He Mau Hali'a Aloha

He Mau Hali'a Aloha

na beatrice mahi ravenscraft

When I considered Pu'uhonua 'O Honaunau, I thought of nā wa kahiko, the times of old. The word “refuge” conjured up images of people desperately seeking preservation of their life; this one safety valve to counter the unfortunate circumstances of their existence. Faced with the threat of eminent death, could I have survived? I appreciate and respect the strict regiment of the society of ancient times, then suddenly, I fast forward...

...My head swirled with cherished memories of happy times at Honaunau. I remembered scampering across the ripples of black pahoehoe, strong, nimble, sure footed, and eager to soar as the iwa bird. I remembered wading, splashing, laughing in the cool fresh waters of the baby pool; fingers of the warm sunlight caressing my shoulders. I remembered sheer delight as we peeked into crab holes, water gushing through revealing the mottled blue, green, pink, and gray of the living coral beneath. I remembered, suddenly a tiny face appeared, with poppin eyes patiently waiting for the sea to return. Could it have been a stout moray, pūhi, dark brown with numerous small light yellow spots? Or was it a snowflake moray, pūhi-kāpā, covered in black blotches containing tiny yellow dots? They looked so similar. I remembered the perfect ledge dad found for Ka'io and me to dive off of into the azure sandy depths below, then we waited for the perfect swell to lift us gently back on to the ledge. If the tide was low, there was another platform submerged about a foot below the water's surface. I remembered the times dad caught a banded shrimp, hermit crabs and other little critters right there in the deep crevice to add to our salt-water tank.

Then when Ka'io got to seventh grade, he earned his junior scuba diver's license. We began swimming in the little Honaunau bay with the boat ramp; the waters there were well protected for the beginner scuba diver. Aue no ho'i! It was crowded, and the sea life was not so abundant. So when Ka'io was strong enough to manage the apparatus and gear, we moved back out to the open depths of the rough sea. That truly was the best hangout; many happy hours at one with the waters of Honaunau.

Majestic kiawe trees lined the sandy beach spreading a lacy canopy of shade over the picnic tables. Dad lit the charcoal on the firepit. With Tutu, only seasoned kiawe wood completed the job to perfection; she threw sugarcane on the wood to give it a sweet smoky flavor. When the grill was primed, hotdogs and peppery seasoned hamburgers, or Portuguese sausage and teriyaki meat, or oysters on the half shell and teriyaki chicken were charbroiled to a delicate crisp. No picnic was complete without a variety of chips, finger veggies and ranch dip, potato/mac salad, musubi with ume, daikon and kim chee. Oh! Marshmellows on a guava stick, those were indispensable treats.

When dinner was pau, everything cleaned up, the truck packed, and the coals snuffed out with sand, we watched the sun dip behind the horizon. The sky turned shades of orange-red, pale blue to purple then black as sparkling diamonds filled the darkness one by one. Finally, dad turned the engine over, and we putt-putted our way along the gravel road.

To our son Conall Kahaka'ioikamālie Ravenscraft, may you find your way back to your island home, kou one hānau.