Looking to the Kanaloa Cloud
A young Hawaiian woman finds meaning for her life on “the Barren Isle.”
Camille K. Kanoa
For ten years, the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana had looked forward to this date, November 11th, 2003, when control of the sacred island of Kaho‘olawe would be transferred from the control of the United States Navy to the State of Hawai‘i, to be held in trust until such time as a Native Hawaiian sovereign entity is established.
Now, finally, the date was approaching. But so was a storm.
It was three days before the ceremony, and I was one of eight members of the ‘Ohana on a boat approaching the island. We had the honor of making preparations for the 30 dignitaries from the Hawaiian community, the state and the Navy who would participate.
But the darkening skies and rising winds threw everything into doubt. There are only two ways to land on Kaho‘olawe: by small boat or by helicopter. The storm heading our way could prevent either from being safe.
The windswept island is normally very dry. In recent history—between 1941 and 1990—as a military practice range, it had been visited more often by the thunder of naval guns and rains of exploding steel from shells, bombs, rockets and machineguns.
No wonder it came to be known with grim humor as “The Target Isle.”
Growing up with Kaho‘olawe
As the sea began to churn, we, the “lucky eight,” as we began to call ourselves, jumped off the boat at Hakioawa, and swam in. This is the only way to get into this area where the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana (PKO) has its camp.
We were five men and three women. The three older men—Uncle Lopaka, Uncle Maka and Uncle Tom—had told us stories of their early visits to the island and how different it was back in the day. The two younger men, Derek and Andre, were the musclemen. The other two women, Momi and Namaka, both botanists and only slightly older than I, helped me become more confident.
I was the youngest at 21, and fell into the role of ‘opio (youth). But I also knew that I was only here because I was a kua in training. Literally, in the Hawaiian language, “kua” can mean “backbone,” or someone who bears a burden. PKO kua lead all public accesses to the island, organizing the food, cooking and environmental restoration work.
To me, being a kua is a sacred relationship I share with the island. While there, I plant, clean and weed, helping nurture the island’s spirit. I also get to teach about and share with visitors and friends this special place, and about what we in the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana do in our small way to perpetuate Hawaiian culture.
But what the island gives me back is so much more; it is a place to no‘o no‘o pono—to reflect upon what it means to be Hawaiian.
I first swam ashore at Hakioawa in 1993 when I was 11, brought by my mother, an ‘Ohana member for several years.
To me then, Kaho‘olawe was just another playground. My playmates on that first trip were four other girls. But it wasn’t all play. The kua showed us heiau (temples), petroglyphs and artifacts that gave us a glimpse of our ancestors’ daily lives. They explained that the ancient name for the island was Kanaloa because the island is a kino lau, or body form of Kanaloa, the god of the ocean.
Since then, I’ve been going to Kaho‘olawe a few times each year. During these visits, I’ve often been amazed at how a short, four-day trip can change one’s outlook on life. Visitors come not only from Hawai‘i Nei, but also the Mainland and other countries. Some are native peoples, and they share similar stories of the destruction of ancestral homelands. Gradually, I’ve realized that the island has changed my heart as well. The island has become one of my homes, a place to which I return to be Hawaiian.
And long before I was born, our family knew this island. At the turn of the 20th century, my great-great-great-grandfather, his Hawaiian wife and four of their children lived on Kaho‘olawe. Originally from Denmark, Hans Christian Mortensen, married Annie Keahi Ka‘i from Kohala. As luna (headman), he managed a ranch that ran cattle, sheep and goats. Family stories come down to us of our ancestors and their life on the island. I have grown up always knowing that Kaho‘olawe was a part of me.
My pattern of life on Kaho‘olawe is nothing like my everyday world in Honolulu. In my crazy daily life between CNN, school and work, half the time I’m eating take-out and neglecting my household.
But on Kaho‘olawe, somehow my Gen-X friends and I survive without e-mail or MTV. With a background symphony of crashing waves and wind rustling through the trees, we create our own music. ‘Ukulele and guitars strum along with a harmonica and makeshift bass made from a plastic water drum and rope. We gather in the old way, some of us discovering our lost voices. We share companionship, music and aloha.
Unkindly nicknamed “The Barren Isle,” Kaho‘olawe is really a pu‘uhonua, a place of refuge, for many of us who return.
The Ceremony
As the storm approched, we received word that there would be only us “lucky eight” on island for the ceremony. No one else could land.
So it was up to us to carry out the ceremony. We began with a kapu kai, or cleansing of our bodies, wading into the ocean well after dark, to rid ourselves of troubles, or pilikia.
Later, wearing our kïhei (the traditional Hawaiian garment), we heard the pu (conch) blow, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. Soon I found myself standing on a wind-tossed bluff with my brothers and sisters of these past days.
I won’t divulge the exact ceremony, but this much I may tell you. As we chanted and shared ‘awa atop the windy bluff, I saw one cloud separate from the rest over Maui and chart its own path until it passed directly over us. I am not learnéd in which cloud shapes represent which gods, but my intuition tells me that Kanaloa came that night to give us his blessing.
Against this tempestuous backdrop, my spirit was full of wonder and joy in its oneness with the ‘aina. Our ancestors made it apparent that the land was welcoming this change. Together, we’re ready to holomua—to move forward. There is still struggle ahead for the land, for our people, but we are not alone.
We concluded the ceremony after midnight on November 11th, 2003, a day that brought Kaho‘olawe—and all of Hawai‘i—one step closer to her people.
How the eight of us were chosen, I do not know. But I do know that I was blessed to be among them.
Mahalo.
