Maka Ala (Sharp Eye)

A Tale of Kalama Kealoha

Most commercial fishermen go after big fish out in the blues of the deep ocean: ‘ahi, aku, ono. Just one fish weighing over a hundred pounds is worth a whole night’s work. But my father, born and raised on the Kalapana coast, knew the secret places where the reef fish lived: u’u, moi, kawele’a. So when the moon was dim, he would creep near shore and drop his hand lines over the gunnel. Now reef fish are small, weighing just a few pounds and worth just a few dollars each. But my father, a very sensible man, put plenty hooks on one line and his huge rugged hands often pulled up several dozen fish at once.

Sometimes a couple kids would go with him, out on the ocean at night. It would have been easy to fall asleep with the boat rocking softly and the moon faintly peaking out from behind a passing cloud. But we dare not! One look from my father’s stern eyes could straighten your spine. One dark glance could scold without a word, So, we spent the time cutting bait, preparing hooks, and packing the catch on ice. In the morning market, fresh fish would fetch a good price.

From time to time, the kids were needed to help gather seafood. Parties were huge back then because we didn’t need a lot of money to spend at the stores.  Our aunties had gardens, Our uncles had cows. Everyone helped prepare for the lu’au and everyone was invited. For my brother’s wedding we expected over 3,000 people.

Five youngsters climbed into my father’s 18-foot boat and four piled into Uncle Ula’s 14-footer. Powered by a brand new 70 horsepower Mercury outboard, we headed to the life giving waters off the coast of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park.

Passing the rugged shoreline, all eyes were possessed by the volcano goddess, Pele. She had created a new cindercone and adorned it with smokey fire.  Her glowing fingers reached out, cutting across the forest, flowing into the ocean.  When she touched the water, she appeared in the form of might steam clouds and  spoke with an angry hiss.

As we skimmed over the ocean swells, we bragged about our most exciting sea hunts. Speaking with enthusiasm, we may have exaggerated the size and number of fish caught. We talked about where to fight big fish, but we chose our words carefully having learned from tradition that fish can hear the human voice.  We wrapped the handles of our ‘opihi knives with cloth and got our ‘opihi bags ready. Each boy tore a few strips from the open end of a rice bag, tied them into a belt, and hung the bag from the middle of the belt. Our fathers would hunt for fat fish our in the blues while the kids gathered seafood from the shoreline.

Within a few hours we reached Halape. The children jumped into the cool, clear water and waded to a little white sand beach which nature had landscaped with coconut and kiawe. Father gave instructions to my eldest brother, Junior, and returned to the open ocean.

We spent most of the day pounding ‘opihi. To get the most ‘opihi you had to be tough and you had to be fast. First, we’d count the waves and time the intervals between sets. Then, in bare feet, we would crawl down to the wet rocks where the limpets lived and scrape them off with a mighty stroke. Quickly, we’d rebound, scurrying like crabs to reach the safety of dry land before the next set of waves hit the shore.

Back then you could close your eyes, scrape the rock, and listen to the ‘opihi fall into the bag. No more. People have overpicked. After we gathered about ten gallons of ‘opihi, we bathed in the brackish ponds hidden in the cracks of the island’s igneous rocks. We splashed and played. We rested. We reflected on our island’s greatness: the sweet small of the forest, the abundance of the ocean, the legacy of our ancestors. As we talked of our futures, of marriage and independence we knew we would always be part of this land.


The sun glared at us as it began to drop. I noticed a flash of light – a reflection on the horizon. I’ve got sharp eyes. I jumped to my feet, grabbed mygear, and started wading across the shallow lagoon. I wanted to be the first to greet my father and get a good set near the bow.

All hands aboard, we cruised North by Northeast and anchored at Keahou where we set up camp and filled our bellies with rice, fried fish, and poke. At the lowest tide before twilight, I helped Junior spread a cross-net near shore. Then as darkness dawned, I joined the others rambling across the shallow reef in search of black ‘a’ama crab.

Picking ‘opihi - an afternoon of scrambling over reef rocks - may have seemed adventurous, but catching crab was a different story. We hunted for ‘a’ama on a dark night. If the moon was shining, they’d see you and run. You had to sneak up on them or blind them with a flashlight.

We didn’t have flashlights, so we made torches out of bamboo and potato sacks. We cut pieces of thick Chinese Bamboo. We chose the widest stalks with the greatest length between the nodes. We cut openings in the tops and poured kerosene in the hollows. In a pinch, we used coconut husks for the wicks, but we preferred the twisted strips of a potato sack. A good torch could burn over half the night.

The night was cold, so we built a bonfire with huge kiawe logs. Nobody had tents back then. The sky, full of stars, predicted clear weather so we didn’t even need tarps. The gentle tradewinds soothed our sunburned skins. Full of seafood and smiles, everybody slept around the fire. Everybody but me. I’m smart. I know centipedes like fire too, so I slept downwind of the fire and let the trades blow the
warmth to me.

At sunrise, an eerie red band hung on the horizon. The ocean had begun to pitch and churn. Quickly, we gathered nets that had become tangled in the rising surf. We caught many fish: enenue, aholehole, uouoa, but not the tasty moi. that my mother loved so well.

I watched my father crouch low, perched upon rocks jutting out from the reef. As the whitewater surged toward shore, he sprang forward with a sure step and cast his throw net over the moi house.

I learned from my dad by watching him. He showed me how to look for patterns: ripples within the currents or dark shadows darting across the face of a wave. It was not considered polite to ask questions. I would get a scolding if I spoke too much.

When we could not fit one more fish nor one more ‘opihi into the boat, we headed home. Burnt, salty, and tired, the children sat quietly. Low and heavy, our vessel chugged a steady path through the choppy waters.

I looked Northeast. Sleek wind birds warned of an approaching storm, but the air was clear except for the high wind-clouds on the horizon. I looked Southwest.  Amidst the volcanic haze, I saw lava ooze and stretch over the cliff in thick globular drops. The coastline disappeared as we slid into the belly of the wave, but Pele’s orange wall soon reappeared as we splashed through the crest. The sea spray, heated by the lava bubbling and bursting out on the ocean floor, felt treacherously warm.

We travelled that narrow highway between the open ocean and the waves crashing on the rocky shoals of windward Big Island. One dark swell pitched high and broke near the stern of the boat. Churning whitewater crashed upon us.

The engine stalled and the boar began to flounder. The children bailed furiously as my dad tried to restart the engine. All hands pulling together, we could not save her.  Soon everyone was in the water surrounded by the dead fish that we had caught for the feast.

One cousin panicked and started swimming to shore.

“Stop! Stop!” We tried to call him back, but the whipping wind and pounding surf drowned out our cries.

“Hey Stupid!” Junior’s voice booned out above all others. “There’s no place to go!”

A sense of doom descended upon us. There was no refuge in the heat of Pele’s blistering fortress.

Uncle Ula, who had been traveling a few fathoms ahead, saw the boat go down. He turned around and started dumping his catch to make room for my father and his crew. He unloaded everything: fish, seafood, coolers. All he kept was his tackle box and the gas to get back home.

As my cousins pulled each of us into the boat, it sank - inch by inch – until the gunnel rose only a foot above the water. When all nine of us had squeezed into uncle’s small boat, I remember thinking “There are too many sardines for this can.”

Whitecaps constantly splashed on deck. The bilge pump couldn’t handle the load so all the boys helped scoop water our of the boat. Slowly, precariously, we traveled up and down the rolling mountains of water that threatened to prevent us from returning home.

When we reached Ka’ena, we saw that our families had driven down to the coast to wave and shout at the returning fishermen. To unburden the ship, all young and able jumped overboard. We swam toward our mothers and aunties, hoping to cling to the boulders piled at the shore, but only Junior stuck to the pali and climbed to
the top. The younger kids could not catch the fickle swells or hold onto the slippery cliff. I swam back to the boat with the rest of the boys feeling bruised and weary but relieved that help was on the way.

My dad doesn’t fish anymore. He watches me throw net or cast a line and gives me pointers. On calm nights, my brother or I will take him out on the boat. We’ll creep near shore, and he smiles knowing we are carrying on a family legacy.

Pictures by Shane Turpin of Lava Ocean Adventures.