The Kumulipo tells us that all life originates in the deep sea. The uku koʻakoʻa, coral polyp, is the first living creature and its birth begins an unbroken genealogy that ends with humanity. For Hawaiians, therefore, our genealogy comes from the deep sea.

Significantly, the genealogy recorded in the Kumulipo has become a powerful instrument in the fight against deep-sea mining.

“The Kumulipo describes everything created in the vertical water column of the deep sea up to the nearshore reefs, onto the land, into the hills, and even taking flight. People are not created until millions and millions of years later, but when we do come into this honua, we have an inherent responsibility to be part of nature and therefore, our kuleana is to care for nature,” explains cultural practitioner and international ocean advocate Solomon Pili Kahoʻohalahala.

“There is this idea of caring and receiving. I believe that this is what the Kumulipo intends for us to understand: if we care for the environment and for all things in nature of which we belong, then we, too, will be cared for.”

Kahoʻohalahala is Hawaiʻi’s foremost advocate working to stop deep-sea mining (DSM) before it begins. In addition to the irreversible ecological damage to the ocean ecosystem that DSM represents, it is an assault on the Indigenous people of Oceania many of whom, like Native Hawaiians, trace their lineage and creation stories to the deep sea.

For four years, Kahoʻohalahala has taken his message of mālama honua to the United Nation’s International Seabed Authority (ISA), pointing to the Kumulipo as a foundation for humanity’s relationship to the natural world.

In 2022, Greenpeace, a global network of environmentalists, invited Kahoʻohalahala to utilize their platform as a non-governmental organization (NGO) at the ISA. Since then, Greenpeace has partnered with Kahoʻohalahala to help ensure that Indigenous voices are represented in international deliberations on DSM at the ISA.

This is critically important since Hawaiʻi does not have standing at the UN as a sovereign nation state. In this international arena, it is presumed that the United States speaks for Native Hawaiians.

A recent hard-won victory in the fight to stop DSM is the UN’s new “High Seas Treaty” which became international law on January 17, 2026 (see related article in the June issue of Ka Wai Ola). While the ISA governs the seabed floor, the High Seas Treaty governs the living ocean above it – a critical distinction that will factor into future deliberations around deep-sea mining.

To celebrate the High Seas Treaty, “Greenpeace had an idea to commission murals around the world,” recounted Arlo Hemphill, Greenpeace U.S. project lead for its global Oceans for Life campaign. Greenpeace’s campaign to elevate ocean awareness has resulted in dozens of murals on city walls in 13 countries on five continents.

“In his interventions to the United Nations, Uncle Sol regularly talks about the Kumulipo and uses it as an illustration that deep-sea mining is not just an environmental issue. It is a cultural issue. Deep-sea mining attacks the very place of creation of the people who live in the region,” Hemphill said.

When Greenpeace first approached Kahoʻohalahala in January, their idea was to paint a mural depicting the Kumulipo in New York City where it would be visible to the international states housed at the UN General Assembly. But it was the middle of winter and freezing, so they pivoted and decided to site the mural in Hawaiʻi instead which all parties agreed felt right.

Finding a location was next. Kahoʻohalahala reached out to Kamehameha Schools (KS) and they were excited to support the project. KS offered the building on Waikamilo Road that serves as the “canvas” for the mural and provided the paint and other supplies.

“This mural offers a powerful lens for understanding who we are as a people and our relationship to our ʻāina,” explained Kamuela Cobb-Adams, managing director at Ke Kula ʻo Kamehameha on behalf of the schools.

“It reflects our commitment to caring for our oceans and lands by ensuring our kaiāulu (community) can learn about and deepen their connection to our moʻokūauhau (genealogy), while inspiring stewardship of ʻāina in ways that sustain future generations.”

Artist Kai Kaulukukui was invited to paint the mural. “We had met Kai early on and really wanted to work with him,” Hemphill recalled. Greenpeace commissioned Kaulukukui and paid for his work.

Born on Hawaiʻi Island, Kaulukukui cannot remember a time that he did not draw. Since 2012 he has worked as an artist full-time and has painted numerous murals. He also does a lot of ocean-themed art, so when he was asked to paint a mural depicting the origin of life in the deep sea as described in the Kumulipo, he didn’t hesitate.

“I’m super honored to be involved in this project,” said Kaulukukui who was already aware of the cultural and ecological danger that deep-sea mining poses to Oceania – and that proponents of DSM want to begin mining for rare metals in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone which is located just 500 miles south of Hawaiʻi Island.

He approached the project by reading and reflecting on the Kumulipo and by having long talks with Kahoʻohalahala. “I’d draw up a couple ideas then go to sleep and dream on it,” he said. “Through my dreams I’ll come up with a composition that I feel is strong. I think I did maybe 28 designs for this mural.”

Kaulukukui said that his last design “kind of just jumped out and I knew that was it.” He presented the design to Kahoʻohalahala and Greenpeace and they agreed. He began painting the mural in late May and finished in mid-June. In all it took him 11 days, working about 16 hours each day with help color-blocking from his wife, Angela.

His vision of the deep sea is based on the first wā (section) of the Kumulipo. “I included 14 of the creatures from the first 19 verses, like the primordial slime and phytoplankton and coral polyp,” he said.

Barely visible in the bottom left corner of the mural is an image of Queen Liliʻuokalani who translated the Kumulipo into English during her imprisonment following the 1893 overthrow. At the upper right corner are the words, “Hānau ka ʻuku koʻakoʻa” (born is the coral polyp) from the 15th verse of the Kumulipo.

“Being able to represent this stuff visually is awesome, but it’s the work that these scientists and people like Uncle Sol are doing – trying to get laws to change – that is making the difference,” Kaulukukui said.

“Most people have never heard of the Clarion-Clipperton Zone and when I talk about the mural, 95% of the people don’t have any idea of this issue [deep-sea mining]. I would love it if this [mural] helps get more eyes on what is happening.”

“We are at a really dangerous moment in time where the Trump administration is trying to force through deep-sea mining, both in U.S. and international waters, in defiance of international law,” Hemphill warned.

“The Trump administration is trying to say that, rather than the UN, they are the regulator of deep-sea mining in the international seabed – a position no other country agrees with. This mural is a symbol of defiance against that. And a symbol of Hawaiian connection to the ocean as a sacred place of creation that needs to be kept off limits to destructive industrial activity.”

“We know very little about the deep sea,” adds Kahoʻohalahala. “I’m hoping that, with the combination of science, research and a cultural perspective like ours, people around the world can support the idea that we should allow things that are created in nature to continue – rather than destroy them before we understand them.

“We [Hawaiʻi] need to be aware of what is happening around us; what is already happening just beyond the horizon. That is the urgency I feel.”

The post Mural Depicts the Kumulipo and the Origin of Creation appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Lee is the volunteer coordinator for the Polynesian Voyaging Society (PVS) and a crew member who has already completed six voyages. Part of “Gen Z,” she is also an emerging leader in the organization. “I just turned 25, so I’m half the age of the [first] voyage and the canoe,” she quipped.

When Hōkūleʻa arrived in Papeʻete, Tahiti, 50 years ago no one could have fully predicted the impact that this achievement would have – not only on Hawaiʻi, but on all of the peoples of Moananuiākea.

On June 4, 1976, more than 17,000 people gathered on the beach at Papeʻete Harbor – some paddling outrigger canoes or swimming out to greet the first voyaging canoe from another Pacific archipelago to arrive on the island in more than 600 years. It was a homecoming unlike anything before or since.

In the 50 years since her maiden voyage, Hōkūleʻa has sparked cultural pride and rediscovery across Oceania, inspiring generations and birthing the Pacific-wide revival of wayfinding and open-ocean voyaging.

Matahiarii Tutavae, a Tahitian journalist from the island of Moʻorea and a PVS crew member, was born several years after Hōkūleʻa made her historic landing in Papeʻete but heard about the event growing up.

“The first voyage was really impactful [because it proved] that it could be done,” Tutavae said, referencing the debunked early 20th century theory of “accidental drift.”

Over the years, as Hōkūleʻa continued voyaging to Tahiti, he observed a renewed relationship forming – and a new perspective of not just being Tahitians, but being a people of the ocean.

Tutavae points out that Hōkūleʻa and voyaging also affirmed that our ancestors were scientists. “That’s something we didn’t hear about. It was always myths and legends, and the scientific world was from elsewhere,” he said. “Now I see that. And it’s important. Our people were here for thousands of years so they have scientific knowledge based on observation, on empirical evidence.”

In 1985, Hōkūleʻa sailed to the Cook Islands for the first time on her Voyage of Rediscovery. Her visit inspired former Cook Islands Prime Minister Sir Tom Davis to found the Cook Islands Voyaging Society in 1992. He designed and built the Society’s first replica canoe, Te Au o Tonga, in 1994.

“Fortunately for us in Tahiti, in 2007 a German by the name of Dieter Paulmann saw Te Au o Tonga sail into Sāmoa,” Tutavae recounted. Excited by the crew’s use of traditional knowledge to navigate, Paulmann, a sailor himself and CEO of the Okeanos Foundation for the Sea, reached out to the Cook Islands Voyaging Society. Their collaboration resulted in the Okeanos Foundation financing the building of seven traditional waʻa in 2009 to support Pacific voyaging.

One of those canoes, Faʻafaite, was gifted to Tahiti. That same year, Tutavae helped to establish the Faʻafaite-Tahitian Voyaging Society and over the years, he has sailed on Faʻafaite throughout the South Pacific and to Hawaiʻi and back. He has also sailed on Hōkūleʻa, including during the Mālama Honua Worldwide Voyage (2013-2017).

From the beginning, PVS has focused on advancing the art and science of traditional voyaging through experiential educational programs designed to inspire current and future generations to care for themselves, each other, and the earth. Through voyaging, the organization aspires to educate all of humanity about the critical ecological importance of our oceans, Indigenous knowledge, community, and sustainability.

Under the guidance of venerated leaders like Pwo Navigators Nainoa Thompson, Bruce Blankenfeld and others, Hōkūleʻa has sailed more than 275,000 nautical miles relying on traditional navigation techniques, cementing her place in history and elevating awareness of and respect for the sophistication and depth of Indigenous knowledge.

Looking ahead, the next chapter of Hōkūleʻa’s story has yet to be written.

Lee believes that it will be critical for future generations of voyagers to approach the next 50 or 100 years with the same mindset as their mentors: keeping safety, reverence for the ocean, and aloha for our homes and culture at the center of decision-making.

As natural and existential threats to our oceans accelerate – from climate change, sea level rise and acidification of the oceans to microplastics in the marine food chain; from extractive commercial fishing to destructive deep sea mining – tomorrow’s voyagers will face different challenges than those who came before them.

“These things weren’t around 50 years ago. We will have to rise to the occasion and show the importance and relevance of voyaging to our youth. That is what’s in front of us,” Lee said.

“It’s about finding ways to remain relevant as the world around us continues to evolve and change.”

Despite the challenges facing future voyagers, there is also optimism. The international impact of Hōkūleʻa has been undeniably transformative – especially for the peoples of Moananuiākea.

PVS has a roster of more than 400 crew members from around the world. And there are now 25 voyaging canoes, 21 voyaging organizations, and more than a thousand active voyagers throughout 11 Pacific Island nations. As it did centuries ago, voyaging has once again reconnected Oceania.

“We used to say that ʻwe are island people.’ People from little islands,” Tutavae said. “Now it’s become ʻwe are people of this ocean.’ And as such, we are responsible for its wellbeing.”

Tutavae hopes that one day people on the continents – especially America, China and Europe – will come to understand Pacific people’s aloha for and relationship to the ocean.

“Although we are a big ocean, we are people who are connected to each other and to our ocean. We love our ocean. And we see it differently than the people who see it as a way to make money,” he added.

“Hōkūleʻa is no longer just a Hawaiian canoe. Borders are man-made and [designed] to control. But Hōkūleʻa and voyaging – in a very smart way – broke those borders. Is still breaking borders. And it’s not just borders between Melanesia and Micronesia and Polynesia. It’s also the borders we have in our minds,” Tutavae reflected. “Voyaging allows us to go beyond our genetics, beyond our looks or our names. This is something that is learned from Hōkūleʻa.”

“I think one of the most important parts about voyaging is that it’s communally shared. That’s a testimony to the people of the Pacific,” Lee said. “We only have this knowledge today because people from different places worked to ensure that this type of seafaring continued.”

When Lee thinks about the artificial divisions that have been placed between people groups – both self-inflicted and externally imposed – it reinforces her belief that we need to be more curious.

“Nainoa says there are two questions: Where are you, and where are you going? Another question is, where did you come from? You can’t emphasize enough how important of a role that Papa Mau [Piailug] had for the revitalization of voyaging – specifically in Hawaiʻi and then throughout the wider Pacific,” Lee asserted.

“Everything PVS has accomplished, and the story of Hōkūleʻa, it all leads back to the teacher.”

That aspect of Hōkūleʻa’s origin story is itself a lesson. The revival of Polynesian voyaging and wayfinding was made possible because a Micronesian navigator from Satawal was open to sharing his knowledge with Polynesians in Hawaiʻi – a testament to the way our connection as people of Oceania supersedes the political and anthropological divisions imposed on us over the past century.

“Throughout Moananuiākea there is a collective pride and joy that comes from being the people of this ocean and knowing that our ancestors held the same respect and affinity for one another,” said Lee.

“I’m sure that’s part of what kept voyaging alive for so many centuries. It’s inspiring that so many of our stories have ties to one another and it really does emphasize the point that the culture of Moananuiākea, and the culture of the people of the Pacific, is a shared one.”

“That idea that we’re all part of the same waʻa – which is earth – is becoming more real and making sense to a lot more people now,” added Tutavae. “I think we have something to share with the whole world.”

The post Hōkūleʻa: Reconnecting Oceania appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

On January 17, 2026, the United Nation’s Agreement on the Conservation and Sustainable Use of Marine Biological Diversity of Areas Beyond National Jurisdiction (BBNJ), commonly known as the “High Seas Treaty,” officially entered into force.

Adopted in 2023 after years of negotiation and advocacy, the treaty represents one of the most significant international ocean conservation agreements in modern history.

The BBNJ seeks to protect biodiversity in international waters and supports the global “30×30” conservation initiative – an effort to place at least 30% of the world’s oceans under protection by 2030 to halt biodiversity loss, build ecosystem resilience and mitigate climate change.

Its implementation comes at a critical moment.

For the past several years, the International Seabed Authority (ISA), established under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), has debated whether to approve regulations that could open the door to commercial deep-sea mining in international waters.

Now, the two agreements will shape the future governance of the high seas together.

“UNCLOS and the ISA govern the seabed itself,” explained Hawaiian cultural practitioner and international ocean advocate Solomon Pili Kahoʻohalahala. “The BBNJ governs the living ocean above it — the water column and biodiversity. Between the two, they now influence the future of nearly two-thirds of the world’s oceans.”

“High seas” includes all parts of the ocean beyond the 200-nautical-mile exclusive economic zones (territorial seas, internal waters or archipelagic waters) of a nation state. UNCLOS further establishes the high seas as the “common heritage of humankind” regardless of a nation’s proximity to the ocean.

A total of 89 United Nations member states ratified the BBNJ treaty, far surpassing the 60 ratifications required for it to take effect. Notably, Pacific Rim nations such as Chile, Panama, Ecuador, Costa Rica, Mexico, Japan, and China ratified the agreement. The United States, Russia, and Canada did not.

For Indigenous advocates, one of the treaty’s most critically important advances is its recognition of Indigenous knowledge systems and the role of Indigenous Peoples in ocean stewardship. Indigenous participation is framed through consultation and knowledge-sharing, and the treaty acknowledges that traditional knowledge and western science can work together to protect marine ecosystems.

Yet despite that progress, many Indigenous leaders believe a critical opportunity was missed.

In the final stages of negotiation, Pacific Small Island Developing States (PSIDS) were unable to reach consensus on language that would have more directly formalized Indigenous participation in decision-making processes under the treaty.

“It’s disappointing,” Kahoʻohalahala said. “We came very close to establishing stronger mechanisms for Indigenous participation in international ocean governance. That would have changed the future of these discussions.”

The issue is expected to resurface during the first Conference of the Parties (COP1) for the BBNJ treaty in January 2027, where governance structures and implementation mechanisms will continue to be negotiated.

For Kahoʻohalahala, however, the debate reaches far beyond legal frameworks and treaty language.

At the center of his work is a broader concept he describes as “ocean governance” — an Indigenous framework grounded in relationship and responsibility rather than ownership and extraction.

“Indigenous peoples of Oceania come from the ocean,” he said. “We understand ourselves as part of creation, not separate from it. That creates a very different relationship to governance.”

He often points to the Kumulipo, the Native Hawaiian creation chant, as a foundation for understanding humanity’s genealogical relationship to the natural world.

“The Kumulipo reminds us that the ocean is not a resource separate from ourselves. It is our ancestor. That worldview is fundamentally different from systems built around control, ownership, and domination.”

Kahoʻohalahala argues that many existing international governance systems continue to reflect colonial-era assumptions about authority and resource management. “European powers developed systems based on dominance over lands, peoples, and resources,” he said. “Those systems still shape international policy today.”

He believes Oceania has the potential to offer another path.

“If Pacific peoples stood together and asserted our collective responsibility to care for the ocean — not merely exploit it — that could become a powerful force in international affairs.”

That conversation becomes especially urgent as the United States unilaterally accelerates efforts to advance deep-sea mining within the waters of its Pacific territories, irrespective of the debate taking place at the ISA and despite resolute opposition from residents of the affected communities.

In April 2025, President Donald Trump issued an executive order titled “Unleashing America’s Offshore Critical Minerals and Resources,” intended to fast-track access to strategic seabed minerals.

Several months after the EO was issued, and with the backing of every major political leader in American Sāmoa, Congressional Rep. Amata Coleman Radewagen wrote in comments to the Department of the Interior, “There is strong opposition to any exploration or extraction of minerals from the ocean floor in waters near American Sāmoa.”

Similarly, in a letter to Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee Chair Mike Lee earlier this year, Commonwealth of Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) Gov. David Apatang and Guåhan (Guam) Gov. Lou Leon Guerrero called for a moratorium on deep-sea mining in the Marianas.

Nevertheless, on May 21, 2026, the Associated Press reported that at least nine companies are currently in talks with the Trump administration, queueing up to obtain licenses and leases to mine in waters off American Sāmoa, CNMI, Guåhan and Alaska.

“The United States is moving forward as if Pacific peoples do not exist,” Kahoʻohalahala said. “As if our voices and concerns are irrelevant because these territories fall under U.S. authority. That is deeply offensive.”

He also notes a significant shift in the rhetoric surrounding the need for deep-sea mining.

Initially promoted as necessary for “green energy” technologies such as electric vehicle batteries, proponents increasingly frame DSM as essential for military readiness and national security competition with China and Russia.

One reason for the shift has to do with emerging developments in green technology. In August 2025, Japanese automaker Toyota unveiled what it calls a “water engine” likely based on hydrogen combustion or hydrogen fuel cell technology powered by water-derived hydrogen. If successful, this zero emission technology would be revolutionary.

“The narrative around deep-sea mining is changing,” Kahoʻohalahala observed. “Now it’s about militarization and strategic dominance.”

Still, he remains cautiously optimistic.

Despite years of discussion and industry pressure, no commercial-scale deep-sea mining operation currently exists anywhere in the world. Major technological, financial, legal, and environmental hurdles remain unresolved. Kahoʻohalahala speculates that commercial scale capacity is at least five years away.

“There is still no fully operational system capable of mining at commercial scale in the deep ocean,” he said. “Much of the technology is still experimental.”

Kahoʻohalahala believes this reality creates an important window of opportunity for Indigenous peoples, Pacific communities, scientists, and environmental advocates to shape international policy before irreversible harm occurs.

“We are not powerless,” he said. “Pacific peoples have observed and understood the ocean for generations. That knowledge is an inheritance. The question now is whether we will put it into action.”

“For Hawaiʻi and for all of Moananuiākea, this is ultimately about responsibility – to our ancestors, to future generations, and to the living ocean itself.”

What is Deep-sea Mining?

Deep-sea Mining (DSM) is the extraction of commercially valuable mineral deposits from the ocean floor. It is essentially undersea strip mining whereby massive machines (think 35 tons) are lowered to the ocean floor by surface ships.

There, at depths of 2.5 – 3.5 miles below the surface, they bulldoze over the pristine ocean floor, scraping off the top layer of sediment – and every living organism in their way – to extract the polymetallic nodules that rest on the ocean floor.

Polymetallic nodules are fist-sized rocks comprised of layers of precious metals like copper, nickel, manganese and cobalt, that build up over millions of years around marine debris, such as bits of coral.

The sediment and nodules are sucked up through giant tubes to the ships, and then the excess water and sediments are returned to the ocean, creating a sediment plume that includes dissolved heavy metals and other toxins.

These “mid-water discharge plumes” are not released on the ocean floor, but at depths about halfway between the seabed and the surface. As a result, the toxic sediment can travel on deep ocean currents anywhere from tens to hundreds of miles from the discharge site. They can also work their way into our food chain through pelagic fish like ʻahi, aku, mahimahi and ono.

DSM would have a catastrophic, irreversible impact on the health and biodiversity of our marine ecosystem and possibly the entire planet.

Of particular concern to Hawaiʻi is the Clarion-Clipperton Zone (CCZ), located about 500 miles south of Kaʻū, Hawaiʻi Island. It is believed to have one of the richest deposits of polymetallic nodules and if DSM is approved, the CCZ will be a primary target of mining corporations.

The post Imperfect High Seas Treaty is Still a Victory for the Ocean appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

ʻĀinahoʻi (land back), the theme for this year’s summit, amplified the collective movement to reclaim our ʻāina and our future by showcasing some of the creative ways that communities are not just navigating but challenging existing systems through legal frameworks, nonprofit land trusts, and grassroots action. It is a call for ʻāina to be returned to community stewardship and the importance of seeing land as ʻāina to ensure a regenerative future.

With a focus on micro to macro approaches to ʻĀinahoʻi – from strengthening relationships to ʻāina to advancing self- determined governance rooted in ancestral innovation and courage – the summit featured three panels: Aliʻi Trusts and Land Legacy; Nonprofits and Land Trusts; and Community Governance and Land Return.

The day began with mele aloha ʻāina by musician Raiatea Helm. Host and emcee, Dr. Kamana Beamer, opened the event with a presentation on Hawaiian Land Tenure, emphasizing that the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi’s original 1840 constitution stated that the people of Hawaiʻi belong to the land in perpetuity and guaranteed our rights to the ʻāina.

Keynote speaker for the event was Justice Joe Williams, Aotearoa’s first Māori Supreme Court justice who addressed the colonization of Aotearoa. Referencing his kuleana to oversee the system that has affected so much loss for the Māori people, Williams shared the story of 19th century Māori resistance leader Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Tūriki saying, with regard to using the master’s tools to unpick its injustices, “I think the master’s tools will do just fine.”

The first panel on Aliʻi Trusts and Land Legacy was moderated by former Kamehameha Schools executive and Hoʻokele Strategies CEO Neil Hannahs. Panelists included Kamehameha Schools Trustee Dr. Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, Office of Hawaiian Affairs Board of Trustees Chair Kaialiʻi Kahele, and Hawaiian Homes Commission Chairman Kali Watson.

Panelists discussed the importance of collaboration and synergy between the Aliʻi Trusts (to include the Office of Hawaiian Affairs and the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands) providing examples of how that is already happening. During the course of the discussion it was noted that, collectively, our Aliʻi Trusts, OHA and DHHL control hundreds of thousands of acres. “When you put it all together, weʻre talking about nationhood,” said Watson.

Nonprofits & Land Trusts, the second panel, was moderated by attorney Mahina Tuteur and included Trust for Public Land Aloha ʻĀina Project Manager Reyna Hayashi, Lahaina Community Land Trust Executive Director Autumn Ness, and Ka Huli Ao Center for Excellence in Native Hawaiian Law Director Kapua Sproat.

Their conversation touched on the tension of operating within the American real estate system that views land as a commodity while honoring the Hawaiian worldview wherein land cannot be owned. With goals ranging from preserving conservation lands to protecting residential land from being scooped up by outside investors, panelists talked about various strategies – the most straightforward (and expensive) of which is buying back our lands and placing them in land trusts or conservation easements.

The final panel of the day was Community Governance & Land Return moderated by Beamer. Panelists included NDN Collective Senior Domestic Policy Strategist Davis Price, Koʻihonua Executive Director Camille Kalama, Nation of Hawaiʻi Deputy Head of State Brandon Makaʻawaʻawa, and Hawaiian Studies Professor Kaipu Keala representing the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana.

Their discussions centered on resisting militarism and asserting our personal and collective sovereignty. Noting that sometimes, we have to “get in front of the trucks,” Kalama said that some of our biggest wins have been when the community shows up. “The ones living in relationships with that ʻāina are the fiercest, strongest, most peaceful fighters for those places. There are strategies and tactics for doing that. We can still survive as a people in the face of the biggest, most powerful and lawless military – at this point – on the planet.”

Wrapping up the ʻĀinahoʻi discussions and touching on current community conversations around military land leases, Beamer challenged the audience to question the status quo.

“The military industrial complex creates an economy of death and I believe Hawaiʻi deserves better,” Beamer said. “I believe we can do better to create jobs and wellbeing and life in our islands than to continue to support weapons that destroy our ʻāina, that kill and damage ecosystems, and are basically training grounds to kill other people across the planet. We can’t be the epicenter of that any longer.”

The post A Call to Return ʻĀina to Community Stewardship – The 2026 Piʻo Summit appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Established in 1976 amid the Hawaiian Renaissance, Nā Pualei o Likolehua is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year – which will include competing at the Merrie Monarch Festival this month.

The story of Nā Pualei, as shared by Niuliʻi, is more than a story about perpetuating hula; it is a story about enduring love.

Trained as a dancer by noted kumu hula like Joseph “Uncle Joe” Kahaulelio and sisters Leilani and Puanani Alama, as a young woman in the 1960s Kalama Heine danced professionally at various “lūʻau shows” for popular musicians including Vickie Iʻi Rodrigues. When Kumu Hula Maʻiki Aiu Lake advertised in 1972 that she was starting a kumu hula class, both Kahaulelio and Rodrigues urged Kalama Heine to sign up.

“My mom really wasnʻt ready,” recalled Heine who was about 8-years-old at the time. “She just liked dancing and traveling. [But] my grandmother, Rebecca Kalama, told her that she needed to become a teacher of hula.”

Kalama Heine ultimately listened to her mother and her mentors, becoming part of Aiu Lake’s first, and largest, master class: Papa Lehua. The class included her close friend, Robert Cazimero. Both Cazimero and Kalama Heine completed their ʻūniki (graduation) ceremonies in 1973. Another friend, Wayne Keahi Chang, was in Papa ʻIlima, Aiu Lake’s second master class.

At the time, both Cazimero and Chang were working at Kamehameha Schools (KS), training haumāna in the schools’ Concert Glee program to dance hula. Because of her close friendship with them, Kalama Heine agreed to train the female students while they concentrated their efforts on the boys.

Heine says that her mother initially envisioned establishing a hālau together with Cazimero and Chang, but in 1975 they formed Nā Kamalei o Lililehua – an all-male hālau comprised of their KS students. Instead, Cazimero urged Kalama Heine to form her own hālau and Nā Pualei o Likolehua was born on February 24, 1976.

The handful of young women she was training from KS Concert Glee, formed the core Kalama Heine’s original group of dancers, along with some of the other women from Aiu Lake’s Papa Lehua and Papa ʻIlima classes. “Lahela Kaʻaihue, Aunty Vicky (Holt-Takamine), Jade Hind and Tootsie Cazimero, Uncle Robert’s sister. They had ʻūniki from Aunty Maʻiki but hadn’t yet formed their own hālau(s) so they gravitated to my mom because they all hung out together,” Heine said.

“From that point on it was like a brother-sister hālau because Uncle Wayne and Uncle Robert and my mother were so close,” she added. “That’s how it always was through the years.”

Under Kalama Heine’s guiding hand, the hālau blossomed. In 1977, Kalama Heine took her new hālau to the Merrie Monarch Festival. The caliber of Nā Pualei’s debut performance at the festival was such that they took first place in Hula Kahiko, receiving a perfect score, and winning first place overall in the Wāhine Division.

For Heine, who was there and witnessed the performance, the experience was life changing. She had quit dancing hula several years earlier when she was about 10 years old. “I didn’t want to dance hula. I told my mom, ʻI’m over it. I’m going to play sports,’” Heine admitted.

“But then, after the performance, I told her, ʻMom, I want to dance hula, and I want to dance for you.’ It was because I had seen excellence on that floor and it shocked me into doing something better.”

One of the things that set the hālau’s kahiko performance apart were their kaʻi (entrance dance) and hoʻi (exit dance). Instead of a traditional kaʻi, Kalama Heine composed an original kaʻi, Panaewa.

Their hoʻi was also special. It was a portion of a 9th century Tahitian migration chant, Nuʻumea Lani, gifted to Kalama Heine by Kumu Hula John Kaʻimikaua. “This chant has a thousand lines, but he gave us a section and said, ʻthis is what you use to take your women offstage,’” Heine remembered. Nā Pualei has been using it as their hoʻi for 50 years now.

From the beginning, Nā Pualei and Nā Kamalei were regular collaborators who were making an impact in the hula community. “Their thinking was so progressive that they kind of pushed the envelope,” said Heine. “It kind of forced all the other young, up-and-coming hālau to think outside the box, yet stay within the [required] boundaries and parameters. They were always learning, improving and just sharing.”

Decades passed, and while some haumāna came and went, the core group of women who had been with Nā Pualei from the beginning remained intact through graduations, marriages, careers, parenthood and loss; more than a hālau, they were ʻohana. Pilina built on aloha and a shared passion for hula, enduring through all seasons of life.

In the mid-2000s, Kalama Heine was determined to form an ʻūniki class for 13 of her students – one of whom was her daughter. Like her mother before her, Heine initially hesitated, reluctant to take on the kuleana. “I knew that, eventually, hālau would come to me,” she said.

Some of her hula sisters were also reluctant to ʻūniki, but for a different reason. They did not want to leave the hālau that was also ʻohana. “But my mom allowed everyone to stay until they were ready to leave.”

In 2009, Heine and 12 of her hula sisters completed ʻūniki ceremonies and Nā Pualei continued to evolve. Then in 2012, the hālau that had been exclusively for women for 30 years opened a class for keikikāne – in part because so many of the haumāna had young sons. And as those boys grew up, a kāne class was added as well.

When Kalama Heine passed in 2015, she was in the process of training a second ʻūniki class. Heine assumed leadership of Nā Pualei, and completed their training in 2018 – a class that included her sister, ʻAuliʻi Heine Hirahara, who has since started her own hālau. Heine is now training her youngest sister, Healiʻi Heine, to become a kumu hula as well.

In all, Nā Pualei has graduated 16 kumu hula and birthed eight new hālau. However, some remain at Nā Pualei, content to kākoʻo Heine with running the hālau, teaching its classes, and helping to build a vision for the next 50 years.

Beyond training young people to preserve and perpetuate hula as a living art, Kalama Heine wanted to instill in her haumāna a love for all that is Hawaiian and determination to uphold their kuleana to our people – whatever that might be.

“One of my mom’s goals for Nā Pualei was to train young people to be future leaders and to move our lāhui forward,” Heine reminisced. “She was a mana wahine. Even today people speak highly of her. It’s like she never left; a name that is not forgotten. She touched a lot of people.”

The post Nā Pualei o Likolehua – “ʻO ke Aloha hoʻi e Hoʻomau ʻia ana” appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Traditionally, our moʻokūʻauhau (genealogies) establish us as Kānaka ʻŌiwi – the Indigenous people of Hawaiʻi. It is from this foundation of moʻokūʻauhau that we have pilina to our ancestors, to this ʻāina, and to one another; an identity established by bloodlines, lineage, and connection.

It was not until the 1921 Hawaiian Homes Commission Act was passed by the U.S. Congress, with language defining “natives” as those individuals having 50% or more Hawaiian blood, that the idea of “blood quantum” to determine our Hawaiian-ness was introduced into the consciousness of our people and began to redefine how we saw ourselves.

If conditions remain as they are today it will only be a matter of a short space of time when this race of people, my people, renowned for their physique, their courage, their sense of justice, their straightforwardness, and their hospitality will be a matter of history.
– Prince Kūhio to Congress on Dec. 14, 1920

A tool of dispossession

The idea of blood quantum to determine indigeneity is an invention of settler colonial governments designed to dispossess Native Peoples from their lands.

In Canada, the 1876 Indian Act, still in effect today, determines who receives “status” from the government. “Status Indians” must be 50% or more Indigenous and are eligible for a variety of benefits not available to the rest of the population. Whether or not a person identifies as Indigenous, or practices Indigenous culture and traditions, is irrelevant to the designation.

Mi’kmaq attorney and professor Pamela D. Palmater writes: “There is a long-term effect of this type of legislation: that every single First Nation in Canada effectively has an extinction date, a day when that Nation’s last registered Indian is born.”

In the Americas, blood quantum first shows up in 1705 in Virginia when the colony adopted an “Indian Blood Law” limiting the rights of Native Americans with 50% (or more) Indigenous ancestry and affording greater rights to those with less than 50% ancestry.

Then in 1887, Congress passed the General Allotment Act (the “Dawes Act”) which gave the U.S. president the power to break up communally held tribal lands into parcels of about 160 acres that were then “allotted” to individuals – typically heads of households. The law was designed to push Native Americans from tribal land ownership to private land ownership, ostensibly to encourage independent farming and economic prosperity.

At the time, an estimated 138-150 million acres were under Tribal authority and control. According to the Native Governance Center, under the Dawes Act “the federal government used blood quantum to determine allotment eligibility and also granted Native people with lower blood quantums the ability to sell their allotments. Any unallotted ʻsurplus’ land [in the end about 90 million acres] was sold to non-native buyers. The federal government used this strategy to further strip Native nations of their land base.”

In other words, the government “gave” portions of land already controlled by the Native Nations to their individual members and when there were no more tribal members “eligible” to receive a land allotment based on blood quantum, the government kept the rest (about 65% of the original acreage) and sold it to non-natives.

The “Indian Reorganization Act” of 1934 ended the forced allotment of tribal lands as the federal government changed its policy to one of recognition of tribal governments and the promotion of self-government – so long as they conformed to an American model. However, it also formalized blood quantum as the federal tool for defining Native American identity and tribal membership, replacing kinship-based membership systems.

“Blood quantum emerged as a way to measure ʻIndian-ness’ through a construct of race. So that over time, Indians would literally breed themselves out and rid the federal government of their legal duties to uphold treaty obligations,” explained Dr. Elizabeth Rule (Chickasaw) an assistant professor at American University in a 2018 NPR interview.

According to the Native Governance Center, the Indian Reorganization Act resulted in many Native nations adopting “boilerplate constitutions” developed by the federal government that included using – for the first time – blood quantum as the basis for tribal citizenship.

Deciding who is Hawaiian

According to Dr. J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, a professor of Indigenous Studies at Princeton University, “the blood quantum rule operates as a technique of state craft that undergirds dispossession” noting that “U.S. governmental bodies have used blood quantum classifications both historically and in the present to appropriate Native lands and promote cultural and biological assimilation to the advantage of whiteness.”

Her 2008 book, Hawaiian Blood: Colonialism and the Politics of Sovereignty and Indigeneity, focuses on the U.S. imposition of blood quantum on Hawaiians codified in the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act (HHCA) of 1921.

As her research documents, the legislation initially proposed by Hawaiʻi’s Congressional Delegate, Prince Jonah Kūhiō Kalanianaʻole, defined Native Hawaiians as all Hawaiians “in whole or part.” Members of Congress, however, were uncomfortable with an all-inclusive definition of Native Hawaiian and pushed for a new definition. Eventually, 1/32 became a hypothetical example and later, the newly proposed standard.

Kūhiō saw the HHCA as “belated justice” and emphasized in his testimony before Congress that Hawaiian dispossession, depopulation and economic marginalization had to be remedied. Its purpose, therefore, was rehabilitative and inclusive.

The greatest opposition to the HHCA came from Hawaiʻi’s wealthy corporate plantation and ranch owners. They sent their representatives to Washington, D.C., to voice their dissent to Kūhiō’s proposed legislation. Unwilling to give up their access to trust lands, they proposed “full-blood Hawaiian” as the most appropriate definition.

Kauanui asserts that the blood quantum criterion emerged as a way to avoid recognizing Hawaiian entitlement to the lands desired for the homestead program. “Key players in the HHCA hearings redefined ʻneed’ in racial terms by using blood quantum as an indicator of social competency, where those defined by the 50% rule were deemed incapable to look out for themselves,” she said.

“Hence, in the quest to control Hawaiian land and assets, blood quantum classification emerged as a way to undermine Kānaka Maoli sovereignty claims – not only by explicitly limiting the number who could lay claim to the land, but also by reframing the Native connection to the land itself from a legal claim to one based on charity.”

This was evident in the testimony of attorney William B. Pittman at the Congressional hearings in December 1920 on behalf of Raymond Ranch (now Ulupalakua Ranch) and other interests.

Arguing that the legislation should only apply to full-blooded Hawaiians Pittman said, “I do not believe the delegate [Kūhiō] will object to that – that it be confined to the full blood instead of the half blood – because he knows and everybody knows that any part Hawaiian is capable of taking care of himself and does not need any rehabilitation.”

To which Kūhiō replied, “I would like to see everybody get the benefit of it in Hawaiʻi. For years past and up to the present time, the Hawaiians have never received any benefits.”

The proposed legislation continued to use a 1/32 blood quantum to define Native Hawaiians at least through April 1921. However, after the proposal was rejected by Congress for an unrelated reason and sent back to the territorial legislature for revision, 1/8 became the new standard being debated.

By the time the proposal went back to Congress, however, Native Hawaiian was defined as 50%, “a compromise made between Kūhiō and Hawaiʻi Sen. John H. Wise (also Kanaka Maoli) with the elite ʻMerchant Street gang’ in Honolulu,” Kauanui said.

She posits that “had there been an abiding focus on Hawaiian land entitlements, rather than a shift to a welfare discourse of Hawaiian neediness, genealogical descent could have remained as the way to determine Kānaka Maoli eligibility for homesteading, since as descendants of the kingdom, Kānaka Maoli could claim an equitable right to the land as their inheritance.”

However, she adds, “neither the island representatives serving the interests of the sugar corporations, nor the U.S. government intended to bolster Hawaiian claims, especially those that would call U.S. occupation into question.”

Kūhiō’s call for Hawaiian rehabilitation focused on Indigenous mortality and the HHCA was originally premised on recognition of citizenship under the Hawaiian Kingdom as Hawaiians grappled with unresolved land rights, “but the problem was in articulating that awareness of these historical claims within the confines of American law, citizenship and racial categories,” said Kauanui.

Blood quantum and identity

“Portraits of Hawaiians, 1909”

Photo series by Caroline Haskins Gurrey, Wikimedia Commons

Until 1921, Hawaiians were simply Hawaiians. After foreign contact began in 1778, the mixed race children of Hawaiian mothers and (mostly) European fathers were raised Hawaiian and fully integrated into Hawaiian society.

Hawaiian identity was based on lineage and cultural norms rather than racial reckoning, thus many Hawaiian children of mixed ancestry were not even aware of their mixed ancestry – especially if they were hānai.

Today, despite the imposition of blood quantum on the Hawaiian psyche for the past 100 years, in most instances one’s appearance or estimated blood quantum is not an exclusionary social factor because of the importance of genealogy and pilina within the Hawaiian community. Indeed, nearly every Hawaiian family today includes members who qualify (and don’t qualify) as Native Hawaiian under the federal definition.

Reflecting on the negative impacts of blood quantum on our lāhui, Papa Ola Lōkahi CEO Dr. Sheri Daniels observed that it becomes a “have or have not” question. “I think when we talk about blood quantum, people get really stuck around ʻwhat does it mean for me? How do I benefit?’” She acknowledges that we need spaces, as ʻŌiwi, to talk through the ʻeha (pain) associated with the blood quantum label and the ways it has divided us.

“We come from strong people so why are we still focused on how disparate we are? We know our moʻokūʻauhau. It is about having koko (blood). If someone tells me they are Kanaka, I’m going to take that at face value. I’m not going to ask to see their documents.”

As it suits their needs

In discussing blood quantum as a colonial invention used to acquire land, wealth and power, it is important to point out the glaring contradiction between the imposition of blood quantum policies on Indigenous Peoples as distinct from Black Americans.

While the federal government has consistently imposed minimum blood quantum requirements on Indigenous Peoples to establish them as “native,” any amount of African blood was enough to establish someone as Black.

The notorious “one drop” rule originated after slavery ended in 1863 and was entrenched during the “Jim Crow” era, a period of legalized racial discrimination in America, primarily in southern states. It persisted until the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Rooted in white supremacy and slavery, the “one drop” rule was intended to keep the white race “pure” and to prevent individuals with any amount of African blood from accessing the privileges of whiteness in America. Meanwhile, Indigenous persons of mixed race were not only permitted to assimilate – they were encouraged to do so.

Dr. Brian W. Dippie is a professor emeritus of U.S. cultural history at the University of Victoria in British Columbia. In his 1982 book, The Vanishing American: White Attitudes and the U.S. Indian Policy, he writes, “The situations of the Negro (sic) and the Indian were not really analogous … one was earmarked for a segregated, menial existence, the other for full participation in white civilization.”

Expanding on this idea he notes, “The native population was small – just an infinitesimal fraction of the whole American population – and while a massive infusion of Indian blood might pollute the national type, the limited amount available could do no harm and might even do some good.”

For the U.S. government, assimilation of Indigenous Peoples had several benefits. For one thing, absorption of Indigenous Peoples into the dominant white American culture negates pesky Indigenous land and sovereignty claims, and reduces the number of individuals who can qualify for federal benefits as people intermarry.

Indigenous People have also been fetishized in American culture in ways that Black Americans have not. Take, for example, the romanticized “noble savage” trope or the sexualized “hula girl” of the territorial era. These stereotypes make native peoples more palatable and even inspire dubious claims of Indigenous ancestry.

Impossible to measure

Blood quantum as a concept for determining our Hawaiian-ness has become entrenched over the past century. As a result, many of us think of ourselves and our Hawaiian identity in terms of fractions.

However, blood quantum is impossible to quantify and cannot be measured using birth certificates. The reason? Science.

Children inherit half of their DNA from their mother and half from their father. But unless they are identical twins, siblings do not inherit the exact same DNA. That is why children from the same family can look quite different.

A child receives 23 sets of chromosomes from each parent – so 46 altogether – which makes up their DNA. When joined, these chromosomes commingle and swap genetic information resulting in even more variations.

According to biotech company Sano Genetics, there are more than 8 million possible DNA combinations from just 23 chromosome sets, and research has shown that full siblings can share as little as 37% or as much as 65% of their genetic variants.

So while siblings receive 50% of their DNA from each parent, they don’t receive the exact same 50%. It is the reason why siblings who take DNA tests often get very different results. Thus blood quantum is an unscientific western construct without substance or merit.

Reconciling and moving forward

In contrast to genealogies and lineage which connect people to each other and to the land, the use of blood quantum to determine “Hawaiian-ness” attempts to classify ʻŌiwi into disparate groups of Hawaiians, which has divided families and communities for generations.

As intermarriage created new family dynamics and the 50% blood quantum requirement threatened HHCA descendants with dispossession from the land they were raised on, to its credit the State of Hawaiʻi was able to get Congressional approval to decrease the blood quantum requirement for successorship from 50% to 25% more than 20 years ago.

More recently, in 2017, the State of Hawaiʻi signed Act 80 into law further decreasing the HHCA successorship requirement to 1/32 Hawaiian – much closer to the original vision of Prince Kūhiō. However, implementation requires Congressional approval and it has been languishing in Washington, D.C., since 2022.

Ultimately, as is the case among First Nations Peoples, many ʻŌiwi object to the 50% blood quantum designation – not because they desire federal benefits – but because it is inherently divisive and undermines Indigenous self-identity and political claims. “Hawaiian kinship and genealogical modes of identification allow for political empowerment in the service of nation-building because it is inclusive,” Kauanui said.

“Not only is the genealogical approach more wide-reaching, it is embedded in Indigenous ontologies (realities) whereby peoplehood is rooted in the land. This inclusivity is especially true in the face of non-Hawaiian political opposition to Native Hawaiian entitlements and the sovereignty movement.”

While blood quantum continues to be a controversial topic, it does not need to be a divisive one. “We may not see eye-to-eye,” Daniels said. “But, at the end of the day, if we all collectively say that our North Star is being Hawaiian – and we practice being the best Kanaka we can be – then everything else is just noise.”

Author’s note: Mahalo nui to Dr. J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, who generously shared her extensive research on blood quantum for the purposes of this article. Dr. Kauanui is an author, professor, and expert on settler colonialism, self-determination, decolonization, international law, race, gender and sexuality.

To learn more about Act 80 and to track changes to the HHCA visit: doi.gov/Hawaiian/hhca-amendments

The post Designed to Divide: Understanding Blood Quantum appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Unuhi ʻia e Paige M. K. Okamura

Wahi a Tom Pōhaku Stone, ua hānau ʻia ʻo ia he kama na ke kai.

He kanaka heʻe nalu nui kaulana a he ihupani holokai ʻo Stone, no laila, he ʻālapa hiapaʻiʻole ʻo ia e ʻimi mau ana i nā mea e hoʻokapalili ai ka houpo. He mau ʻālinalina me nā moʻolelo kona e hōʻike ai i kona komo mau ʻana i nā hana weliweli i ʻaneʻane make ʻo ia.

He loea kālai ʻo ia, he mea hoʻomau moʻomeheu, he kumu, a he moho laeʻula. Me ia hoʻokahi ka hoʻohanohano no ka hoʻōla ʻana i ka heʻe hōlua, a ʻo ia nō ke kāʻeʻaʻeʻa heʻe hōlua o ko Hawaiʻi paeʻāina.

No ka Heʻe Hōlua

ʻO ka heʻe hōlua a ko kākou kūpuna, he pāʻani keu a ka weliweli i ʻike ʻia ma Hawaiʻi wale nō.

ʻOkoʻa ka lōʻihi, ka piʻina, me ke kūlana mākau o nā kahua hōlua no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana. No ka leʻaleʻa me ka hoʻomaʻamaʻa nā kahua hōlua i hana ʻia me ka mauʻu. ʻO nā kahua hōlua i hana ʻia me nā pōhaku a uhi ʻia me nā lānahu pōhaku, no ka hoʻokūkū ʻana o nā aliʻi ia mau kahua hōlua. Lū ʻia ka pili a i ʻole ka pua kō ma luna i ʻoi aʻe ai ka pakika o ke kahua hōlua.

Hoʻomaka nā kahua hōlua nui loa ma uka a holo a hiki loa aku i kapa kai – aia ka hopena o kekahi ma kaʻe pali. ʻO ke kahua hōlua lōʻihi loa i mālama maikaʻi ʻia, aia ma Kāneaka ma Keauhou ma Hawaiʻi mokupuni. I ke kūkulu ʻia ʻana o ia kahua, he mile a ʻoi paha ka lōʻihi mai ka puʻu a i ke kai kūʻono ʻo Heʻeia.

He 12 – 18 kapuaʻi ka lōʻihi o nā papa hōlua, akā, he ʻeono ʻīniha wale nō ka laulā. ʻElua ona kāmaʻaloa i hana ʻia me nā lāʻau ʻōiwi paʻa, e laʻa me ke kauila, i hauhoa ʻia i nā keʻa ʻohe. Hauhoa ʻia nā papa liʻi i nā keʻa no ka pola a me nā lāʻau paʻa lima. Hamohamo ʻia ka ʻaila kukui ma lalo o nā kāmaʻaloa i ʻoi aʻe ai ka paheʻe ʻana.

He mea kupaianaha nō ma ka haku ʻana o ka papa hōlua. Kūkulu ʻia nā papa hōlua me ke akeakamai i maʻalahi ka paheʻe ʻana i ka makani. Hiki ke moe ma ka ʻōpū ma ka pola, kukuli iho ma ke kuli, a i ʻole e kū i luna, a heʻe nō me ka wikiwiki he 75 mile o ka hola a ʻoi.

Nui nā kumu no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana. No ka hapanui o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi, he hana leʻaleʻa wale nō. He hana punahele ia ma ka wā Makahiki, a komo kekahi poʻe nānā i ka pili waiwai no ka lanakila ʻana o kā lā-kou heʻe hōlua punahele.

E like me ka mea i hōʻike ʻia ma kā Apple TV kiʻi kīwī ʻo Chief of War, ʻo ka heʻe hōlua kekahi hana hoʻomana a nā aliʻi. “Ua pono nā aliʻi nui e hōʻike aku i ko lākou mākaukau no ka make ʻana, inā he ʻiʻini ko lākou e alakaʻi,” wahi a Stone. “I loko nō naʻe o kona kaila Hollywood, he kiʻi maikaʻi ʻo Chief of War no ka hōʻike ʻana i ke ʻano o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi me ko kākou mālama ʻana i nā mea like ʻole.”

Ma mua, ua manaʻo ʻia ʻo ka heʻe hōlua he hana na nā aliʻi kāne wale nō, akā naʻe, paʻa i loko o nā moʻolelo kahiko nā moʻolelo o nā kāne a me nā wāhine e komo ana ma ka heʻe hōlua ʻana – nā makaʻāinana a me nā aliʻi pū kekahi – ma mua o ka launa ʻana me nā kānaka no waho. Eia kēia, ʻo ka moʻolelo kaulana no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana, pili ia i ko Pele heʻe hōlua ʻana ma luna o ka pele i mea e lanakila ai ma luna o Kahawali, ke aliʻi haʻakei no Puna, a i ko lāua heihei ʻana ʻaneʻane make ʻo Kahawali.

He Ola Piha Hoʻomākaukau

I kona wā ʻōpio, nui ko Stone kipa ʻana iā Waikīkī kahi a kona tūtū i hana a kūʻai lei aku ai. Ma hope o ke kōkua ʻana i kona tūtū, hele ʻo ia i kahakai a nānea me nā Keiki Kahakai o Waikīkī. Na Duke Kanamoku i kōkua iā Stone ma ke kau ʻana ma kona nalu mua loa, he ʻelima wale nō ona makahiki ma ia wā.

Mai ia manawa, hei ʻo Stone naʻau a puni ʻo ia i ka heʻe nalu. Ke hele i Waikīkī, ma hope o ke kōkua kūʻai lei ʻana, hele aku ʻo ia i kahakai e kali ana i ke kiʻi ʻana o kekahi o nā Keiki Kāne o Waikīkī i ka papa heʻe nalu nona e heʻe nalu aku ai. ʻO kekahi o ia mau Keiki Kāne, ʻo Joey Gerard, he kanaka koʻikoʻi no Stone. “Pēlā au i hoʻomaka e heʻe nalu ma nā nalu nui – ma muli o Joey Gerard,” i hoʻomanaʻo ai ʻo Stone.

ʻIke ʻia kona ʻano ʻālapa e kona mau kūpuna a i kona makahiki ʻehā, hoʻouna ʻia akula ʻo ia e noho me kona ʻanakala kuakahi ʻo John Solomon, he paniolo no Kohala. ʻAʻohe āna keiki, no laila, ua manaʻo ʻia e hānai iā Stone a laila na Stone e mālama i kāna hana hānai pipi. “Ua hānai ʻia au he paniolo, akā, ua paʻakikī naʻe no ʻAnakala John no ka mea, ua puni au i ke kai,” i ʻakaʻaka ai ʻo Stone. Ua noho pū ʻo ia me Solomon no ʻelua wale nō makahiki.

Iā ia ma Oʻahu, kipa akula ʻo ia i kona kupuna kāne ma ka ʻaoʻao o kona māmā, ʻo David Kahanu, ma Kāneʻohe. “A pēlā nō e hōʻea mai ai i kēia moʻolelo o ka heʻe hōlua,” i wehewehe maila ʻo Stone. “Hoʻomākaukau ana ʻo ia iaʻu e aʻo i ka heʻe hōlua.”

Moʻolelo maila ʻo Kahanu no ka heʻe hōlua a ua lawe ʻo ia iā Stone e heʻe lāʻī ma kekahi puʻu mauʻu ma Kāneʻohe, me ka heʻe lepo ʻana i ke awāwa ʻo Nuʻuanu. Lawe ʻia ʻo ia i kekahi ulu manakō i uka o Pālolo a ʻaʻa iā Stone e lele mai kekahi kumu lāʻau i lalo loa hoʻi o ke awāwa. “Aʻo ana ʻo ia iaʻu e ʻaʻa i ka hana; e kia hoʻi i ka pahuhopu a ʻaʻole e kānalua,” i hoʻomanaʻo mai ʻo Stone.

ʻO kona pilina me Kahanu kekahi mea koʻikoʻi o ko Stone wā ʻōpio. “Nui koʻu aloha i nā manawa aʻu i noho pū ai me ia no ka mea, moʻolelo ana ʻo ia iaʻu iā māua e inu kī me ka ʻai pelena ana. A laila, ua haʻalele nō ʻo ia, ua hala. Pēlā nō ia.”

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He Ala ʻana o ka Moʻomeheu me ka Politika

E like me ka nui o nā ʻōpio Hawaiʻi o nā makahiki 1960, piʻi ana ko Stone kai i nā mea i hiki ʻole iā ia ke wehewehe pono. Ma waho o ka heʻe nalu ʻana me kona hoihoi i nā pāʻani kai, kāʻili ʻia kona noʻonoʻo a loaʻa ʻo ia i ka pilikia me nā mākaʻi.

Haʻalele ʻo ia i ke kula kiʻekiʻe a komo ʻo ia i ka pūʻali koa. Ma hope o ka puka ʻana mai ka pūʻali koa, hana ʻo ia no ke Kūlanakauhale o Honolulu ma ke ʻano he kiaʻi ola a i kona wā kaʻawale ua heʻe nalu a holo papa peʻa ʻo ia.

A laila, ma ka lā 17 o Ianuali, 1993, ua komo ʻo Stone ma ka paikau ʻOnipaʻa, ka hoʻohanohano ʻana i ka piha ʻana he 100 makahiki o ka hoʻokahuli ʻia o ke aupuni Hawaiʻi. Ma ka Hale Aliʻi ʻo ʻIolani i lohe ai ʻo ia i ka haʻi ʻōlelo a Haunani Kay Trask, ka haʻi ʻōlelo kaulana i kēia wā me kona hoʻōho ʻana aku “ʻAʻole kākou he ʻAmelika! ʻAʻole loa e lilo ana he mau ʻAmelika!”

Ua loli loa ko Stone ʻano i ka lohe ʻana i nā ʻōlelo a Trask. Hoʻokō ʻo ia i kāna kekelē GED, komo akula i ke kulanui ma ke Kulanui Kaiāulu o Koʻolau (WCC), ʻaʻole ʻo ia i nānā i hope.

Ka Hoʻōla ʻana i ka Heʻe Hōlua

No kekahi pāhana noiʻi ma ka papa ʻike Hawaiʻi ma WCC ma lalo o Kumu Kalani Meinecke, ua ulu aʻe ko Stone hoi e aʻo mai e pili ana i ka hōlua. “Nānā nui ʻia ka hoʻokele waʻa ʻana e nā kānaka ʻē aʻe. Akā, ua makemake au e kia ma ka ʻike a koʻu tūtū kāne i aʻo mai iaʻu, a loaʻa paha kekahi mea i ʻike ʻole ʻia. Pēlā i hoʻomaka ai kēia.”

No laila, i ka makahiki 1994, me ko Meinecke kākoʻo, hoʻomaka ʻo Stone e aʻo mai i nā mea a pau i hiki iā ia ke aʻo e pili ana i ka hōlua. ʻAʻole ʻo ia i kākau wale i pepa noiʻi, ua kūkulu ʻo ia i ka papa hōlua āna i kapa ai ʻo Keahiokekai.

Ua kūkulu ʻia kāna papa hōlua mai nā wehewehena i loaʻa ma ka puke ʻo Arts and Crafts of Hawaii i kākau ʻia e Sir Peter H. Buck (Te Rangi Hīroa), he kanaka hulikanaka Māori. Nele naʻe ko Buck wehewehena o ka hauhoa ʻana o nā kāmaʻaloa i nā keʻa, no laila, hauhoa ʻo Stone e like me ka hauhoa ʻana no ka waʻa.

Kuhi koke maila ʻo Stone, ʻaʻole ʻo ia hoʻokahi ka hanohano o ka hoʻōla ʻana i ka heʻe hōlua. He mau pakanā kona ma ia hana, ʻo kona mau hoa papa mai WCC ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo Kilohana Duarte (ua hala) lāua ʻo Anne Campbell (kā Stone wahine i kēia manawa). “Aia pū lāua me aʻu mai kinohi. ʻO mākou ʻekolu ma kēia huakaʻi like.”

ʻOiai ʻo ia i kona mau makahiki kanahā, lilo kona kālena ma ka heʻe nalu nui ʻana i ke aʻo ʻana iā ia iho i ka heʻe hōlua. Lawe ʻo ia i kāna papa hōlua i Maui no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana ma ke kahua hōlua ma ʻUlupalakua, akā ua haki nā wēlau o nā kāmaʻaloa ma ka huakaʻi ʻana i Maui. Ua hiki nō ke kau ma luna a heʻe, akā ma hope ua lawe ʻo ia i kāna papa hōlua i Hawaiʻi mokupuni e kuni ai ʻoiai ua pilikia.

Ua hele akula ʻo Stone i Kīholo a waiho i kāna papa hōlua ma kapakai iā ia e ʻohiʻohi ʻana i nā lāʻau no ke ahi. I kona hoʻi ʻana mai, aia he ʻeono honu nui e moe ana ma luna o kāna papa hōlua. He hōʻailona kēia no Stone. ʻAʻole i kuni ʻia i ke ahi ma ia lā, mau nō kona heʻe hōlua ʻana ma luna o ia papa hōlua a hiki i keia lā.

Ma mua o ka makahiki 1997, ua kūkulu ʻo Stone i mau papa hōlua a ua ʻae ʻia ʻo ia e nānā i ka papa hōlua hope loa i koe ma mua o ka hiki ʻana mai o Kuke ma ka Hale Hōʻikeʻike o Bīhopa. No kekahi mau makahiki i kilo ai ʻo Stone i ke kūkulu ʻia ʻana o ua papa hōlua nei.

“He mea kahiko loa ke akamai o ka wilikī ʻana i ka hōlua. He mea nui ke kaulike me ka napa o ka papa hōlua. He hōʻailona ia, a he hana ʻepekema. Inā ʻoʻoleʻa ka papa hōlua, e haki ana ke holo me ka wikiwiki loa. Pono ʻoe e kūkulu i ka papa hōlua me ka manaʻo no ka lōkahi o nā māhele a pau. ʻO ia ka mea nui.”

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Ka Hōʻailona me ke Kūlana o nā Wāhine ma ka Hōlua

Ma waena o nā makahiki 1994 me 1998 he mau haili moe ko Stone. I loko o ia mau moeʻuhane, aia ʻo Stone e hele wāwae ana me kekahi wahine. Hiki aku lāua i Halemaʻumaʻu i Kīlauea, a laila ua ʻike ʻo ia ʻo ka wahine, ʻo Pele nō ia. Ma kēia moeʻuhane, wehewehe akula ʻo Pele iā ia i ka hauhoa kūpono ʻana no ka papa hōlua.

“Ala aʻe au ma kahi o ka hola ʻekahi o ke aumoe, puka aku i waho, wāwahi i ka hōlua, a laila kūkulu hou e like me ke ʻano kahiko,” wahi a Stone.

No ka hōlua, pono e pālua ke kīpuni ʻana – i hiki i nā kāmaʻaloa ke hemo iki me ka holu ʻana i mua a i hope. Pono naʻe he 375 kapuaʻi o ka ʻaha.

Nui hou aku nā haʻawina a Stone i aʻo mai ai ma kona mau moeʻuhane ma waho o ka hauhoa ʻana wale nō. Hoʻomaopopo maila ʻo ia i ke kūlana koʻikoʻi o nā wāhine ma ka hōlua. “Haʻi mau mai ana koʻu māmā iaʻu, ke kipa mai kahi kupuna iā ʻoe, e hele nō ma ka huakaʻi. Pēlā au i hana ai. ʻOi aʻe koʻu aʻo ʻana i loko o ia mau moeʻuhane ma mua o nā mea i loaʻa ma kaʻu ʻimi noiʻi ʻana.”

Ua aʻo maila ʻo ia i ka inoa o ka papa hōlua āna i noiʻi ai ma ka Hale Hōʻikeʻike o Bīhopa, ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo Lonoikamakahiki, a ʻo ia ka papa hōlua o Kanemuna, he wahine no Hoʻokena. “A laila, hoʻomaopopo maila wau, iaʻu e huli ana no nā papa hōlua, he mau inoa wahine ko lākou.”

Wahi a Stone, no ka nui me ke kūlana koʻikoʻi o nā wāhine i komo i ka heʻe hōlua – me ia pilina i nā akua wāhine e laʻa me Pele – lilo ka heʻe hōlua i māka no nā mikionali i kūʻē i ka hoʻomana kahiko, me ka mana o ke kūlana o nā wāhine ma ka nohona Hawaiʻi i mea e kūlike me ko waho – me nā kāne ka mana ma luna o nā wāhine.

I ko Stone manaʻo, ʻo ia ke kumu i laha ʻole ai ka ʻike no ka heʻe hōlua, a ʻo ke kumu i nele ai kākou i nā papa hōlua kahiko, ua kākaʻikahi nā mea i koe.

“I ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi, he mana ko ka wahine, ʻoi aʻe ko lākou kūlana ma luna o nā kāne no ka mea, me lākou ka moʻokūʻauhau,” wahi a Stone. “Nui ka mana o nā wāhine Hawaiʻi ma luna o nā wāhine o ka ʻāina ʻē ma ka hana politika, kaiāulu, a me ka hoʻomana, he kūʻē kēia i ke kuanaʻike Iudaio-Kalikiano.”

ʻŌlelo ʻo Stone, ma ke kuanaʻike o nā mikionali, ua ʻike lākou i kahi mea pāʻani weliweli i komo pinepine ʻia e nā wāhine me nā papa hōlua i kapa ʻia no nā akua wāhine. “Ua pono lākou e hoʻopau i ka hoʻomana ʻana i nā wāhine,” a i mea e holoi ai i ka hōlua mai ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi, ua pono e wāwahi i nā kahua hōlua. A i kekahi mau manawa, hoʻohana ʻia nā pōhaku mai nā kahua hōlua no ke kūkulu ʻana i nā hale pule.

No ka Heʻe Hōlua mai Kēia Mua Aku

ʻOiai ʻo Stone i piha kona mau makahiki kanahiku i kēia manawa, hopohopo ʻo ia e lawe ʻia ʻana ka keʻe hōlua e nā malihini i mea e hoʻonui i kā lākou kālā wale nō mai nā hana kuʻuna me ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi e like me ka heʻe nalu ʻana – ko Hawaiʻi mea pāʻani waiwai hoʻolilo kaulana loa – ua kāʻili ʻia ka waiwai o ka heʻe nalu mai Hawaiʻi a puni ka honua i waena o ke kenekulia 20.

“Kānalua nui wau i ke kanaka nāna e mālama ana i kēia ʻike no ka mea, ua loaʻa iaʻu nā noi e hana pū me na ʻoihana papa huila me nā ʻoihana papa heʻe hau. Eia naʻe, ʻaʻole kēia ʻike he mea e kūʻai ʻia aku nei.”

I kēia manawa, ʻaʻole ʻo Stone e alakaʻi nei i kekahi kanaka hana hōlua a i ʻole heʻe hōlua ma waho o kona ʻohana ponoʻī, eia naʻe, he kumu ʻo ia no kekahi mau kānaka mālama moʻomeheu e hoʻomau nei i ka ʻike hōlua me ka hana ʻana i nā papa hōlua, ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo: Kumulāʻau Sing, ʻIliahi Doo, Kunāne Wooton, a me Mahi La Pierre.

Eia naʻe, ʻo Stone paha ko Hawaiʻi kanaka heʻe hōlua pinepine loa.

I kona ʻike, kākaʻikahi nā kānaka kūpaʻa ma kēia hana. “He hana ʻeha ka hana ʻana i ka papa hōlua,” wahi a Stone. “E kahe ana ke koko ma kou lima a e ʻeha ana kou kino holoʻokoʻa no ka mea e hoʻohana ana ʻoe i kou mau manamana lima, kou mau manamana wāwae, kou niho – nā mahele like ʻole – no ka hauhoa ʻana.”

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I kona noʻonoʻo ʻana i kona mau ʻiʻini nui ʻelua – ʻo ka heʻe hōlua me ka heʻe nalu – ʻōlelo ʻo Stone ua like a like nā mea ʻelua.

“E noʻonoʻo paha ma o ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi. Aia ʻo Pele ma kahi ʻaoʻao, aia ʻo Nāmakaokahaʻi ma ka ʻaoʻao aʻe. Pili naʻe ka moʻolelo kaʻao i ko lāua hakakā mau ʻana a puni ka paeʻāina, ma koʻu kuanaʻike, he moʻolelo no ka lōkahi o nā ʻaoʻao ʻelua. Hele pū nā ʻaoʻao ʻelua pēlā,” wahi a Stone.

“Ua like a like ka heʻe hōlua me ka heʻe nalu. Inā ʻaʻohe nalu o ke kai e heʻe ai, e heʻe ma nā kuahiwi.”

Stone makes both papa hōlua (sleds) – as well as traditional papa heʻe nalu (surfboards) – that can be ordered from his small business, Hawaiian Boarding Company: hawaiibc.com

The post Ka Hoʻōla ʻana i ko Hawaiʻi Mea Pāʻani Wiwoʻole: Ka Heʻe Hōlua appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Tom Pōhaku Stone says he was born to the ocean.

A renowned big wave surfer and waterman, Stone is a superb athlete and a self-avowed thrill-seeker with the scars to prove it and countless stories of danger and near-death experiences.

He is also a cultural practitioner, a master carver, an educator, and a Ph.D. candidate credited with almost single-handedly reviving heʻe hōlua (land sledding) and is considered to be Hawaiʻi’s foremost expert in the sport.

The Practice of Heʻe Hōlua

Heʻe Hōlua as practiced by our ancestors was an extreme sport unique to Hawaiʻi.

Slides varied tremendously in terms of length, incline, and difficulty. Some were grass slides used for training or recreation. Others were slides built with stones and then covered with hard-packed cinder for more serious competition by aliʻi. The slides were often strewn with pili grass or sugar cane tassels to decrease friction.

Many of the longer slides started up ma uka and ended at the coastline – some at ocean cliffs. The longest and best-preserved rock slide is Kāneaka at Keauhou on Hawaiʻi Island, which, when first constructed, extended about a mile from the hillside to Heʻeia Bay.

Papa hōlua (sleds) range from 12- to 18-feet-long, but are only about six inches wide. They consist of two runners (kāmaʻaloa) made with native hardwoods like kauila lashed to crosspieces (keʻa) made from ʻohe (bamboo). Smaller rails (papa) lashed to the crosspieces served as a platform and hand rails. The kāmaʻaloa were often lubricated with kukui nut oil to make them slide even faster.

Marvels of engineering and design, the aerodynamically constructed sleds can be ridden prone on one’s belly, kneeling, or standing upright, and can travel at speeds in excess of 75 mph.

The practice of hōlua served many purposes. For most people, most of the time, it was purely a fun and thrilling amusement. It was a favorite Makahiki pastime, and spectators would bet on their favorite riders.

Hōlua was also used ritualistically by aliʻi, as portrayed in Apple TV’s Chief of War. “The aliʻi nui had to perform, to show they’re willing to die if they wanted to lead,” Stone said. “Even though it’s Hollywood style, Chief of War is a great visual of who we were as a people and how we dealt with things.”

Once believed to be a sport reserved for male aliʻi, traditional accounts of the sport describe both male and female riders – commoners and aliʻi alike – prior to western influence. In fact, the best known moʻolelo about hōlua features Pele who rode her papa hōlua on a wave of lava to defeat Kahawali, a prideful young chief from Puna, in a race that nearly killed him.

A Life of Preparation

Growing up, Stone spent a lot of time in Waikīkī where his tūtū made and sold lei. After helping her, he would go down to the beach and hang out around the beach boys. It was Duke Kahanamoku who helped Stone catch his first wave when he was just 5 years old.

Stone was hooked. Whenever he was in Waikīkī, after helping to sell lei, he was at the beach raking the sand until one of the beach boys put a board into the water for him to surf. A young beach boy, Joey Gerard, was one of his greatest influences, “that’s how I started surfing bigger waves – it’s because of Joey Gerard,” Stone recalled.

Having been pegged by his kūpuna as “athletic,” at the age of 4 Stone was sent to live with his great uncle John Solomon, a Kohala rancher. Solomon had no children so the plan was to hānai Stone and have him take over the ranch. “I was being raised to be a cowboy but Uncle John found me very difficult because I was always drawn to the ocean,” he laughed. Stone lived primarily with Solomon for two years.

Whenever he was on Oʻahu, Stone also spent a lot of time with his maternal grandfather, David Kahanu, in Kāneʻohe. “And that’s how we get to hōlua,” Stone explained. “He was training me to learn about it.”

Kahanu told stories about hōlua riding and took young Stone ti-leaf sliding on grassy Kāneʻohe hillsides and mud sliding in Nuʻuanu Valley. He also took him to a grove of mango trees above Pālolo Valley and challenged Stone to jump from tree to tree all the way down into the valley. “He was teaching me to commit; to focus on what I was doing and not to hesitate,” Stone reflected.

Kahanu was one of Stone’s most significant relationships as a child. “I loved being with him whenever I had a chance because that was where he would tell me the stories over a cup of tea and crackers. And then he left, you know, he passed away. So that was that.”

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A Cultural and Political Awakening

Like many young Hawaiians coming of age in the late 1960s, Stone was increasingly dissatisfied and angry about things he couldn’t quite articulate. Outside of surfing and his interest in ocean sports, he was unfocused and got in trouble with the law.

He dropped out of high school and later joined the military. After being discharged, Stone worked for the City & County of Honolulu as an ocean safety officer and spent his free time surfing and windsurfing.

Then, on Jan. 17, 1993, Stone participated in the ʻOnipaʻa March marking 100 years since the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom. At ʻIolani Palace, he heard the late Haunani Kay Trask’s now-famous speech in which she asserted “We are not Americans! We will never be Americans!”

Hearing those words in that moment was transformational for Stone. He completed his GED, enrolled at Windward Community College (WCC), and never looked back.

Reviving the Art and Practice of Heʻe Hōlua

A research assignment for a Hawaiian culture class at WCC with Kumu Kalani Meinecke, inspired Stone to learn more about hōlua. “Everyone was focusing on voyaging. But I wanted to focus on what my tūtūkāne had been teaching me and research something nobody knew anything about. That’s how it all began.”

So in 1994, with Meinecke’s support, Stone began learning everything he could about hōlua.

He not only wrote a research paper, but built a papa hōlua (sled) that he named Keahiokekai.

His sled was constructed based on descriptions found in Arts and Crafts of Hawaii by Māori anthropologist Sir Peter H. Buck (Te Rangi Hīroa). The description lacked details on how to lash the runners to the crosspieces, so Stone improvised and used canoe lashing techniques.

Stone is quick to point out that reviving hōlua wasn’t his accomplishment alone. His WCC classmates, the late Kilohana Duarte and Anne Campbell (now his wife), were his partners. “They were with me almost from day one. The three of us were on this journey.”

Already in his 40s, Stone channeled his talent for big wave riding and began teaching himself to heʻe hōlua. He took his papa hōlua to Maui to ride an ancient slide at ʻUlupalakua, but the tips of his runners broke off in transit. He was still able to ride it, but later took his papa hōlua to Hawaiʻi Island intending to burn it since it was damaged.

Stone went down to Kīholo Bay and left his papa hōlua on the shore while he gathered wood for a fire. When he returned, there were six large honu (turtles) resting on it. Stone took this as a hōʻailona (sign). He did not burn his papa hōlua that day. In fact, he still rides it.

By 1997, Stone had already built several papa hōlua and so was allowed access to the only surviving pre-contact papa hōlua which was housed at Bishop Museum. Stone spent years studying its construction.

“The engineering that goes into hōlua construction is ancient. It’s about balance and flexibility. It’s both scientific and symbolic. If you make the papa hōlua rigid it’s going to break at high speed. You have to build that sense of unified flexibility into it. That’s the most important thing.”

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Divine Inspiration and the Role of Women in Hōlua

Between 1994 and 1998 Stone had a series of vivid dreams. In his dreams he walked the land with a woman he did not know. Eventually, they ended up at Halemaʻumaʻu in Kīlauea and he recognized the woman as Pele. In his dream, Pele explained the proper technique for lashing hōlua.

“I woke up at like 1:00 in the morning, went outside, took it apart, and re-lashed it traditionally,” Stone said.

Hōlua lashing requires a circular double wrap – a pattern that allows the sled’s runners to open slightly and flex forward and backwards. It takes about 375 consecutive feet of sennit.

But Stone learned more than hōlua lashing techniques from his dreams. He also came to understand the important role that women played in hōlua. “My mom always told me when a kupuna visits you, be open and go on the journey. So I did. And I learned more within those moeʻuhane than I learned from my research.”

He learned that the papa hōlua he studied at Bishop Museum was named Lonoikamakahiki and had belonged to Kanemuna, a woman from Hoʻokena. “And then I started to realize, as I searched for hōlua slides, they all have wāhine names.”

According to Stone, the prominence of women in the sport – and it’s connection to female deities like Pele – made hōlua a target of missionaries who not only wanted to suppress traditional religion, but also the prominence of women in Hawaiian society to align with western notions of male dominance and female subservience.

He believes that this is why so little is known about hōlua, and why so few hōlua slides remain.

“In Hawaiian culture, wāhine are more important [than men] because they carry the moʻokūʻauhau,” said Stone. “Hawaiian women had more political, social and spiritual capital than their western counterparts, which clashes with the conventional western Judeo-Christian world view.”

Stone said that what the missionaries “saw” was a dangerous sport that women actively participated in, with slides named after female deities. “They needed to eliminate the worship of females,” he said, noting that erasure of hōlua from Hawaiian consciousness included dismantling many of the slides. And in more than one instance, the stones that formed the slides were reused to build churches.

The Future of Heʻe Hōlua

Now in his 70s, Stone is concerned that outsiders will co-opt heʻe hōlua, monetize it, and profit off of Hawaiian intellectual and cultural property the way surfing – Hawaiʻi’s most famous export – was co-opted in the mid-20th century.

“The reason I’m very choosy about who maintains the knowledge is because I’ve had offers from skateboarding and snowboarding companies. But it’s not for sale,” Stone said adamantly.

Stone is not currently mentoring any hōlua makers or riders outside his own family, although he has previously served as kumu to a handful of cultural practitioners who are now perpetuating ʻike pertaining to hōlua and fabrication of papa hōlua: Kumulāʻau Sing, ʻIliahi Doo, Kunāne Wooton, and Mahi La Pierre.

However, Stone is arguably Hawaiʻi’s most active hōlua rider.

In his experience, few people want to commit. “It’s a process of pain to make a papa hōlua,” said Stone. “Your hands will be bleeding and your whole body aches because you learn to lash with your fingers, toes, teeth – whatever.”

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Reflecting on his twin passions for heʻe hōlua and heʻe nalu (surfing), Stone said that at their essence they are the same.

“Look at it from a cultural point of view. Pele is on one side and Nāmakaokahaʻi (sea goddess and sister to Pele) is on the other. Although the legend is about them battling their way across the islands, I see it as a harmonizing. They go hand in hand,” Stone said.

“Hōlua and surfing are one and the same. If no more waves, ride the mountains.”

Stone makes both papa hōlua (sleds) – as well as traditional papa heʻe nalu (surfboards) – that can be ordered from his small business, Hawaiian Boarding Company: hawaiibc.com

The post Reviving Hawaiʻi’s Extreme Sport: Heʻe Hōlua appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

“We cannot continue to let others decide our future,” wrote longtime Office of Hawaiian Affairs (OHA) trustee, Rowena Akana. “We will be one nation and one people. Let us embrace each other’s views no matter how different they are from our own.”

Known as a passionate, strong-willed and outspoken advocate for Native Hawaiian rights, Akana came from humble beginnings. Born during World War II, she grew up in Pālolo Valley on Oʻahu.

A proud Roosevelt High School “Rough Rider,” upon graduation, Akana moved to the continent, enrolling at New York University. A haumana of nā kumu hula Puanani and Leilani Alama from Kaimukī, she had the opportunity, while living in New York, to perform at the 1964 World’s Fair. She later continued her formal education at Kapiʻolani Community College and UH Mānoa.

In the late 60s Akana got married and started a family. Her husband, an air traffic controller, was later relocated to Guam and the family lived there for two years.

They returned to Hawaiʻi in the aftermath of the 1978 Constitutional Convention. It was 1979 and more than a hundred candidates were vying for one of the nine trustee seats for the newly created Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Akana’s friend, Rodney Burgess, was one of them. He asked Akana to be his campaign coordinator.

This was the catalyst for Akana’s political awakening. In a 2018 interview on ThinkTech Hawaiʻi, Akana recalled first learning about Hawaiʻi’s political history through workshops provided to educate the community by attorneys John Waiheʻe, Sr., John Van Dyke and Judge William Richardson – information she described as “eye opening.”

As she came to understand the hope for change that OHA represented, she increasingly focused on the fact that, since its establishment, OHA has been under-funded by the State of Hawaiʻi.

“OHA had a difficult time with the mandate to ʻbetter conditions for Native Hawaiians’ [because] they had no money. The state was just giving them peanuts and Hawaiians began to get disenchanted with OHA thinking, ʻwell this is our great hope and nothing is happening,’” Akana said in the 2018 interview.

This, along with her growing activism, prompted Akana to run for OHA herself in 1990. She won an At-Large trustee seat, eventually serving for nearly three decades (from 1990 through 2018). She was re-elected seven times and during her tenure she twice served as both board chair and vice-chair.

Throughout her political career, Akana was a vocal advocate for Native Hawaiians. She was an early critic of Maunakea’s mismanagement; was involved in a kūpuna health care task force; and advocated to exempt Kuleana Lands from property taxes – as a result, the maximum property tax on Kuleana Lands is $100 per year.

In 2007, her advocacy for Hawaiian soldiers wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan influenced the creation of the Army’s Warrior Transition Units to coordinate care for soldiers with serious physical or mental conditions.

Akana was known as a formidable opponent who did not shy away from controversy.

“Rowena lived her life as a voice for Hawaiian people. She was strong but always open to hearing positions contrary to her own. A worthy opponent and good friend,” said attorney Mililani Trask who served as an OHA trustee with Akana in the late 1990s.

Beyond politics, Akana worked as a federal grants reviewer, a substance abuse counselor, a radio newscaster and a substitute teacher. She also served for a time as the Pacific Region representative of AIANTA (American Indian Alaska Native Tourism Association).

While serving on AIANTA’s board, Akana got to know Pohai Ryan, a tourism executive with the Native Hawaiian Hospitality Association (NaHHA). Ryan convinced Akana to travel with NaHHA to the Internationale Tourismus-Börse (ITB) Berlin, the world’s largest annual tourism expo.

“She was very committed to economic development for Native Hawaiians,” Ryan recalled. Akana and Ryan later traveled together to AIANTA conventions held on tribal lands.

“Unforgettable. That is how I would describe former OHA Trustee Rowena Akana,” said Ryan. “She was very strong willed, and she enjoyed representing the Hawaiian people.”

As a resident of East Oʻahu, Akana was active with the Niu Valley Community Association and the Hawaiʻi Kai Bobby Sox Softball League. She also belonged to the Musicians Association of Hawaiʻi, the Society of Hawaiʻi Entertainers, and performed as a singer and emcee for the Tavana Polynesian Show in Waikīkī.

“Mom was a force,” said daughter Toni Nickens. “She was a straight shooter and wore her heart on her sleeve. Her methods were not embraced by everyone, but you knew exactly where she stood. You could criticize her approach, but never her heart for our lāhui.”

Akana’s heart for the lāhui is best understood through manaʻo she shared in a September 2017 Ka Wai Ola column:

“What we face today as Hawaiians, the Indigenous people of our lands, is no different than what occurred over 100 years ago. We are still fighting to protect our culture, rights to our lands, and our entitlements. Times may have changed but people are still the same. Greed is still the motivation behind efforts to relieve us of whatever entitlements we have left. The fight is even more difficult now that our enemies have become more sophisticated in ways to manipulate us and the law.

“We are one people. We cannot afford to be divided, not when so much work remains to be done. The struggle to regain our sovereign rights requires unity and the strength of numbers. Let us work together for the cause of nationhood. Let us agree on the things that we can agree to and set aside the things we differ on and move forward together for the future generations of Hawaiians yet to come.”

Rowena Akana is survived by her daughters Toni Akana Nickens and Ann-Marie Tomisato, and her three grandchildren, Cheyenne Noʻeauonalani Nickens, Nathaniel Tomisato and Micah Tomisato. A hoʻolewa and celebration of life will be held at Kawaiahaʻo Church on Thursday, January 15 (her birthday). Visitation at 10:00 a.m. and services to follow at 11:00 a.m.

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Kapualehuaonapalilahilahiokaala Kaʻapu Sproat Fonoimoana
March 9, 1938 – Oct. 2, 2025

Honolulu, Oʻahu: Beloved traditional Hawaiian healing practitioner Kapua Kaʻapu Sproat Fonoimoana was a member of Ke Ola Mamo’s board of directors and the kūpuna council of practitioners of Hawaiian healing traditions. Sproat Fonoimoana was raised in Punaluʻu, Oʻahu, and despite being born in the mid-20th century, she had an unconventional upbringing. Her ʻohana lived in a traditional hale pili (grass house) without electricity or running water – part of a kauhale built by her father, David Kaʻapu, on the family’s 2-acre ʻohana parcel. The family planted loʻi kalo and lived traditionally and self-sufficiently on the ʻāina. Sproat Fonoimoana later attended Kamehameha Schools, her love of education fostered by her mother who was a school teacher. As a result of her extraordinary childhood and upbringing, Sproat Fonoimoana was an early advocate of ʻai pono as well as a lāʻau lapaʻau practitioner, and an avid gardener and farmer, who grew both food and medicinal crops. With ʻike gleaned from her childhood, she also taught public health educators and dietitians how to dry and preserve traditional Hawaiian foods in preparation for open ocean travel – and then she traveled with dietitian Kaʻiulani Odom to carry those dried traditional provisions to the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia to supply crew members of the Hōkūleʻa as they made their way home to Hawaiʻi. Sproat Fonoimoana often worked with Koʻolau physician Dr. Miriam Chang, even sharing patients from time-to-time – including one patient with severe external injuries. Sproat Fonoimoana treated the patient with lāʻau lapaʻau, and they were healed without scars.

George “Keoki” Fukumitsu
June 2, 1953 – May 18, 2025

Hakipuʻu, Oʻahu: Keoki Fukumitsu, affectionately known as “Kalo Man,” was a seventh generation kalo farmer born and raised on ʻohana kuleana land in the ahupuaʻa of Hakipuʻu. A respected community leader, advocate and organizer, Fukumitsu was a kumu of kalo and traditional agro-ecological management, providing advice and guidance on restoration and farming efforts based on the ʻike kūpuna passed down through his ʻohana. Fukumitsu was also active in the Aloha ʻĀina movement and Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana in the 1970s and 80s, and was one of the original members of the Hakipuʻu ʻOhana (part of a coalition of plaintiffs collectively known as “Windward Parties”) in the landmark Waiāhole water case in the 1990s that sought to restore streams diverted from Windward Oʻahu by Central Oʻahu sugar plantations. Fukumitsu was the founder of grassroots nonprofit Hoʻihoʻi Ea which offers programs designed to provide a comprehensive approach to cultural preservation, sustainable development and community empowerment. Fukumitsu was profiled in a 1985 Nā Maka o ka ʻĀina documentary, Today’s Makaʻāinana – the Fisherman and the Farmer, and in a 2011 segment on the Free Hawaiʻi Broadcasting Network called Kalo Man – A Visit with Keoki Fukumitsu. Fukumitsu served as an advisor on various taro projects for UH Mānoa, Windward Community College, Kauaʻi Community College, the Native Hawaiian Advisory Council, and the Kawainui Marsh Ulupō Heiau Project, and was appointed to the state’s Taro Purity and Security Task Force. Beloved by his ʻohana and friends for his strength and resilience, Fukumitsu was steadfast in his aloha for the ʻāina, for his ʻohana, and for his kaiāulu.

Jonelle Leināʻala Pavao Jardin
Nov. 26, 1973 – Oct. 4, 2025

Kalāheo, Kauaʻi: Kumu Hula Leināʻala Pavao Jardin was the beloved and celebrated kumu of Hālau ka Lei Mokihana o Leināʻala from Kauaʻi. Since 2011, the multiple award-winning hālau has been a top performer at the annual Queen Liliʻuokalani Keiki Hula Competition, but in 2022 Hālau ka Lei Mokihana o Leināʻala made history as the first hālau from Kauaʻi to win the prestigious Lokalia Montgomery Perpetual Award at the Merrie Monarch Festival after a clean sweep in all wāhine categories. Earlier this year the hālau made history again when Jardin’s niece, Jaedyn Janae Puahualani Pavao, was crowned 2025’s Miss Aloha Hula – the first dancer from Kauaʻi to earn the coveted title. Jardin was a graduate of Waimea High School on Kauaʻi and of UH Hilo. She began dancing at the age of 3 under Kumu Hula Kuʻulei Punua, and later trained under Kumu Hula Lovey Apana and Kumu Hula Beverly Muraoka. While attending UH Hilo, she continued her advanced training under Kumu Hula Rae Fonseca. A year after returning to Kauaʻi in 1995 to care for her mother, Jardin opened her hālau with Kumu Fonseca’s blessings. Over the past 30 years, her hālau has grown to include some 200 haumāna on Kauaʻi, and in Japan and Mexico. Beyond achieving excellence in the artform that is hula, Jardin emphasized culture, language and history, connecting her haumāna with experts, resources and service opportunities in the community to dignify cultural practices and inspire restorative action. Jardinʻs daughter, Breeze Ann Pavao, now leads the hālau as its kumu hula.

Natalie “Tasha” Kama
Aug. 14, 1952 – Oct. 26, 2025

Kahului, Maui: Respected community leader, social justice and housing advocate, kahu and Maui County Councilwoman Natalie “Tasha” Kama was in the middle of serving her fourth consecutive term when she passed. Born and raised on Oʻahu, Kama moved to Maui as an adult 10 years after her dad received a homestead lease there. Known as a woman of deep faith, compassion and aloha, Kama became a pastor at her fatherʻs Christian Ministry Church in Wailuku soon after moving to Maui in 1983. With an associates degree in human services and certificates of competence in case management and substance abuse counseling, she was a passionate social justice organizer with Faith Action for Community Equity on Maui and helped establish the Waiohuli and Keokea homestead community associations. A mother of 11 keiki – and raised with 11 siblings herself – Kama led the revival of the parent-teacher association at Iao Intermediate School. She won her first election to the Maui County Council in 2018 after beating former Maui Mayor Alan Arakawa. Kama said in an interview that she was motivated to serve on the county council because half of her children live on the continent due to the lack of affordable homes in Hawaiʻi. Kama was the council’s presiding officer pro tempore and chair of the Housing and Land Use Committee – handling some of the council’s most polarizing issues including Bill 9, the controversial short-term vacation rental phase-out measure and South Maui’s Honuaʻula master-planned community project. Kama was beloved for her grace, patience and kindness.

Parker Kaipo Kaneakua, Sr.
Sept. 24, 1943 – Aug. 29, 2025

Kalihi, Oʻahu: For decades, respected Loea Lāʻau Lapaʻau Kaipo Kaneakua was a pillar of Hawaiʻi’s traditional Hawaiian healing community. During his lifetime, he touched many people with his healing skills, intuition and discernment. Born to a family of traditional healers whose members specialized in treating specific diseases, Kaneakua began training when he was just 5 years old, learning how to identify, gather and prepare the plants needed for remedies, as well as in a variety of diverse healing practices. Although his training included instruction from more than a dozen of his kūpuna, he learned lāʻau lapaʻau and lomilomi from his father and pule, hoʻoponopono and pale keiki (midwifery) from his grandmother. Born and raised in Kalihi Valley on Oʻahu, he learned his healing skills the traditional way – by listening, observing and doing. Deeply spiritual, Kaneakua combined his faith in Ke Akua and Christianity with traditional practices, developing a holistic perspective on treating illness. Sought after as a healer, even from patients outside of Hawaiʻi, Kaneakua often healed injuries when western approaches were unsuccessful. He was steadfast in his belief that Ke Akua was the source of all healing. Generous with his knowledge, Kaneakua was kumu to those who wished to learn, taking his haumāna on “herb walks” in both rural and more urban settings, pointing out plants used for lapaʻau and explaining their uses and preparations. He also worked with physicians on Kauaʻi, Maui and in Kohala sharing the ways in which he used his senses – including smell, voice vibrations and pulse readings to diagnose illnesses.

Mervin Lionel “Merv” Lopes
Sept. 23, 1932 – May 8, 2025

Waikoloa, Hawaiʻi Island: Best known as Chaminade University’s beloved basketball coach, Merv Lopes became a household name in Hawaiʻi in 1982 after coaching his team to a historic victory over top-ranked NCAA Division 1 University of Virginia – at the time, Chaminade was an underfunded NAIA school. Considered one of the biggest upsets in sports history, the win was followed by subsequent victories against nationally ranked teams like Southern Methodist earning the Chaminade Silverswords the nickname “Giant Killers” and Lopes the nickname “Merv the Magician.” Lopes coached basketball at Chaminade for 12 seasons, from 1977-1989, and remains the “winningest” coach in Chaminade history. Lopes was born in Nānākuli and his athleticism provided him with the opportunity to attend ʻIolani School. He graduated from ʻIolani as a three-sport athlete and went on to play football at San Jose State University. After earning a master’s degree from UH Mānoa and serving in the U.S. Army, Lopes became an educator, working for 30 years in the Hawaiʻi Department of Education as a middle school guidance counselor and as a high school P.E. teacher. In addition to coaching at Chaminade, Lopes coached at both Kalaheo and Kailua high schools, as well as in international sports programs around the world. Despite his success, those in the know say that for Lopes, coaching was more about building character than winning games. Known as a humble and aspirational leader, Lopes was devoted to his ʻohana and loved spending time at the ocean and fishing. In 2022, Lopes was named to Chaminade University’s Hall of Fame.

Author’s note: This hoʻomanaʻo is intended to recognize and honor the extraordinary contributions to our lāhui of those profiled. These are individuals who are widely known in our community, and this is a mere snapshot of their achievements based on information compiled from various community resources. The true richness of their lives – and how deeply they are loved and will be missed by their ʻohana and friends – cannot be captured in this format. We also acknowledge that there are many, many others who were lost to our lāhui this past year who we did not profile. For this, we apologize because we know their loss weighs heavily on the hearts of those who they loved and who loved them. As ever, our readers are invited to submit Haliʻa Aloha (fond remembrances) of their loved ones for publication in Ka Wai Ola newspaper. Ke Akua pū.

The post Ua Lele nā Manu i Kahiki: Remembering and Honoring Some of Those We Lost This Year appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.