Feb. 27, 2000; 22 days since departure--Home

Source: Sam Low

Eia Hawai'i, he moku, he kanaka
He kanaka Hawai'i, e-
He kanaka Hawai'i
He kama na Kahiki
He pua ali'i mai Kapa'ahu
Mai Moa'ulanuiakea Kanaloa
He mo'opuna na Kahiko, laua o Kapulanakehau
Na papa i hanau
Na ke kamawahine a Kukalani'ehu, laua me Kahakauakoko
Na pulapula 'aina i paekahi
I nonoho like i ka Hikina, Komohana
Pae like ka moku i lalani
I hui aku, hui mai me Holani

[Behold Hawai'i, an island, a man,
A man is Hawai'i
A man is Hawai'i
A child of Kahiki
A royal bud from Kapa'ahu
From Moa'ulanuiakea Kanaloa
A descendant of Kahiko and Kapulanakehau
Born of Papa,
The daughter of Kukalani'ehu and Kahakauakoko
Sprouts of land in a line
Placed alike to the East, to the West
Arranged evenly in a line
Joined to, joined from Holani...

From an ancient chant by Kamahualele, priest of the chief Mo'ikeha, celebrating arrival in Hawai'i after a voyage from Tahiti.]

Sam Low's Report

The base of the volcano emerges from a long strand of cloud and mist. It is dark green where the early rays of the sun are interrupted by clouds, and emerald where the sun shines through. There are a number of vents in the volcano's skirt, a few of them now islands and peninsulas smoothed by the ocean and eons of rain. The sea is calm. The wind from the east. The land is Maui, more specifically, Hana, birthplace of Ka'ahumanu, Kamehameha's favorite wife, and once the ahupua'a of Pi'ilani, whose heiau stands clear on a large splash of lava rimmed by ivory surf.

Our view from the sea would have been familiar to 'Umi, the great ali'i who unified the Big Island and led her warriors here to battle with his foes--the chiefs of Maui. Today we share 'Umi's visual perspective as Hokule'a coasts along Maui's eastern shore. The 2-6 watch is on deck steering in a quartering sea. Pomai is preparing breakfast for the crew perhaps for the last time, and the rest of us--quiet and pensive--watch the ancient coastline slip across our western horizon. We're finally in home waters after a passage of 22 days.

Feb. 26--Sunrise: with 2400 miles of ocean behind us, the familiar ancestral seapath between Tahiti and Hawai'i, we sail toward a dark cloud mass ahead. With the wind over our starboard quarter, we feel only a hint of breeze from astern. The sun makes most of us drowsy, except for the navigators who keep a silent vigil ahead. At about 10 a.m., Nainoa tells us that he has seen strong indications of land in the clouds. But then a series of gentle rain squalls move in from the east, pass over the canoe and obscure our view ahead.

All day we continue on at about 4 knots toward the cloud mass which remains stationary off our bows. We strain for a sighting of land. What Nainoa calls edges--the sharp borders of island against sky--seem to appear, only to fade in the swirl of clouds. Illusions of land. Our eyes quickly tire and our imaginations take over. Chad, Bruce, and Nainoa have seen something that remains illusive to the rest of us.

Three crew members are constantly manning the three sweeps, and fatigue sets in. "It will be a long day," Nainoa tells us. "There is still a long way to go, even if Hawai'i is dead ahead of us. So get rest." Except for the crew on watch the deck is mostly empty--the crew member not on watch lie on their bunks and drift into a light sleep. Darkness seeps under the cloud bases and slowly blankets the sky dome from the east, revealing pin pricks of light, the brightest of stars.

Having watched the western horizon all day, Nainoa is now certain land lies ahead and he thinks he knows precisely what land it is. For the entire day, Nainoa has watched squalls pass over us and he noticed a pattern. "The squalls to the north and south of us seem to continue over the horizon," he explains, "but those moving in front of us seemed to impact something and stall there. They sat there like fog or dark mist inside the cloud. That makes me think there is land in front of us."

There is also the matter of the wind, which the steersperson noticed fluking a little, and shifting to the ESE and we cannot keep the sails full without changing course slightly to starboard. The wind shift is a slight annoyance to them, but to Nainoa, it is another sign of land. "The trade winds cannot rise over 7000 feet," he explains. "When they encounter Mauna Kea, they split at Laupahoehoe to flow around the volcano (over 13,000 feet high). One branch blows southwest down the Puna coast, and the other flows northwest along Hamakua. When our winds, which are originally from the east veer to the ESE, it is an indication we are to the north of Hilo."

As the sky darkened and the sun descended, Nainoa watched even more closely for a land sign he had observed on other voyages--light, colors, and a black band on the horizon. "Off to the left I saw a brightness on the horzion and looking to the right it went dark, until farther right, off the starboard bow, it became light again, like an opening on the horizon there. As the sun went down I saw colors in the opening which I think is the sunlight refracting in the atmosphere. Where it is dark there is land breaking the rays of the sunset. The opening to the right is, I think, the 'Alenuihaha Channel."

To explain better our exact position, Nainoa places his two open palms in front of his body and joins them to form a "V", one pointing to the opening on the left, and the other to the opening on the right. "You can roughly triangulate our position like this," he says. "My left hand points to the opening on the south, my right hand to the opening on the north, where my two hands join is where we are. I think that we are to the NE of Hilo, maybe 20-25 miles away and heading toward the 'Alenuihaha Channel. I could be wrong, but that's what I think."

So we go on a starboard tack and begin to parallel a line that still exists only in Nainoa's mind--the Hamakua Coast, if it is there, is lost in the dark mist to port. "Waipi'o to Pololu is a rocky, dangerous coast with few lights," Nainoa explains, "so it would be a mistake to approach too closely." Now almost all of us are aware that something large lies to port, as a result of Nainoa's explanation, but also by a kind of latent instinct. We cannot see the towering volcano, but we can feel something. What is it? The darkness, certainly, but also a kind of vibration, a warning, maybe a pressure of some sort. The feeling draws us to the port rail, where we all stand peering into the darkness.

Under a slight lifting of clouds we see first a break, then a few minutes later, twinkling lights. First to appear is the sparkle of Hilo off the beam. Then the loom of the lighthouse at Cape Kumukahi sweeping the horizon off our port quarter. Then pin pricks of light sprinkled along the coastline ahead of us and the brighter node of the small town of Honoka'a. The lights reveal a landscape that uncannily match the one that only a few moments before Nainoa had described. There are exclamations from the crew, and a muted clapping, followed by embraces among us all. Speaking for all of us, Nainoa says simply, "We're home." Almost simultaneously, the wind picks up, and Hokule'a accelerates into the darkness, and instead of steering by the stars, we now have the lights of Hilo and Honoka'a, as we head for the north side of Maui.

So the first light of morning finds us coasting toward Hana amidst the sparkle of sun on muted blue swells. While the electric lights last night conveyed an intellectual understanding that we had arrived in Hawai'i, it is the sloping emerald land of Hana that provides the gut feeling of arrival. We are indeed home.

We meet at a crew perhaps for the last time, on Hokule'a's aft deck. We join hands. Pomai provides the gift of a pule, uniting us in thanksgiving for our safe arrival. At one point she says: "Thank you lord for giving us the strength and wisdom to follow the path of our ancestors home, and please give us the wisdom to continue to aloha each other, to learn from each other, and to appreciate what you have created for us in these special islands, which we are lucky and privileged to call home."

At the close of the meeting Nainoa speaks: "Hokule'a is coming home to celebrate her 25th anniversary. We celebrate the rebirth of our Polynesian values. In my youth, Hawaiian spirituality was not widely recognized. Now look at us--what a change. When we voyaged to Rapa Nui, the mana of this canoe was clear. We did not really guide her there, she guided us. Over the last 25 years, as we learned through experience, she also learned. Hokule'a's mana comes from a union of so many of us with her, and the care we have given to her and the care she has given to us. I know in my heart that she can feel Tava's hand on her steering sweep. She knows that it is him.

"On this voyage, I chose to step away from the kind of rigid mental preparation that has charactereized all of my other voyages. I went more on my instincts and a deep trust of the canoe. She sailed herself through the doldrums on our fastest passage ever, and she would have brought us home even faster, if we had not tried to force her to the east. Her mana sleeps when she is tied up at the pier, but it awakens, when the crew comes aboard with a vision and a challenge they have accepted and lets go the mooring lines.

"We are bringing her home now to a celebration that will honor her and recognize the mana she has given to us all."

As the meeting closes, we begin preparing the canoe for port.There's much to do this morning. cleaning up the clutter of personal gear in our pukas, washing down Hokule'a's decks, striking the storm sail, putting up the mizzen spar, resetting the tan-bark mizzen sail, and breaking out anchors and deck lines in preparation for port.

The wind freshens from behind us and Hokule'a sets a course for Moloka'i, surfing the swells at 8 knots.

New Articles by Sam Low: Laying on of Hands and A Sea of Islands