The Island of Lānaʻi From The Eyes of A Native Hawaiian Girl
A personal narrative of a hunting trip on the smallest inhabited island in Hawaiʻi owned by Larry Ellison, founder of Oracle.
Lānaʻi, Hawaii | 20.8166° N, 156.9273° W
I hold Lānaʻi very dear. I rub my eyes, closed shut because of makapiapia (eye mucus) and turn off the wake-up call blaring from my phone. I jump out of the bottom bunk, only to realize the tile floor is freezing. The smell of spam and eggs direct me to the kitchen. I sit at the table idly pushing around my breakfast. Should I make some coffee? I can’t decide. Because my mind isn’t at the table. It’s already there; waiting in the field for the moment I hope will come. After eating dad’s “breakfast of champions,” I pack three peanut butter granola bars into my fluorescent orange pack. I know I won’t eat them, but the weight on my back would feel wrong if I didn’t.
With tires packed with red, damp dirt, we start the 4-wheel-drive rental. In the bed of the Tacoma, a plastic cooler carries our lunch: smoked, honey ham slices, Kraft singles, and mustard. No 100.3 the bomb, just white noise. Papa sits shotgun, while my older sister is with me in the back. Dust clouds form above the uneven, unpaved road as we embark on this yearly expedition.
We pass the stables, to which I’ve never been. Shadows jump across the road and shining eyes peer back at our truck from the oceans of cane grass. They know our kind. Time will soon be upon their haven of darkness. We skirt the edges of preservation areas, surrounding native species in a half-baked attempt to be protected. Old metal fencing stands without years of repair and fails to serve its purpose. Missing bars and dense, rusting material allow thousands of tracks to flourish on a busy multi-lane highway. Little clusters of coffee beans are scattered throughout. Rain clouds weep over on the next island.
Leaving a trail of tire marks, we pull into our “hiding spot,” a cluster of decades-old pine trees, with just enough space to open our doors. I quietly lay down on a bed of fallen, brown pine needles. Crickets from all directions stridulate as they wait for the sun peak above the horizon. Wild turkeys gobble off into the distance. Water droplets from the downpour the night before resting on the grass.
Inevitable wind and rain erosion expose the ‘āina’s mountains of indigo, cobalt, and burnt yellow minerals. Surely, there is a science to this place.
All is quiet, save for the wind through the trees. As dusk approaches, we shoulder our rifles and hike through the thick, thorny lantana to the edge of a large bowl. I pass years of memories; years of me. I decide to stay there for sometime. So much different than the Garden of the Gods. “You guys go walk ova dea. Ova hea I like da view moa.”
Getting Papa’s message, we continue down the trail. We make sure our shadows don’t break the skyline. Crawling. I’m trying my best to avoid crunching the rocks and branches under me. I turn my hands to the dirt making my way through the low-ling Christmas berry. Sometimes my shoulder strap gets caught on it. Everywhere I look I remember to tread lightly. Because, yes, it is my home. But it’s been so for them for much longer. Home. One dominated by these invasive flora and fauna.
There are times when I imagine what it would look like if I had been crawling through groves of koa’ia with hinahina beneath my hands. How ka poʻe o keia wahi stood where I am; the soles of their feet touching pure ground and not remnants of black plastic.
After sitting down, a thought comes to mind. My sister and I start a staring contest wondering who’s to shoot. It ingrained in our brains to never have a trigger finger, but we both know each other’s itch to pull first.
“Do you spak da rock.”
Spak? Spark? What do you mean? It’s a question I’m unsure of; he’s never asked it before. “Do you spak da rock.”
Is this some type of pidgin slang? I’ve always been that one who talks like a haʻole.*Clears throat*
“Do you see the stone?
The sun is high. I can feel its warmth on my freckled cheeks. I’m kind of dozing off.“CAK-cak-CAK.” A single erckel’s calls as if it’s taunting me. I jolt upright. A fawn and its mother graze across the steep gulch. One hundred yards to the right a herd often emerge from the lantana. They slowly feed their way out into the open; it only takes a few seconds but seems like hours. A buck leads the group along a trail that would put them 50 yards from me. I play out the upcoming moments in my head. I chamber a round. Adjust the shooting stick. With the wind in my face and the sun in their eyes, I feel confident. The odds are in my favor.
A slight movement to my left catches my eye. To my disbelief, an aged buck sneaks up without a sound. Now! Time is up. I have a less than one minute window. Ditching my plan, I let my instincts take over. I carefully ease my rifle to the left and tuck it into my shoulder. Breathe in and out. Adrenaline fills my insides. Anticipation places sweat on my palms. Line up the crosshairs behind the spotted buck’s shoulder and squeeze.
I can’t help but notice the heavy rain clouds blanketing Molokaʻi in the background. There’s not a person in sight. Just me. On this hill. With hardly any cell service. Away from my life 362 days out of the year. The calm returns as if it never left. Wind breezing past like the seconds before. To take a snapshot would see this scene serene, pieces taken from mother earth that gives so willingly to those who care to listen. That song is in my ears, under my nails and in my heart. So I double back up the puʻu, hands turned to the earth. The day is high and I’m already dreaming of when we’ll meet again.
Please follow me, Mackenzie Plunkett, for more articles about all things kanaka maoli! Mahalo nui!
