lehia had passed on, Mōhala had become a regular visitor to Kumu Keawe’s class, and Kumu Keawe had even invited her to sit in. Mōhala was shy at first––what did she know? But with Kumu’s urging, and Tūtū’s encouragement, she finally decided to go.  
 
The first few weeks she sat in the back of the class, not saying a word. Everyday Kumu had them sing Hawaiian songs, songs she recognized from family parties, songs her Tūtū occasionally got up and danced to, songs which made the other kūpuna giggle in delight, some of them even blushing. Mōhala would go home and share what she had learned with Tūtū, Aunty Aulani, and even Daddy when he wasn’t too tired from work. As usual, Puna just glared at her and said nothing.  But still, she persisted.  
 
Soon she moved closer to the front of the class, so she could see the board better. Kumu Keawe never pushed her, or made her feel shame. After a semester, Kumu asked her if she wanted to enroll at the college and take more Hawaiian language and other classes, and to her surprise, Mōhala said yes. She became busy with her classes, and didn’t have time to visit the koʻa as often, but it didn’t really matter––they didn’t see the manō again after that night. It had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She worried at first that Puna guys had shot the manō and killed it, but Daddy said they would have found the carcass. No, he said, it just left. It knew it wasn’t wanted. Mōhala wasn’t sure if she believed him, but she hoped he was right. If it wasn’t dead, it might someday come back.   
 
Besides Hawaiian language, Kumu Keawe also taught Hawaiian Studies courses. Mōhala began to sit in on those courses, too. One day, Kumu was lecturing about ʻaumakua. Mōhala held her breath when she heard him say, “Sometimes the ʻaumakua was a deified ancestor, one who was especially skilled at something. When that person passed away, their human body was gone, but their spirit was still living. Sometimes it entered another kinolau or body form like a shark, a turtle, or an owl. That’s a simplified explanation, but it’s the root of the ʻaumakua concept.” Mōhala couldn’t get that idea out of her mind. She thought about it night and day; she thought about it at home and at school; she thought about it in the house and at the koʻa.  
 
So here she was, walking down the corridor at WCC, looking for Kumu Keawe. The sound of an ʻukulele strumming, and a chorus of voices singing gaily,“Henehene kou ʻaka, kou leʻaleʻa paha...” drifted towards her from one of the classrooms on the makai side of the building.  Who else could it be but Kumu’s class? She stood outside the doorway waiting until his class was pau. As he collected the song sheets scattered on his desk, Kumu Keawe glanced up and saw her standing quietly in the doorway. “E Mōhala, pehea ʻoe?” Kumu asked, a bright smile spreading across his face. “Mai, mai, come,” he said, and gestured for her to enter the classroom.  
 
Mōhala entered slowly, a bit shy. She wanted to ask her kumu a question, but didn’t know where to begin. “He aha kau hana kēia lā?” He questioned, seeing the mix of shyness and apprehension on her face. She didn’t answer for a moment, but smiled back awkwardly. “He nīnau kaʻu” she whispered, and waited for her kumu’s response. “ʻAe, hiki nō,” he responded, “What’s your question?”
 
“Um, remember when you was talking to the class about ʻaumakua?” she asked looking down, her gaze intensely focused on her toes. 
 
“ʻAe,” he said kindly, encouraging her to continue.
 
“Well, I was wondering...” her voice trailed off for a moment, as she looked up at her kumu. “There was one big manō that showed up in front of our hale after Lehia wen’ hala. I nevah see ‘um for awhile now cuz my cousin Puna dem wen shoot ‘um wit’ one rifle, and it hasn’t come back. But I left a hoʻokupu and it came and took it and I was wondering...”
 
Kumu Keawe waited, nodding his head for Mōhala to continue.
 
“I was wondering,” she said, “Do you think that manō is my brother?”       
 
The room fell so silent, only the hum of the electric clock on the wall could be heard.  
 
Kumu Keawe looked at Mōhala for a moment before replying. “Well,” he started, “It’s not important what I think. What do you think?”          
 
Mōhala thought. “I not sure,” she said. “I mean, seems like it could be true, ‘cause of what you said in class, and ‘cause of some of the things Lehia wen tell me, like the manō being our family ʻaumakua. But it’s hard to talk about that stuff, because nobody believes in it anymore.”
 
“Oh, some people still do,” Kumu Keawe replied, “but you right, not many. But just because people don’t believe, does that mean it isn’t true? It isn’t a popularity contest; what we feel inside in our naʻau can’t always be explained by western science and logic. You have to look deeper than that.”
 
“I don’t know,” Mōhala responded, “I guess I have to think about that more. Mahalo Kumu.”  Mōhala kissed him on the cheek before walking out the door. She had more questions now than ever.
 
 ֍

The sun shone brightly in the cloudless blue sky, illuminating the brilliant blues and greens of the Ka­­ʻa­­ʻawa waters. Puna, Wayne and Russell stood on the beach at their favorite dive spot gear in hand, having one last smoke before entering the glimmering cool water. “You shooah you like go,” Wayne said lazily, his voice reflecting none of the apprehension he felt, “I no like go way out an da stawm ketch aws.”
 
“Nah, we go,” Puna replied, spitting smoke out as he spoke, “Dose haole fuckahs at da weda service, dey no know no’ting! No moa stawm. Look da sky. Dis da mos’ nicest day we seen all yeah. Wat you tink Russell?”
 
Russell slowly sat on his haunches in a chicken fighter squat, contemplating the ocean. His black Oakleys revealed nothing; only the slight twitch of his home–made “NA KOA––BROTHERS FOREVER” tattoo on his dark and lean right shoulder revealed any hint of tension. “I do’know, brah, it’s up to you guys,” he said, as he took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew it out in one gigantic puff. He flicked his cigarette, still burning, at a sand crab scuttling by before standing up. “We been diving hea since small keed time; even if get one stawm, we can handle um. We goin be in da waddah. So what if rain––we wet awready. If get waves, we go body surf ‘um in.”  He grinned widely, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth which seemed to glow again his dark Polynesian skin.  
 
“Shoots den, we go,” Puna replied, with an equally dazzling smile. Puna and Russell ignored Wayne’s deep scowl as they dragged their gear––fins, snorkels, masks, bags, knives, float, and spears––into the water with them. The trio made their way into waist deep water, and assembled their gear, testing it out in the warm shallow water. When they were set, they slowly made their way out along the reef into deeper waters, all the while on the lookout for interesting prey. Wayne tried to stay closer to shore, but Puna and Russell swam out to the edge of the reef where it joined the deep and unprotected waters. He thought they were crazy, and he didn’t want them out there alone.  
 
The outer edge of the reef was more dangerous, but it was also more productive; not only were there usually more fish, there were also more varieties. They had swum, dived, fished, and surfed these waters their entire lives and they weren’t afraid; the depths of this part of the ocean was as familiar to them as their own back yards.   
 
As they concentrated on their fishing expedition, they lost track of time and didn’t pay much attention to the rapidly changing weather conditions above the water. Thick, heavy storm clouds rolled in quickly, stacking up against the tall Koʻolau mountains like traffic on the H–1 freeway at rush hour. And while the rising wind buffeted the surface of the water, down below they barely felt any change at all. Their diving expedition was quite successful, as each of them filled their bags with choice, succulent fish. By the time they noticed the change in weather conditions, they were cold, tired, and far out to sea. They were also several hundred yards south of their original dive location, and were now much nearer to Kualoa than Ka­­ʻa­­ʻawa. As Russell and Wayne surfaced, Puna waved them over to him with his hand. The choppy ocean and whipping wind, as well as the heavy bags of fish they had tied to their makeshift rubber inner tube float, made it difficult to stay afloat and hold a conversation at the same time.  
 
“So what, brah,” Wayne shouted, struggling to be heard against the roaring surf and piercing wind, “You like try swim to da beach, or you like try swim to da island?” Wayne was referring to Mokoliʻi, a small island off Kualoa beach park, which was just offshore from their home. “We can tell my faddah guys to drive us back latahs to get da kah.”  
 
“We go try fo da beach” Puna yelled, “Mo close to home.”
 
“Shoots den,” Wayne answered before submerging himself back in the choppy seas. Puna and Russell followed.
 
On a calm day, the swim from Kualoa to Mokoliʻi was fairly easy; at low tide, it was even possible to wade out to the island, no swimming required. But when the weather was bad, conditions could be treacherous; not too long ago two kayakers making the short trip out to Mokoli­­ʻi from Kualoa Beach Park were caught by a sudden squall; they were lost at sea, never to be seen again. It was the power of nature that Puna guys had grown up to respect, and it was the reason that Wayne was so apprehensive to go out fishing that day in the first place.  
 
The conditions were so bad that as they began the hazardous swim towards shore, they couldn’t make any progress; it seemed that the harder they swam, the farther away the shoreline appeared, as the strong current pulled them closer and closer to Mokoliʻi islet. Puna could sense the panic rising in his belly, and he struggled to stay calm. He was a strong swimmer, but being in the cold open ocean for so many hours without food, rest, or warmth was beginning to take its toll. The icy water began to anesthetize him, and he could feel his limbs going numb from overwork, and from the relentless cold. He had loosely tied the rope attached to the float around his waist, freeing his both arms so he could swim better, but the drag it created seemed to pull him back further into the foamy sea. He fumbled for his knife, and clumsily cut the rope, freeing his weakening body from the weight of his full fishing bag, where it was immediately sucked away from him in the increasingly powerful surf. Tūtū would be disappointed that he wasted it, but right now he was struggling for his own survival. Freeing himself from the drag of the float helped, but he was no match for the powerful surf which whipped him back and forth in the water like a buoy. He could feel himself slipping away, headed towards a faraway place, but he was too tired to be afraid. As he faded out of consciousness, Puna thought he heard voices chanting on the howling wind, and as his head slipped beneath the surface of the pounding waves, he felt a large rippling presence in the black water beneath him.
 
 ֍

The steady drumming of rain falling on the tin roof was melodic, a lulling sound he had heard his entire life. As he concentrated on the soothing noise, he slowly began to make out other familiar sounds: the clinking of silverware, the soft murmur of voices––Tūtū guys talking story in the kitchen while washing dishes. Soft, easy laughter, the chirp chirp of a gecko on the window screen. He smelled ʻono smells, too, wafting into his dark bedroom: fried fish––no; was that bacon? Mmmm. He realized he was hungry. No, ravenous. He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of freshly Cloroxed sheets that were old and smooth and soft to the touch. Warm. He never wanted to wake up from this dream. But it was too late. His foot stirred, and he heard an urgent whisper. “Puna?” It was Russell’s voice. It was coming from a dark corner at the foot of Puna’s bed. “Brah, you up?” Puna tried to open his eyes, but they were heavy with sleep. Why was he so sleepy? Why was Russell in his bedroom? He tried to sit up, but felt as heavy as a mountain.  
 
A shadow fell across the doorway; Puna felt it more than saw it. “Wayne!” It was Russell’s voice again. “Go tell Aunty guys Puna stay up.” The shadow retreated. Puna felt the slight reverberation of the old wooden floors as his mother, Tūtū, and Mōhala came into his room. The floor trembled to the rhythm of their footsteps.  
 
“Puna?” It was his mom. He felt the warmth of her hand caressing his forehead. “Puna, baby, are you awake?” Her voice was smooth and sure, although he heard the tinge of worry. He tried harder to open his eyes. They adjusted quickly in the dim room, and he focused first on his mother’s worried face, then on Tūtū’s then on Mōhala, Russell, and Wayne. “Ma,” he said, slightly confused, “Wat wen happen? How come all you guys stay hea?” He looked at Russell, then at Wayne. “Eh,” he said, more confused, “how come you two bozos stay wearin my clothes?” Everyone laughed. “What da hell happened?” Puna thought, a little alarmed.
 
“Maybe you better explain it,” Aulani said, turning to Wayne and Russell.
 
“Ho, brah, we wen diving Ka­­ʻa­­ʻawa an was out too long an da stawm wen ketch us,” Russell said.  
 
“Yeah brah,” Wayne continued, “It wen tek us da kine, almos halfway to Kailua!” He said with a smile on his face.
 
“Nah brah,” Russell went on, “Da current wen push us almos’ to Mokoliʻi, but you was tired already, and you almos wen drown.”
 
“What?” Puna replied, “An what da hell is ‘Mokoliʻi’?”
 
“Das da island, brah,” Russell said, “Da kine, ‘Chinaman’s Hat.’”   
 
“Why da hell you call ‘um ‘Moko–whatevahs’,” Puna replied, “Who wen tell you dat?”
 
“Your cousin, brah,” Russell replied, jerking his head towards Mōhala. “She smaht you know.”
 
“Yeah,” Wayne chimed in, “She know plenny kine stuffs––Hawaiian stuffs.”
 
“No ack you guys, she no know no’ting, an you know dat,” Puna retorted.
 
“Puna,” Tūtū said sternly, “You almost wen drown out deah, and only by the blessing of Akua you still stay wit us. How you tink you wen get back hea?” Tūtū inquired, looking intensely into Puna’s eyes.
 
“Yeah,” Mōhala said. She stood at the foot of his bed defiantly, arms crossed across her chest. “Why you no ask your frienz hea dat question,” jerking her head back towards Russell and Wayne. Puna looked at Russell and Wayne, who looked at each other.
 
“You tell ‘um,” Wayne whispered, but Russell’s face showed a look of alarm––or surprise, Puna couldn’t tell which.
 
“Nah brah, you tell ‘um,” Russell whispered back, as he slowly rubbed his left hand over his right shoulder where his “NA KOA––BROTHERS FOREVER” tattoo lay. Wayne just stared back at him at him. 
 
“Come on boys,” Tūtū said sweetly, “it’s okay. Mai hopohopo. ­­E ʻōlelo mai.”
 
“Dat means speak up,” Mōhala said, and smiled at them. They didn’t know what to say.
 
“Okay,” Russell finally said nervously. “I go tell ‘um. ‘Kay, Wayne was strokin’ pretty good, an was almos’ to da island, an I was kinda behind you when I see you go unda. I nevah tink notin’ at firs, but den I never see you come right back up. I wen staht fo panic, but den I seen you come up, and I tawt dat you was okay. But den you wasn’t swimming, it was like you was floating on sometin’. But you wasn’t floating, cause you was moving kinda fas’, an you look like you was sleeping. An den I was tryin’ fo look good, an...” Russell paused, taking a deep breath.
 
“Go on,” Tūtū whispered, “Mai hopohopo.”
 
Russell looked at Puna wide–eyed. “Brah, I no bulai you, was one shahk was carrying you to da island.”
 
Puna looked at everyone’s faces, waiting for them to break into laughter. No one moved.
 
“Hahahahaha,” Puna laughed. “You guys too funny. Eh, Russell, you one whatchucall, comedian, yeah? Ho, so funny.” No one else was laughing. The smile left Puna’s face.
 
“Dat’s not all,” Mōhala said, “dea’s moah.”
 
Russell looked at Wayne. Wayne said, “Yeah brah, I wen seen ‘um too. I wen get to da island, an wen I wen turn aroun, an deah you was, on da back of da shahk.  An brah––” Wayne paused, “Dat wasn’t just anykine shahk. Dat shahk had one puka in da top fin.”
 
“Yeah brah,” Russell continued, holding up his right hand, making a small circle with his thumb and his index finger, “Da puka was da size of one bullet hole.”
 
Puna stared at them, not knowing what to say. 
 
 ֍
​
Mōhala sat on the large black pōhaku in front of the koʻa, watching Puna as he stood at the edge of the water. They were waiting for the moon to rise, but the night sky was already illuminated from the city lights of Kāne­­ʻohe town across the bay, the lava–orange sodium lights reflecting sherbet colors off the swirling clouds which blanketed the tips of the Koʻolau peaks, hiding them from view. Mōhala watched as Puna bent down and picked up a few smooth coral pieces, and cast them into the sea. He whipped them out in one swift underhand motion, and the stones danced quickly a few times on the surface of the water before sinking into the shallow water.
 
“Akahele,” Mōhala teased, “that might be Makalei, fish attracting stones. A school just might be swimming by, and they’ll jump out of the ocean and into your lap.”
 
“At least den I no need go out an spear ‘um” Puna replied with a smile, and they both laughed.  
 
Puna walked back to the pōhaku and sat next to his cousin. “So wat,” he said, not unkindly, “You tink da manu––I mean, manō, goin’ come?”
 
“I dunno,” Mōhala replied, “You guys did one good job scaring ‘um away.”
 
“I––” Puna paused, hesitant to what he should say. “I sorry, cuz. I nevah mean fo’ hurt ‘um. I nevah know.”
 
“I know,” Mōhala replied. “But at least now you do. So what you gonna do?”
 
“I dunno,” her cousin replied, “I still no like taro. And I no tink I can talk da kine Hawaiian. But I not goin tease you as much anny moah.” Puna looked at his cousin intently, rolling a piece of coral back and forth between his fingers. “I dunno if I believe dis kine stuffs. Ho, kinda spooky foah me. But you goin do ‘um, ass awesome. Go for it.”
 
“I dunno what fo’ t’ink sometimes, too, Puna, but I not going be scade. I gotta keep going for da ­­ʻohana––for Lehia.” Mōhala pulled her legs up onto the rock, and rested her head on her knees.  “Jus’ holomua,” she whispered.
 
“Yeah,” Puna replied, stretching back on the rock as if it were a recliner, “jus’ holomua.”
 
In the east the moon rose full and slowly on the horizon, sending a deep golden sheen dancing across the surface of the black sea. The dark liquid undulated slowly, breathing and murmuring in conversation with the palm trees. In the distance a dog barked lazily, and the dull hum of a television set was drowned out by the chirping of a gecko. In the aubergine depths beyond the reef a large dark shadow moved lazily in the water. Little ripples danced away from its streamlinedmass as it slowly surfaced, the pale gold light from the rising moon reflected across its broad, shiny back. A perfectly–shaped triangle fin glided smoothly through the water, marred only by a small bullet–shaped puka, through which the moonlight refracted like the eye of God.