Pule O’O
The Effective Prayer

Chapter~9 And Then There Was Fishing

Just as swimming against a strong current is pointless, I intuitively understood that competing with Mama would not be to my advantage, and realized soon into this marriage that competing with fishing was just as futile. During the early years of our marriage, aside from the children, everything revolved around fish, fishing, and if ‘da water stay good today.’
We could be driving and I would be chattering away, and then, I’d look at him and realize he had not heard a word. His eyes would be looking forward, assessing the ocean, still many miles away, to see if it was a good day. It always amazed me how he could tell whether the water was flat or choppy, even when we were a great distance from the sea.
Eventually he would turn to me, now back in the real world, and say, “What, Hon? Oh, that’s nice.” I had probably tried to trick him by saying, “So, what do you think?”
I would counter him by smiling and saying “Is the water good today?” My comment let him know that I was onto him, and aware of his preoccupation. He would smile then laugh, and say, “Naw, stay choppy today, no need go.”
In the early days, he would deposit the children and me on a hot beach, often with not a coconut tree in sight because it was a “good spot to fish.” He would then disappear for hours. This was not done in meanness; his priority was always finding the most fish.
When he finally emerged from the salty waters I was sunburned and tired! Protesting loudly, with my hands on my hips, I threatened I “insist” on a shady place or we were going home (the children rarely noticed they never got out of the water anyway.) In the end he relented and tried to accommodate our needs while still going fishing. For our family to function, this was the perfect balance.
The first lesson was always to love the sea. He took each of our new infants for his or her first swim within the first couple of months of birth. I watched as slowly he would step into the tide and carefully dip the newborn into the clear salty water. As the shiny baby emerged, with black hair matted down, I would hear a squeal of delight, and a chuckle that sounded more like a cackle that heralded a fresh burst of life.
All the babies would love the water; they gurgled and smiled as he approached the shores edge, I watched, as he would then step into the endless sheet of white bubbles. It was as if they were being returned to their mother, the sea. After all it was in water where they had found life for nine months before they could see the light of day. How more natural is the sea to renew life?
Dipping the new baby into the water again and again Philip whispered blessings. At first the baby would cling tightly and shiver from the coolness. Then he lifted the baby high to touch the sunlight. As trust was established, the little one would develop confidence and try to swim. An affinity with water was as natural as the sun shining overhead. It was not a baptism in the Christian sense. This was from the Hawaiian understanding of pono, (balance) and a great appreciation for life.
Many hours were spent splashing in the clear warm tide pools that abound in the black lava ledges along the shoreline. Small black crabs, locally known as “Hawaiian crabs,” would skitter away as the baby tried to catch the speedy creatures. These crabs were treasures and when caught, were best eaten raw.
Once on Maui, Philip had a full morning of fishing in the Kihei area. His face beamed as he came from the water fulfilled and satisfied. He’d dragged a white muslin bag bulging with fish, with some still moving. He’d caught just enough for the family and his ‘sister’s ohana’ as well. As he sat on the reef, many small tidal pools that sparkled like diamonds with a million blinding facets surrounded him.
Immediately he began cleaning his fish. To scrub the freshly caught fish, he used a spoon or fork, scraping the utensil against the scales, pulling away from the fish’s head in rapid motions. Depending on the fish, he could often use his hands to exfoliate the fish. All the while small translucent scales flew through the air. He then used a sharp knife to slit the belly and empty the guts into the clear water off the tidal pool, recycling them back to the sea. This was so the eels and other fish could benefit from them. Often the head of an eel was just bobbing in the reef, waiting for the treasure.
In Philips understanding, the fishermen who do not clean their fish as soon as they are caught are looked down upon. The fish could spoil if they were not cleaned as soon as the fisherman reached shore, and that would be “poho,” a waste.
On this Kihei morning after his bag was filled with the fresh fish he had caught, Philip slung the bag over his shoulder and began the walk across the hot sand to where he had placed his supplies. He heard voices calling to him from a grove of trees on the shoreline and looked behind to find some young local boys sitting under the shady “Ko”, algarroba, and trees in the park.
“Braddah, we buy your fish,” they shouted from a distance, they were loud and sounded high on drugs, or maybe they had been drinking heavily. Locals rarely shout unless they are intoxicated.
Philip turned towards the trees and smiled and answered in the local manner, “Sorry Braddah, I only get nuff for my ‘ohana.’ As he walked away, he wondered why they could not have caught their own fish; to offer to buy his fish was unusual. While his feet pounded the moist sand he pondered, perhaps, these days it was easier to sit on the beach and drink and wait for someone to come out of the water and offer to buy, rather than spend the time on fishing. For him it was a sad testament of our times. As he walked he shook his head and wondered why someone had not taught these boys how to fish. Perhaps they had not had the privilege of finding a Kahu, a teacher or mentor, who could teach them the right way to do these things. He wondered why their families had not taught them to fish and survive as their ancestors had.
In the Hawaiian language “Kahu” is a special word, ripe with meaning and importance. It means one who ‘takes care.’ In one context, the Kahu is the caretaker of some kind of specialized knowledge. The person could be a master fisherman or canoe-builder, one who was highly skilled in weaving baskets or lei, or one who understood the art of healing or had a special knack for understanding life. This master artisan, in order to be considered a Kahu, also had to be able to pass on his or her knowledge.
The decision to take on a student was never made lightly. Since the teaching was done by modeling and example, the student was literally a reflection of the teacher. Every flaw in a student’s work was the teacher’s responsibility. There is a saying: ‘I hemahema IA hauna, Ili kahewa I ke Kumu.’ (If the pupil is unskilled, the errors reflect on the teacher.)
It is a great fortune to have a Kahu in your life. The teacher opens the door for you into a higher understanding of a skill and of life. A Kahu is your puka, a door, into a higher connection with the world. Sometimes Hawaiians will ask one who shows a degree of skill at some craft, “Who is your puka?”
It is said that a Kahu will always know whom to teach by how the child responds. If one were going to weave a net and the child sat close to the weaver and followed the teacher’s every move, then that child would be the one to teach. The child who ran all about was not worth the time and would be passed over.
As a student of such a one, there is also a responsibility on your part to continue the tradition, and pass on the knowledge. To Hawaiians, the knowledge must be passed on down through the generations, or it will be lost. So the line from one generation to the next remains unbroken. The knowledge must be passed down accurately and intact; for this reason, students are chosen carefully.
Knowledge and skill are not things one person can ‘own.’ The body of knowledge, accumulated and evolved over time, belongs to the community and to succeeding generations.
When we lived on the mainland, Philip met other artists and he would often ask, “How did you create that technique or mix that color?” His intention was always to admire and compliment. Sometimes, however they answered arrogantly, “Oh that is my secret.” He was always taken aback by this attitude.
He told me later that clearly he respected their right to hold onto their knowledge for themselves. Afterwards he would shake his head and tell me, “Even if I wanted to, I could not do exactly as they do. I don’t understand your people sometimes, they are selfish and think they own the knowledge, and they never know how to share.”
From “small-kid time” on Molokai, Phillip’s ‘Kahu’ for fishing was his brother-in-law Rae, a master fisherman. The immensity of the oceans and their bounty were Philip’s, because he had his Kahu. Hours became days and days passed into years as the two fished the pristine waters that surrounded Molokai.
This Hawaiian respect and love for the ocean is not unique to Molokai, but for Philip, it brought a clear awareness that he will carry for life and give to his children. It is inherent in the life of a fisherman that his heart and body will always move in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the sea. The fisherman hears the voice of the ocean, in the pounding of the waves.
Philip would be nine when his uncle Ray came into his life as his older sister Eloghia’s husband. In the beginning, he was the designated ‘water boy’ and apprentice in this honored tradition of fishing for the family.
From “young-kid time” the young Philip was taught to follow his Kahu and not ask questions. If Reyhino stepped over a stone, so did the young boy. If he sat on the shore just watching the water, Phil did that as well. They were always silent, always aware of an inner peace that comes from being in the midst of such natural magic and beauty. From this time a deep and abiding respect and appreciation for the ocean and its many moods would stay with him all his days.
The night before fishing was a big event filled with excitement and anticipation. Silently the boy and his ‘uncle’ made everything ready. They packed fresh water and gathered the spears and goggles in readiness for the next day. My husband told me often how in the darkness of our room, how he would try to force the hours to pass because sleep was necessary. He would try to relax his mind so sleep would come. Many hours of walking on the sand lay ahead, but sleep was elusive. The thrill was palatable. There were only the visions of the blue sea and the lure of the treasured fish that awaited them.
While darkness still held the small village, the fishermen and the boy set out on foot in the early twilight. Somehow on Molokai, especially over Maunaloa, the night sky seems blacker and the stars were always more brilliant. The celestial bodies from this ancient village appeared as finely cut diamonds being magically turned, refracting every facet with flashes of light stirred by an ancient wind. In the darkness the boy followed every step, every move. It was only after years of watching and learning that the younger was allowed his own spear and goggles so he could follow and learn how to catch fish, ‘the Hawaiian way.’
Philip spent years diligently carrying the water, reels and small pack of supplies for his mentor. In exchange, a new world opened, and he received a special understanding and discipline as well as a deep and abiding love for the sea.
To reach their favorite fishing ground they would walk five miles on sugar fine sand in the early dawn. They hiked the many sand dunes in silence to avoid disturbing the delicate balance, known as “pono.” As the dark transformed to light they would reach their final destination just as the light broke the horizon, casting golden arrows of light beams in all directions.
Once at the chosen spot, they set down their gear and entered the water. Here, the fish did not fear the fisherman and swam right up to peer at them. The fishes would either be caught or just skitter away, making great sport. Even the puhi, “eels,” were not a threat. If the divers swam into a hole and saw a puhi, they backed off, respecting the eel’s home. The balance was critical, not the dominance. As Philip has told me many times, “If you ‘challenge’ nature you will eventually lose.”
One diver stayed near the hole and tried to coax the eel out. The other moved cautiously behind the eel hole and speared some fish. Back and forth, the divers went first one and then the other, taking turns watching the eel. The eel bit no one when they followed this strategy, and often they succeeded in its capture.
The white eels were a favorite of Mama’s; they were “ono,” delicious. If the divers discovered such an eel and bagged it, it was like finding a treasure.)
Some of the earliest fishing memories were centered around and evolved with Mama and Papa as the family enjoyed fishing in the freshwater streams on Kauai. Because Mama's people came from the mountain villages, these fresh-water fish were highly prized. Here in this fresh water stream of Kauai the rivers were teeming with shrimp and Tilapia.
The fresh river water flowing from the high mountains that filtered through volcanic rock was pure and colder and so different from the salty green water of the ocean. The banks of the river were muddy, and often slippery. The trees were fragrant. Days spent there were like being inside a magical forest where often the only sounds to be heard were the birds and the wind at the treetops.
Happy memories of that time were accented by the moist smell of the rivers and the surrounding forest. On these excursions Mama only brought rice, salt and water to the rivers edge. She knew the stream would provide lunch and dinner.
These were good times because memories of the old folk’s childhood in the Philippines were as fresh and alive as the fish they caught. Papa fashioned fishing gear from bamboo poles that he shaved and trimmed. He used the bamboo to catch ‘o’opu’, fresh water Gobi. All remembered Papa to be a good fisherman and he taught the young Philip well. Papa always had good luck.
Waialua was a thriving plantation village in the 1940s and the family lived there before they moved on to settle in Molokai. In truth they moved often settling on all the islands at some time. Most camps had been set up in the same fashion. As long as the family could find fellow “Cabalayan’s” town-mates this would be home.
In the first years of our marriage, his favorite fishing ground was the small village of Waialua. His fishing partner was a local born Japanese man, who hailed from that part of the island as well. As fate would have it they worked together in an advertising firm in downtown Honolulu. Every day the two men planned the next fishing outing during lunch hour and breaks.
These fishing expeditions meant that I was left with another couple of days at home, alone with the babies. I soon protested, as the excursion became a “regular ongoing activity.” All that meant was that the children and I became a part of the planning and added a little more effort to organize, but never mind, they still got to ‘go fish’ on that Saturday.
Saturday mornings once meant that I could finally sleep in. Once it was determined that we should all go fishing together, it became his mission and dream to devise a plan. He was awake at four a.m. to pack our small blue Volkswagen, very quietly with breakfast and lunch fixings. Blankets, sheets and a folded playpen were strapped to the top of the Beetle. The children were secured in their car seats and given teething cookies to chew during the forty-minute drive north.
Only then, did he come and nudge me out of our warm bed. He awoke by humming in my ear, a soft whisper. “All is ready, honey,” he would say, “All you have to do is put on your shorts and get in the car.” The lure was the aroma of the perking coffee. At first I thought I was still dreaming, but that irritating buzz would not leave my ears. “I am still asleep!” I snarled, turning my head away in the opposite direction pulling the pillow over my ears.
With a desperate whine coloring his voice, he said, “But, Hon, everything is ready! Look, the babies are in the car already, here is your coffee, all ready. All you have to do is walk to the car. “As I heaved myself up while exhaling a mournful moan I placed my two feet on the floor. Seeing that it was still dark, with not even a glimmer of light, I tried to roll back into bed, but he caught my arm so I had to stand up. Behind me, he pulled the bed together, tucking in the bedspread, just as I liked it. (He reasoned I could not return to bed once it had been fixed.)
Soon we were off to Waialua. I slumped in the front seat as he drove, my mind and body seeking sleep, still dreaming of my warm bed. I had to smile to myself, as I thought of all the bribes and pre-dawn work he did just so he could go fishing. All the while he was driving along and humming happily, having accomplished his feat. The beauty was to keep the wife happy and still get to go fishing all day, not a small goal.
Once we reached the fishing ground, he became like a man possessed. He spread out the blankets and set up the playpen; even the children’s favorite toys had been carefully remembered and packed.
The clock was ticking, and the sun had already begun to reveal the warm crimson tones that heralded a new day. Flecks of golden light seeped across the dark sea to spread upon the horizon. Soon the entire sky would accept the encroaching warmth and chase the night away.
I loved the ocean at this pre-dawn hour; the sea became liquid opals filled with light. Once we were all set on the sand with blankets spread out I would pour hot coffee from the thermos as he was slipping on his fins, I could sit sipping the steaming brew under the giant whispering ironwood trees of Waialua. I did enjoy those times, I just wasn’t an early riser, and in truth in time I no longer resisted and actually looked forward to the outings.
By the time I was all settled, Philip’s partner, Toki, and his wife joined us. The men went off to the great blue beyond, just like two boys ready to enter nature’s playground. Anything could happen out there, but treasures awaited the fisherman who possessed patience and desire to begin the game.
I admired Philip’s relationship with Toki, so few words passed between them. Where they swam and how long they remained at certain special fishing spots was all decided simply by exchanging looks. They visually checked each other and how far apart they were from each other in the water. When it was a complete day and time to go in, one would simply nod to the other and say, “get nuff already!” and the other would nod in agreement and they both would swim to shore. Silence was more the norm, as they swam no need to disturb this delicate balance.
Toki’s wife was a delicate beauty, a woman from Japan. He affectionately called her, in the Japanese way, “Shige-San.” She seemed incredibly organized and I figured she must have been up at dawn, rolling sushi in every variety. That day, Philip had prepared tuna sandwiches to share, but she politely declined my offer of a sandwich.
I really enjoyed Shige-San’s company in the early morning hours, but I always felt like a picture out of focus next to her, for me she was perfect, she always was so organized and seemed to have every thing ‘together.’ I was still with small babies, and tired, or just waking up. I learned that she was a Buddhist from the Nichirin Shoshu sect. Ironically, many years later, this would be my faith as well.
Our fishing Saturdays (and sometimes Sundays) together continued for many years. This became a ritual of sort as the children grew and learned to swim and play for endless hours in the sand under the ironwoods and Hawaiian sun. As the babies became toddlers and then small children, the land remained true and constant. I changed some as well, and began to get excited for our “fishing day” I was up and even helped prepare some of the equipment and food with Philip.
When Toki and Philip went spear fishing, a great effort was made the night before to prepare the equipment silently. The best fins and spear were not only important; they were an absolute necessity. It was understood that if fishing supplies were on sale, we would take out a loan if we had to.... maybe mortgage something.
Over time I learned the rules, superstitions and rituals that applied to fishing, one by one. Once, the night before a fishing day, I began to recite at dinner the fish I hoped Philip would catch the next day. He was scooping rice from the wooden serving bowl onto the children’s plates.
“Papio,” I mused, “and ‘opakapaka would be ono, delicious, for tomorrow nights dinner.” In my way I was simply making a ‘wish list’ and thinking out loud.
At that moment Philip’s eyes widened as he placed the bamboo rice paddle in the sink. “Well, that’s it, Hon” he said, “They will all run the other way now, when they see me swimming to them.”
The fish, I would learn could hear what we say. The fact that I had spoken their names had doomed the trip from the start. It was not correct to even mention the fact we were going fishing the next day. (That’s why he whispered to me as I woke.) We were not supposed to talk about the trip or even where we were going as we drove. If the fish knew we were coming they would all leave, head straight to the reef and hide out! He was so strict about this that he made me laugh. However, he was very serious about fishing, so I never teased him.
The day following my comment at dinner was ‘whitewash’ he caught no fish and none were seen, or they just escaped the spear. It was as if the fish would swim close only to tease him, ‘Ah-ha! We are on to you. We heard what that new Haole wife of yours said!’ I imagined them laughing as they skittered away, just escaping the spear that whooshed past their heads.
Philip then told me as he shook his head, “See, Hon they knew, they heard us talking, dat’s why!” I protested “You cannot be serious, besides we live miles from the beach. Furthermore, I saw on National Geographic that they have never been reputed to have ‘psychic ears.”
He was silent, realizing, there were no words to explain this fishing “logic” to me. However, I learned my lessons quickly, realizing that yet again, it was one of those Hawaiian things that kept happening. Again it was necessary for me to adapt to the situation. I never again thought out loud or discussed the fish that might be caught the next day.
Another major faux pas dealt with bananas. We were never allowed to bring bananas to the beach. Once as I walked out of the house, I grabbed a bunch and threw it in the back of the Volkswagen, under the buckets and toys. When Philip began to unpack and he saw the bananas, he gasped and slumped all in the same moment then he looked at his partner, together they both exhaled a long, painful sigh
“What? What now?” I said, exasperated. It really took such work to keep up with all this stuff sometimes. His partner pronounced the doom this time “No fish today, bad luck to bring bananas to the beach.”
His wife walked over at this moment and, as soon as she saw the long, yellow fruit, she said, in her broken English, “Honto, no good, no good, that is okay, we have fun, go swim today, we can pick limu, seaweed, instead” Shige-San was very good at making the best of an awkward situation. As they all filed passed me I tried to protest that I hadn’t known, but they had already turned away and started setting up camp. We all gathered seaweed on that day.
A part of me wanted to argue that they should try and see if they might catch something, but alas, it was futile. They all ‘knew’ it; I was the only one who did not understand this connection between the ocean, the fish and the fisherman.
However, I learned that if I played the game, we got to eat the freshest fish that night. So I blissfully went along, and in reflection the family time we spent with the children was irreplaceable.
In the early days, just after we were first married when Phil would go and fish on his own. I would wait on the beach and I kept an intent watch on him as he swam out. I kept a vigil until I could only see the empty, plastic bleach bottle bobbing in the surf that he used as a ‘floater’ or buoy. It was visible from a great distance, and I could always spot it from time to time. The reason for the floater was if a diver never came back up, the floater would mark the site where he’d dove. If he went out so far that I could no longer see the floater, I would worry myself into a frazzle.
Eventually I realized how ridiculous this was becoming, besides, whatever happened would happen whether I was watching or not. It wasn’t that I did not care; I just realized the futility in trying to change fate. After that epiphany, I rolled over, applied more suntan oil and played with the children and never worried again.
Sometimes we would go to the house of our Japanese friends after the fishing day was complete. The fresh fish were cooked less than an hour after being caught and Shige-San was a master with the fish, raw and cooked. I laughed when I realized that the kinds of fish the western world favored were considered ‘opala’, rubbish to these seasoned island people.
Philip and Toki would catch enough lobsters, including my favorite slipper lobster, to fill many twenty-five pound rice bags. (Slipper lobsters look like a rubber slipper and are smaller than regular lobsters with much sweeter meat.) Their favored fishing ground was abundant with both these varieties of lobster. The two-seasoned fisherman even took precautions to cover the bucket as they went to the car so that other fishermen, perhaps some who were so greedy. They did not think of leaving any behind, would not know of their bounty.
As they separated the catch they tossed the tails aside. The treasure they sought was the bright orange eggs that lay nestled in the underbelly and the head. This “caviar” of the North Shore was “da best,” they pronounced. I gorged myself on all the lobster tails they tossed aside until eventually I grew tired of eating the firm, white tail’s.
The rule was to catch only the amount of fish that you could carry, or what your family required no more, no less. If you had a good day, you shared. Philip would drag the old cotton burlap rice bag across the wet sand and let me peek into the top to show me it was full and time to head for shore. He’d caught enough fish for our family, for his parents, his sisters and brother and for whatever friend he could remember. Then, it was time to head home.
This was his version of fishing karma. “That way,” he said, he was assured there would always be enough fish, the more he gave, the more fish would be waiting for him when the next weekend came. He rarely froze any of his catch since it was best to give them all away, especially when you could always have them so fresh the fish were still flapping. This was Hawaiian-style, not Filipino-style.
Unfortunately, some of his relatives from the Philippines did not grasp this Hawaiian concept. They would act greedy and lay nets with small eyes, ‘openings.” Their objective was to catch everything, even the small fish. Those small fish would never grow to be caught and appreciated properly. Philip would shake his head from side to side and exclaim this was ‘poho’, wasteful and made him angry. It went against the principle of balance, pono that he’d learned on Molokai by following his brother-in-law’s example.
The number of fish in the pristine waters was staggering. The bounties of fishes of his youth were all friendly and would swim right up to you, just to see who you were. As he predicted, however, as the years passed, fewer and fewer fish were available. Sunday afternoons provided his favorite ‘local’ fishing program. The host was a fellow Molokaian and a classmate as well. Phil would comment that his friend on a TV show featured many island fishing ‘spots’ but rarely took the camera crew to Molokai, since most of these treasured spots were held in great secret.
Our son, Erin once, told his father about surfing and ‘challenging the ocean.’ With wide eyes brimming with anticipation, he spoke of finding ‘the most awesome surf’ and how he would ‘conquer’ it. As he spoke Philip’s face grew more and more concerned. Finally he interrupted Erin abruptly, “Son, you have lived in Honolulu too long, and have forgotten all I’ve tried to teach you.” At that moment he was a reflection of Mama. I smiled as the continuation of this family’s tradition found that root in our son. You see, this balance of nature and the sea was simply about aged wisdom and a ‘knowing.’ He cautioned Erin to never use the words, “challenge” or “conquer” when it comes to nature. “You will eventually lose.” He asked the boy to think carefully about surfing with his friend and whether it was worth the risk.
Erin smiled with understanding, and told his father not to worry and that he would be careful. Erin’s friend and surfing partner was also a Hawaiian and a daredevil. Philip commented that he had gone fishing with the boy’s father on occasion, and the father of this boy, who was from Honolulu, did not know the ocean either.
Philip knew our son well. Once, on Molokai, while Erin was still a high school student, father and son were diving off the east end of the island. From the corner of his eye Philip saw a shark approaching slowly in the clear turquoise waters beneath them. They were only about a hundred yards from the shore and the shark now swam to his side. From all his years in these Molokai waters he knew if they went slowly and showed no fear, there would be no problem or need to panic. All of Phillip’s training and inner knowledge told him to turn in, remain calm, and to swim into shore very slowly.
Erin was about ten feet away when Philip swam to the boy and spoke slowly in clear English, with great emphasis on being calm he said, “Boy, follow me back in, swim slowly, and be sure not to make any splashes as you follow me.” Erin was having a good day and spoke playfully, “No, that’s okay Dad, I want to stay out you can go back.”
Realizing this was not the time for a debate, Philip had to tell the immanent truth. Keeping his voice even, he began, “To our right is a shark....” He did not complete his explanation as Erin took off like a bullet from a well-primed rifle, making a huge splash with his departure with one of his fins.
The only word surfer’s fear is “shark.” Phil in one movement reached out and caught Erin’s leg and then his fin. With one hand he reeled the terrified Erin in close. Their eyes locked at that moment and all Phil could see were his son’s wide and wild and crazed eyes. The boy’s face was pale and already all the blood had drained from his normally tanned face; panic was already taking hold.
With all the conviction Phil could muster he commanded; “Now son, listen carefully. Swim very slowly and do not feel fear, or you may get us both killed, understand?” His words were precise and spoken as if their lives truly depended on the outcome, he continued deliberately “Do not splash as you swim move very quietly do not even create a ripple on the surface!”
Erin could only nod his head. Now finding his voice he spoke in a whisper, “Yes, Daddy!” They now moved as one team, exactly as Philip had advised they should and Erin did as he was told. Upon reaching shore, the shaking boy staggered onto the sand and collapsed in a heap. Suddenly he felt such a huge sense of relief he wanted to cry. Philip and the uncles had a good laugh about the “Hapa-Haole” (half-white) boy who better listen to “da fader.”
It made a good story for the campfire that evening, to be told and re-told, especially after many beers. Philip said he was never worried about the shark; after all, he had never hurt a shark in his life, so why would the shark come after him? “The shark was only finding his dinner, best to get out of his way.” Again there was that Hawaiian version of ‘fishing karma.’
Philip once told me about a fisherman who loved to taunt and poke at the puhi, eels. This fisherman, a non-Hawaiian, prodded them for fun and harassed them so badly he killed them just for sport, and he was never interested in eating the meat. It came as no surprise when Philip saw this friend in town one day with his arm all bandaged the eels had all attacked him at once.
After the shark incident, Erin would find new respect for his father and would always listen, especially when he was in the ocean.
When Erin returned to live on Maui he became the teacher to his siblings and taught them to surf and respect the ocean, as his father had taught him. And so it continues.
For Philip in his youth, fishing was the most sublime adventure, far better than a movie or a book or anything you could conjure in your imagination. He said he even forgot about girls and missed a couple of proms because ‘Da water stay good’ that day and fishing took priority. All the ‘absent’ days on his elementary and high school record were fishing days. He was never sick since Mama could always find the cure within her garden.
I was on Molokai with my new daughter-in-law. She’d married my oldest son, and was new to the family and the culture. This would be her first trip to Molokai with their new baby. As we sat on the shoreline the gentle surf was lapping the dark sand and wetting our toes as we sat in a grove of coconut palms just on the outskirts of town, about a mile and a half to the west of Kaunakakai. This is my favorite spot in the entire world, a mystical place the locals call ‘Coconut Grove.” This perfect bank of towering coconuts set in perfect rows sat at the oceans edge and swayed to the ancient rhythm of the wind and the waves. Grove had been planted for Kamehameha V, one of whose names was Kapuaiwa or ‘mysterious kapu, taboo.’
The grove had been built on the site of seven sacred ponds, now long gone. The remnants of the grove remain, and if you look closely you can still find the under ground fresh water oases. There is a park pavilion on the ground, and an old sign warns, ‘Beware of falling coconuts.’ You can stand at the edge of the grove and hear an occasional thump interrupting the soft whispering sound of the waves lapping the shore. On this day the water before us was still and motionless, perfectly flat, it was a perfect mirror reflecting the clear blue sky over our heads. The stillness was broken only by the sound of the small waves that splashed against the shore. The wind sifted through the palm fronds over our heads, making a soft whooshing sound. Occasionally there was a distant thump as a coconut fell to the ground.
This was the area where our ‘ohana’ and others had been fishing for crab and clams for generations. From time before time; Mama and Papa to the sisters and brothers to their children and their children’s children, the event of “crabbing” continues.
Feeling the moist sand beneath me I sat and watched as my husbands sisters slowly waded through the knee-high water. They dragged their buckets and nets, poised and ready as they skimmed the surface ready to plunge into the clear salty water, eager to scoop the sea treasures.
A couple of yards behind, their grown children and the smaller ones followed suit, all silently searching the muddy bottom through the clear aqua water. All eyes were cast downward, looking for the small air bubbles and the outline of the treasured sea creatures hiding in the silt.
At this time Ian, then six years old, he seemed to have a natural affinity for this kind of fishing. He followed his aunt and cousin closely in this endeavor. Everyone had a partner, and moved in couples. The strategy was to ensure that in case one saw a crab and the other did not, the creature could not escape.
In the Hawaiian tradition, this was how you learned, quietly watching your elders, not speaking, simply following exactly what you were shown. Ian chose to be daring and the cousins playfully teased him because he went ‘Hawaiian-style’ bare-footed, risking getting a toe pinched. The Auntie’s would talk later about how Ian always had good luck and filled a bucket with the crabs.
Time stood still as all of my husbands family moved before us, silently plodding through the still and rhythmic waters. From the water’s edge my daughter in law and I sat on woven straw mats. I reflected on this perfect moment, watching the generations moving in one spirit in these Molokai waters. I tried to put all this into words, to explain to my son’s wife all of the generations and how timeless this moment and this fishing are. Her comment surprised me.
She said, “Yes, but, what happens when they get tired of this and they get bored with it?” The beauty and the meaning of the moment had escaped her; she was new to the island and to the family. I had been in her place once myself. Calmly I explained, “Well, that is the beauty. They don’t ever tire of this, they will continue this tradition because they love it, and it is their life.”
With a shrug she said “I guess I don’t get it,” the turquoise ocean, I would get tired of this.” I smiled as I looked at her and her new baby girl, who was a mirror of me as a child, with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes. “That is okay,” I told her. “It took me years to ‘get it’ and I know I only have a small fragment of what this island is all about.
Another favorite form of fishing was called “torching.” At night, the fisherman carries a lit torch (or, in more modern times, a Coleman propane lantern) out into the water. The sea at this time has to be minus tide, so that the reef is exposed and the reef fish are partially exposed and vulnerable. The fisherman approaches very slowly, using his torch to illuminate the dark waters. Holding his spear high, he is ready to ‘poke fish.’ The fish are an easy mark in the night waters because they are attracted to and transfixed by the light.
One time Philip went ‘torching’ with his Chinese friend who had just brought home his new bride from China. His plan was for the children and me to visit with the bride and her new baby while he and his friend went torching. He neglected to tell me that she spoke no English. We tried sign language for a while as I watched the clock hands move forward, ever so slowly.
The hour got later and later and I began to worry, so much so that I decided to call the police. The plan in my mind was clear since I knew at which beach they were fishing. In my rationales all the police station had to do was radio the officer in the area and have him cruise the section and tell me if he saw the torch light out in the water. Then I would know if he was still fishing; it all made perfect sense to me.
The police officer in dispatch did not agree and insisted on coming to the house to file a report. I argued my point vehemently; all they had to do was look out in the water and see if he was there with his torch or not! When I realized I was getting nowhere with the sub-station officer, who was local as well, I relented. “Fine then, come take a report if you have to, but all I need to know is if he ‘still stay’ in the water, or not!”
With in fifteen minutes just as the police car pulled up to the house, Philip pulled in right behind him. Naturally, by this time I was frantic and waiting outside, pacing the sidewalk. Our baby had been sound asleep in the playpen, for hours. My mind had run rampant and my thoughts were of a giant fish that must have surely devoured him by this time. The officer, a dark and tall Hawaiian man, came out of his blue and white car with its line of blue lights flashing on the roof. He stood tall, about 6’4, and looked behind at Philip and smiled broadly. “So, what, Brah, you catch?”
They both looked to me at the same moment and began to shake their heads and laugh. I got their unspoken message loud and clear, “When you marry a Haole, try and explain to her, when you go fishing, what going happen! Explain that there is no such thing as time.” I was tired and not amused. Philip ended up opening his catch and letting the officer select his favorite fishes to share with his ‘ohana’ he walked away very happy.
Some of the techniques used to catch fish and other sea creatures amazed me. To catch an octopus, what many call “squid;” the fisherman has to be very skilled. First the fisherman has to spear the squiggle, many-legged creature. Then he has to grab the head quickly, and bite between the eyes to pinch off the main nerve. All the while with the long tentacles surrounding him, a great battle ensues to pull the tentacles away as the fisherman attempts to find the precise spot between the eyes to bite. Often this is all done while still submerged.
Time is of the essence, and the object is to paralyze the creature so that none of the precious black ink held in the brain escapes. It was one of those macho, manly things to ‘bite the eye’ at the right moment so that the dark ink could be used for a special soup that night.
Philip would never brag about this, but I was aware that he had saved many lives. Often at a beach, a tourist would be in trouble and he would always know what to do.
As the years passed, he became pickier about his fishing partners. There are only two people that exist today in the world with whom he can fish and feel totally secure. With either of these men, he can swim and explore the ocean without being concerned about his companion.
Naturally, the one favored companion is his brother-in-law who taught him from boyhood to respect the ocean and to listen to and trust the sea. The other is the older Japanese man, married to Shige-San, his fishing partner for years. One partner began his life in the sea when he was a boy; the other who was older, came later to continue the lesson now as a man. An experienced fishing partner is always a necessity and sometimes a simple matter of safety. On a practical note, someone has to be the “bag boy” and drag the cotton rice bag when it is filled with fish.
Once Philip was with a cousin as the tide changed. Knowing the riptide could have pulled them out the two fishermen had to slowly push their way back to shore, using their spears to pull them along. In this kind of a situation, the fishermen have to keep a clear head and not panic. Philip kept one eye on his cousin and the other one on the shifting, pulling waters at their feet. These were the times he dreaded, not knowing whether his partner could handle the ordeal or not. They made it back to shore after spending hours traveling a very short distance. Philip chose never to fish with this cousin again.
My one, (and only) fishing experience with him was so memorable; I can still feel the cool water at my feet. On that occasion, Philip’s partner for a planned fishing expedition had to cancel. This was another of those minus-tide days and he was determined to fish, no matter what. Somehow, he recruited me, promising we would have a great adventure. We were newly married, and I was very eager to please him and be his partner, even in these un-chartered waters. At the time I was about six months pregnant with our first child.
We went out early during a “minus-four tide,” when the ocean sinks four inches below normal water levels. Waters that may have been at one’s throat the day before were now at chest level. As the shoreline waters subsided, all of the fish swim out to sea and would literally jump over the reef, where there was almost a ‘traffic jam’ of fish. On a day like that, the lure was a bulging bag of fish. Only the threat of a tidal wave could have kept him at home.
We began as the morning sun just crested the horizon and we reached the reef by slowly wading out in the knee-deep water. Once at the reef he had me sit on the exposed craggy shelf while he dove over the edge to spear the profusion of fish that darted in and out of the holes and reef channels.
I must have looked like a beached whale on the reef, with my pregnant stomach and bikini top. Just as I had gotten comfortable, Philip emerged from the deep blue water and ask me to move down, just a little, waving his had to the right or left. This was no small feat since the reef was lava rock and sharp coral, plus it was no small task to lumber my huge belly up and down, not to mention the blazing sun on my back. Again and again he asked me to move—more to the right, more to the left—and so our day went.
Then, without notice, he said, “Okay, we go, I get plenty.” Slowly we began to wade to shore, since I was the designated ‘bag boy’ I was ready to go, and knew I would suffer that night with a sun burn after “all this fun.” I was to pull the filled bag of fish and he was the fisherman, so he carried his floater, his fins and spear.
I noticed that he kept checking behind us as we plodded along. I thought he seemed a little preoccupied, as he was always stopping to check the bag. I remember thinking that this was not fun, and it really seemed like work. I was desperately tired and already my skin was warm with what would be soon to be blistering sunburn (the lotion had washed away with the first two waves). I made a mental note to ‘pass’ the next time he begged me to go with him.
The next day was Sunday and we went to the Waikiki Aquarium. For Philip, going to a salt-water aquarium was the equivalent of a Disneyland adventure; here he could visit all of his friends.
When we reached the tank that housed the largest eels I had ever seen in my entire life, I was in for a surprise. They were gruesome, with their large jaws that did nothing but open and close, revealing hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. Philip stood at my side, smiling and laughing to himself, as if there was some private joke, “What is so funny?” I asked.
He stopped smiling, and confessed, “Well, remember yesterday, when I kept moving you? Well, there was an eel just under you, inside the reef; it was bigger than that one.” He pointed to the largest and, by far, the ugliest eel in the tank.
Perhaps he realized that I did not think this was so funny, he solemnly nodded his head in the affirmative. I grabbed my handbag and swung it at him, aiming for his arm. “Here I am, pregnant, and you risk my having a miscarriage if I saw that thing while clinging to a reef a half a mile from shore!” I exclaimed. He ducked and chided me all day for it, but I swore I would never fish or be his “water boy” again, I’ve kept my word for all these years.
As I would learn, fishing was ultimately a spiritual experience for him, the most natural way to reach an understanding of the “pono”, the balance of nature. When Philip learned of his sister Lolly’s death, he came home to tell me he would rather be alone and headed for the beach; I never questioned him about that afternoon. Perhaps the ebb and flow of the waves helped to wash and clear his emotions.
The years passed and in time we traveled to the Mainland to seek our fortune. Here the fishing would not be the same; the water was no longer a pristine blue. The color would be a deep dirty green and more foreboding. Besides, people on the mainland had the disgusting habit of dumping rubbish in their ocean. That was unheard-of in Hawaii, since it is understood that the water is like your own mother, who feeds and nurtures you, to desecrate this body is”pilau” dirty.
I noticed, from time to time, that the only beaches in Hawaii that were littered were those where the tourists went. The local beaches rarely had any trash and if you saw trash you always collected it, whether it was yours or not.
Living in California, while career opportunities were plentiful, I saw a yearning in Philip for the clear, clean Hawaiian waters of his youth.