A soothing breeze created an unfurling kapa of rain, lending its fine droplets to the population of Pālolo valley, but only momentarily.
The wind died, and the rain no longer held aloft by its companion fell in a deluge, soaking homes, roads, footpaths, and people. Unbearable humidity took the place of the inviting wind, which in itself was a sign. The tsunami was coming. Like birth and death, it was unavoidable. Rather than stay put and find a higher floor or a higher elevation, people clog the roads with their cars simultaneously, creating a gridlock that will prove to be their detriment. I sit on a high hill above the Kaimuki skyline, awaiting the arrival of the tsunami to our Waikiki shores. Whether I can see it or not, in the evening hour, the mana that the ocean generates will be felt. With all the upheaval in our archipelago, politically, culturally, and otherwise, a tsunami is nature's way of resetting the balance. Taking the toy away that is being fought over by our children so that no one may have it, and no arguments can be had.My best choice without thinking about it is the Kapiolani Park Bandstand. It's quaintly quiet, and the arrangement of benches makes it seem as if a rapt audience is ready to hear the band's selections, such as the Kamehameha Waltz, or an arrangement of E Nihi Ka Hele. Silence is the selection for this evening, as the air is still. The variety of birds in the shower trees has taken flight, native, hybrids, and the like. Across the way, traffic is at an insufferable standstill. Occupants of said cars now sit on the roofs or the back beds of their trucks, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first wave. My focus is on the musicians who last played in the bandstand. Their rendition of Ku'u Ipo I Ka He'e Pu'e 'One was ethereal. It's the kind of Hawaiian music that lifts you from your seat and glides you on a cushion of air across the floor. The hula you offer in the next moment is effortless. The control of your hands and feet lends the illusion that anyone could dance if they choose to. But not like this, not in this kind of moment of searing passion where the conglomeration of instrument, music, words, and hula becomes a single manifestation of love. From the third row I stand, and my arms extend forward with my wrists flowing after, and my hands forming soft raindrops with my fingers. Further forward I go, with the ball of my feet first, then the arch, with my heels last. The hips follow in a gentle sway to and fro as I ascend the steps. Finally reaching the stage, I bow in reverence to the musicians who return a bow in like form. Those in attendance gasp at the height of the last verse.
E ala e, maliu mai
Eia kou aloha ia ne'i
hiki mai ana I ka po nei
Ua kili'opu māua i ka nahele
The dance has come to its conclusion. The people in attendance stand and applaud with wild aplomb. Graciously, I take my bow, not forgetting to acknowledge the musicians who manifested feats of legerdemain through their instruments. The audience slowly dissolves into thin air, and in like fashion, the musicians take their cue and dematerialize as well. The dark, unrelenting wall of water appears like a predator, surprising its prey, taking everything and everyone in its wake. It cannot be reasoned with or given supplications. It's a single-minded harbinger of energy created by an earthquake or an underwater volcano. I know this, and I accept it. Its beginnings were when it was first reported at 1:46 pm. For me, it was a hō'ailona that today was the day. I'd been wrestling with my na'au as to when my time should come, and it came in the warning which was texted, posted, and sounded off with its clarion call with the tsunami warning system. I knew then what to do. I only hope I'm not too much trouble when they find me. I hope I appear as if I am sleeping, not broken and mangled. What trauma would befall the one who finds my corpse? I pray not. I do.
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