HULA MANÓ THE SHARK HULA
Auwe! pau au i ka manó nui, e! Alas! I am seized by the shark, great shark!
Lala-kea a niho pa-kolu. Lala-kea with triple-banked teeth.
Pau ka papa-ku o Lono The stratum of Lono is gone,
I ka ai ia e ka manó nui, Torn up by the monster shark,
O Niuhi maka ahi, Five Niuhi with fiery eyes,
Olapa i ke kai lipo. That flamed in the deep blue sea.
Ahu e! au-we! Alas! and alas!
A pua ka wili-wili, When flowers the wili-wili tree,
A nanahu ka manó, That is the time when the shark-god bites.
Auwe! pau au i ka manó nui! Alas! I am seized by the huge shark!
Kai uli, kai ele, O blue sea, O dark sea,
Kai popolohua o Kane. Foam-mottled sea of Kane!
A lealea au i ka’u hula, What pleasure I took in my dancing!
Pau au i ka manó nui! Alas! Now consumed by the monster shark!
The entire crossing I have been in silent communion with the ocean, watching the colors change as the wind slides the sun across the current lines, light and dark side by side. Weather systems roll and moan across The Pacific and illuminate blue ribbons into distinct pattern and quality; navy, Prussian, indigo, indanthrone—all variations indicating different temperature, texture and direction to that section of sea water. As we descend closer I can see how the ocean breathes. Not against the land in tidal surge but out further, just beyond where the movement wraps the outermost reef of the island. This heave of the mother sea more continuous to even our heartbeat because it is there before you, and there after you leave this earth.
I paddled out through the red water, stained from the volcanic clay, no visibility, cold and brisk on my skin, hurrying to catch the perfect morning glass before any more waves roll. Pass the first reef, out to beyond the second. A fifteen-minute paddle. No one is out but they will be soon. I make it out as a set comes and line up and paddle into the wave, going left, popping up, hugging down close, slicing faster than it seems from shore, going down and then up on the wave, a nice long ride all the way back to the first reef before pulling off and paddling back out.
I sit on my mini tanker out at the Westside break, calves vanished and stinging from the sea lice, the sun starting to hint it will rise in the next hour far across the island in the east, and I feel the stillness of the ocean’s breath out beyond the reef, sucking in and out. Another set rolls in and this one is bigger so maneuvering fast I take off and before I know it I am being barreled. Alana is paddling out and hollers at my ride because the barrel is unexpected and as I slide down the wall of glass for the briefest second I become aware that I am completely one with the ocean and air all around, that there is no separate sense of me doing anything whatsoever other than participating in this big inhale and exhale. The wave shoots me out before crashing down and I dive off my board into the murky water to feel the cold all over.
Far on the outside of the reef I suddenly make out a silhouette paddling around the outer edges. The morning vog--volcanic fog—obscures my view but I can tell it’s a big man with a large barrel chest and flowing dark hair and beard because that whole part of the body silhouette is bulky like the weight is dispersed forward. He paddles out of the low hanging mist resting on the dark sea and I can tell by his rust colored neoprene rash guard that I am indeed having a rare sighting of The Shark King. He is the most legendary surfer of the West side and is so mythical that people don’t really even know if he’s real. I’ve seen him maybe three times in my entire life of surfing, and he’s usually so far out—like he is now, cruising the outer reef, that it’s hard to determine if it is indeed him or a mirage.
His mysterious status is attributed to the decades of stories about him—that he sleeps on his board, that he paddles between here and Ni’ihau, that he eats reef sharks raw in the water, that he is part fish, that he has gills, that he is protected by all the Hawaiian water gods, that he himself is an apparition of Ku’ula the god of fisherman, that he is the human messenger of Ka-moho-aliʻi, the shark god, that he has a secret cove where he tends to an ancient family that breeds the most beautiful Hapa children. That he has nine wives and twenty children as the ancient Hawaiian chieftans did. That he surfs breaks in the ocean that no one knows of. That he is immortal because no swell is too big and no wind too strong. On and on the legends and stories go and over the space of growing up one does not know where myth ends and truth begins.
But the story that carries the most weight is the one where there were witnesses. The story that gave him the name Shark King. This is the story of a man in the water with his wives and daughters, swimming and enjoying the fish on the reef when a group of sharks approached. The other men were in the boat shouting at the women and children, but it was too late for anyone to move. The story goes that the chief faced the head shark in the water as it bore down and it became a battle of energy. As the shark approached the man the shark diverted his path and swam under him and as a sign of submission curled three times and with his group of sharks swam off. The man said that the shark had agreed to make peace with him, become his protector god, and share the territory as long as there was always a mutual respect. Because of this, the man was to be given autonomy with all other sharks, as the story goes. After that incident, word spread about the waterman and the locals dubbed him the shark king. Sightings became less frequent as the decades went on because the man lived a private life, mostly out at sea, or tucked away from the village view.
I was surprised to see him in and out of the fog like that, on the outer reef’s edge, holding a fishing spear while on a large board, completely focused on his task.
I watched what I assumed was the Shark King until he slid out of view from the set coming in and positioned myself for a wave and paddled into it. A longboarder careened into me and gave me a bloody nose. The guy—fresh to the island—apologized and flipped his neon green board upright.
Color is a funny thing. The color was the same neon green color of the shoestring my father used to hold my grandmother’s jaw closed for her three-day vigil after she died. To keep it from opening. Me, thinking it was just a bow in her hair, not seeing the whole string for two full days, thinking it was her humor to go out with a neon green bow in her hair. That was a week ago.
Alana and I caught sets until the sun became too hot.
“Did you see Da Kine out there?” She asked me as we paddled in, motioning with her head to the outer reef.
“It was him, wasn’t it.”
“I think it was.” She looked at me with wide eyes, trying to conceive if it was really possible.
"Where did he come from?”
“Yeah, but really. Where does he come from?” We sat in the shallow of the inner reef and twisted our leashes around our fins to tie them up and strip down our rash guards. “He must have some camp somewhere. Or a boat.”
“Maybe he lives in the Hawaiian housing district?”
“Maybe he spends a few days at sea.”
“Maybe he lives in Kalalau or Miloli’i.”
“I’ve heard that they find outlaws in the caves near the army base. That they find electrical outlets in the caves they plug tv’s into running lines from the electrical.”
“I’ve seen those you know. In high school.”
Alana splashed water in my face, reminding me that she was the one who showed me the caves in high school, and I splashed her back as we got out and headed back to the east side, both silently excited about the biggest quiet mystery the island held.