Hattie Kalauluhi remembers growing up as a little girl in Waialua, living in a humble home near the beach.
She reminisces about a simple life sustaining themselves from the fat of the land. Kalo, 'opae, 'o'opu, laulau, 'opihi. Most significantly, she loved kalua pork and steamed chicken. She and her family wanted for nothing because everything they needed, they cultivated on their own. In return for what the land gave them, they cared for it, ensuring the soil was rich and the waters remained clear and clean. Hattie also remembers that her 'ohana cared for a particular shark that swam in and would have its back and underside cleaned from barnacles by her parents and grandparents. The shark was massive and at least thirty feet long, but it was docile and submissive in the presence of her folks and kupuna. Fishing expeditions by the men in her family were always successful because the shark chased fish into their nets. It also protected her family from other man-eating sharks. Once, when her father and her uncles were fishing outside the perimeter of their usual fishing grounds, a rogue wave appeared out of nowhere and capsized their canoe. The same shark appeared and stayed with them until they could right their canoe. Then, it safely led them back to shore."As a girl, I heard the makua talk about this shark all the time," Hattie recounted. "I asked my Mama one day why this shark helps us. My mama said it was because the shark once lived in our ohana as one of us, a living person. When that ohana died, our kupuna made their bones into an 'aumakua of our family, which is that shark. My mama said when her time came, that same shark would come to take her to the realm of our ancestors."
According to Hattie, when her mother's time came, she died in her sleep. The ohana left her body where it lay while they made arrangements for her funeral. It took a while for the mortician to come to the house because of how far the drive was. When the man finally came to retrieve the body of Hattie's mother, it was gone. Everyone searched high and low for the body, but it could not be found except when Hattie's father came around from the side of the house with his lantern and hurried everyone to follow him. The light from the lantern revealed a large zig-zag pattern from the wall outside where the mother's body lay, leading right down to the water and disappearing. Hattie said under their breath, in a low tone of voice, she heard the adults say that the 'aumakua shark had come to take the body of her mother.
"Explaining that to the mortician was an entirely different matter," Hattie laughed. "Luckily for us, the mortician was Pākē, so he understood."
During this interview, Hattie still lived in the same house where she grew up. It was only her now. Her father died years after her mother did, and most of her siblings lived in town or on the mainland. Her children and grandchildren moved to the Big Island once life became too overwhelming on Oahu. Along with Hattie, the humble home has character, almost as if it were a living extension of its owner. Hattie was the consummate hostess, ensuring a plate of raw sardines and onions was placed before us. On another plate was a slab of corned beef straight from the can. Sashimi with shoyu and yellow mustard on one side and a thick bowl of poi with iced cubes completed the ensemble.
"When you folks finish, I also get haupia in the fridge," she smiled. "That, along with the beef stew, is my specialty,"
Afterward, our bellies were warmed, and whatever appetite we had previously had was now satiated. I swear we hobbled back to my car more than we could walk. We thanked Hattie profusely for her hospitality. Before we got into our car, she asked us to wait. When she returned, she came back holding her ukulele, which was the size of a small guitar. "I noticed you staring at my ukulele while we were talking and eating," she smiled. "Do you play?"
"Yes," I sighed, never thinking that the beauty of this humble evening would ever end.
"Play me something before you go," she asked. "It's the least you could do since I'm not getting paid for this interview," she nudged me gently, but I could see she was half serious and half not.
"It is the least I could do," I agreed. I strummed the instrument once and was instantly taken by its deep sound.
"..In the night, an island rain brought to mind an old familiar scene
long forgotten now.."
The wind kicked up, and the aroma of the ocean brought in the mist from the top of cresting waves. Although the smell was pungent, to me, it was sweet. It awakened my senses, which pushed the song further along.
"..A quiet night, an island rain, brings me to a child again
beneath....Waialua Skies.."
At this point in the story, you're expecting to hear that Hattie passed away and that her shark 'aumakua came to get her. The fact is that three months after this interview, no one knows where Hattie went. Reports said that her children came to visit her one day and that she was nowhere to be found. An extensive search was made to find her, but the authorities were unsuccessful. In her home, there was no sign of foul play. Nothing was taken or stolen. It was like Hattie stopped what she was doing, walked out of her home, and never came back. You'll have to draw your own conclusions about what happened to this Hawaiian woman who lived a long, fruitful life and suddenly vanished one day. I have my opinion about what might have transpired, but that's for another time.
credit: @kanaloa2010.
Loved it
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