It’s been so long.
I look at the stringer of fish: some weke nono, an uku, a scattering of kole. The weke’s vibrant stripes contrast with the uku’s darker colour. Out in the water, I said the ritual words. Then I feasted. Even a predator recognises those above him. I devoured two bright green uhu before I came in, making short work of their thick scales. The edge of my hunger is dulled, but still cutting. Gnawing. Whispering. Insisting.
I walk across the grass, stringer and spear in one hand, the rest of my gear tucked under my arm or balanced across my chest. I stash the rest of the fish in the cooler in the back of my truck for later, and head towards the hose.
The boy’s wearing a stained and tattered pair of red surf shorts. Someone, maybe his mom, has added elastic to the waistband to make it fit his skinny brown frame better. As I approach, he turns and stares at me unashamedly, as children do.
My breathing quickens and my muscles tense. I force myself to relax. His stare is not a challenge. I flick my eyes over him. He’s a little runt, hair turned ‘ehu from the sun. He might be twelve. Maybe he’s eight. I don’t know his age, but that’s more because I can’t be bothered to pay attention to the developmental stages of your whelps rather than some ageless quality about him.
“Uncle, my dad says that you should never dive alone.”
And now he’s talking to me. “I’m not your uncle, boy,” I grumble, brushing past him to get to the hose. Uncle. As if we could be related.
I am a glorious kupua, a niuhi even. A ravening killing machine, sending your ape-descended ancestors into the never-ending night. Leaving their entrails to twist in the salty currents of the sea. I am the tax your people pay for living by the shores of the great sea Moananuiākea.
“My dad said you can get shallow water blackout if you hold your breath too long!”
“I’ll be careful next time,” I snort, not mentioning that I can breathe underwater. That the feel of water rushing across my gills as I chase down prey is one of my greatest pleasures in life. That if this was two hundred years ago, I would already know what his liver tastes like.
“Plus my dad said that the sharks feed at dawn and dusk!”
Feed. My irises widen and my heart begins a relentless thudding. My feet pace out circles, with the hose in my hand, one eye fastened on the boy.
Some of my shark kin feel that fear spoils your flavour, taints your meat, so they strike quickly, from the murky depths. But me? I love the actinic savour that bowel-chilling terror imparts to your flesh. So I let you see me coming. Dorsal rising like the sail of a voyaging canoe as I circle. The whites of your eyes before you turn and try to scratch for shore. “Ka liu o ka pa‘akai,” as we used to say, the savour of the salt.
I sluice the cold hose water over my face, feeling slightly diminished as I wash the salt water from my skin. Less like me and more like one of you. I peel out of the sleeves and torso of my green camo wetsuit and continue to rinse off.
Anger flares when I remember the last time I swam as a shark. Entangled by Ka‘ahupāhau’s net, held still and slowly suffocating. Battle hunger fading, my powerful fins separating and shrinking into these willowy little ape paws. But I burn at the thought that some mob of flesh sausages thought it would be okay to build on top of the home of Ka‘ahupāhau and Kahi‘ukā. Yes, they were my enemies but there is no justice in that.
I shove the weke’s head into my mouth, biting down and feeling skull crunch. Fishermen say that if you eat the head of a weke, you get nightmares. But I am the nightmare: That feeling on the back of your neck. The movement out of the corner of your eye. The shadow in the sea.
Now I have been relegated to eating only fish. Sometimes, your ancestors used to sacrifice ulua to the kini akua in place of people, a fish standing in for a man. Let me tell you though: fish are no replacement for a sawn femoral and the long slender thigh of a kanaka. Eating all this fish, I may as well start eating vegetables too, like a godsdamned sea cow or some idiot pescatarian in Kaka‘ako obsessing over coffee and asking if his golden tilapia filet was harpooned or line-caught.
My knuckles are white, clutching my threeprong. It would be so easy to use it to put a hole in one of these meat sacks lounging on the beach around me and drink the life from them. To say the ritual words and then tear them to pieces. I feel my pupils dilating to let in more light, more information for the hunt, my foot twitching, wanting to propel me into action like a sweep of my giant tail.
“Uncle, you doing okay?”
My eyes snap to the boy, unrecognising, seeing only flesh and vulnerable spots to drive my jaws into. Belly. Throat. Face. Anywhere on this whelp actually.
“Uncle!” Instead of retreating, the boy hurries closer. “You okay or what, Uncle?”
Most prey runs, rather than approaching. I cock my head and he starts to separate from the background, coming into focus from the frenzy.
“Eh, boy,” I say slowly, words thick in my mouth. “Yeah, I’m fine. And stop calling me Uncle. What’s your name?” I ask, starting to feel a little calmer. I grudgingly appreciate that the boy is bringing me back. “You know what, never mind. I’m just going to call you Uncle so you know what it feels like.”
The boy giggles loudly and comes closer. “So what are you doing here, Uncle?” I ask, eliciting another giggle. (...)
The boy’s eyes glitter as he eyes my spear, maybe even a spark of hunger. Once more, I look him over, with an appraising eye, not as meat, but as something else. He’s not much to look at. More like a trumpetfish or a fence pole than anything, but perhaps this boy is a hunter too.
“Next time I come, ask your father if you can come dive with me. We’ll get some fish for them throw on the grill.”
“Uncle” beams. “Shoots!”
I walk past him to get in my truck, flicking his hat off his head, ‘‘kay, Uncle.’
He giggles again as he catches his hat against his chest before it falls to the ground. My engine coughs to life and I drive off, seeing him in my rear-view walking towards the little flock of tents.
I sluice the cold hose water over my face, feeling slightly diminished as I wash the salt water from my skin. Less like me and more like one of you. I peel out of the sleeves and torso of my green camo wetsuit and continue to rinse off.
“Ho, Uncle, that’s a nice tat on your back! What is that? Shark teeth? I like get one like that too, but my dad said I too young yet.”
I don’t answer. Godsdamn, that fucking kid does not shut up. I shake my head and chuckle to myself, giving in a little bit.
“It’s a family design. Everyone in my family has it.” I turn my back to him so he can see the stylized black triangles stretching between my shoulders in an oval, a lei of teeth. I’m a little puzzled at myself. Maybe I’m being nice to him or maybe I’m just a little vain. (...)
I don’t answer. Godsdamn, that fucking kid does not shut up. I shake my head and chuckle to myself, giving in a little bit.
“It’s a family design. Everyone in my family has it.” I turn my back to him so he can see the stylized black triangles stretching between my shoulders in an oval, a lei of teeth. I’m a little puzzled at myself. Maybe I’m being nice to him or maybe I’m just a little vain. (...)
Two hundred years ago, the sharks of Hawai‘i had a great battle at Pu‘uloa. A place you people so brilliantly renamed Pearl Harbor… because it was a harbour with pearls in it. Skin-sack ingenuity.
Ka‘ahupāhau and her brother Kahi‘ukā were amongst our most powerful leaders. But they betrayed us. They refused to be what they are: Predators. They wanted to be more like you soft dull-toothed ape-children. So they led a group of sharks who had forsaken eating people.
Against their own kin.
The battle was terrible and glorious at the same time. The sea of Pu‘uloa was filled with flashing teeth and blood and death. As we fought, we shifted through shark, and human, and in-between, but death found us no matter our form. When the fighting ceased, the dead on both sides lay bloated and rotting in the sun, and we niuhi, the maneaters, had been defeated.
Ka‘ahupāhau and her brother Kahi‘ukā were amongst our most powerful leaders. But they betrayed us. They refused to be what they are: Predators. They wanted to be more like you soft dull-toothed ape-children. So they led a group of sharks who had forsaken eating people.
Against their own kin.
The battle was terrible and glorious at the same time. The sea of Pu‘uloa was filled with flashing teeth and blood and death. As we fought, we shifted through shark, and human, and in-between, but death found us no matter our form. When the fighting ceased, the dead on both sides lay bloated and rotting in the sun, and we niuhi, the maneaters, had been defeated.
Ka‘ahupāhau and Kahi‘ukā were the protectors of Pu‘uloa, and after their victory, they declared that no shark shall eat human flesh in the seas around O‘ahu ever again. And do you know how your chimp forebears repaid that boon? Your leaders built a military base on their home. They even built a dry dock right atop Ka‘ahupāhau’s cave.
Though no one has seen Ka‘ahupāhau or Kahi‘ukā since the base was constructed, I follow their mandate. Even though they broke with our traditions to defeat us, I still adhere to our traditions and our hierarchy. They were victorious, and I will obey the law they decreed. When I am a shark and the hunger hits, nothing can stay my jaws. There are none of the weaknesses brought by your flabby human form to hold me back. I stay in this lowly human form so the hunger does not overwhelm me.
Two hundred years.
Though no one has seen Ka‘ahupāhau or Kahi‘ukā since the base was constructed, I follow their mandate. Even though they broke with our traditions to defeat us, I still adhere to our traditions and our hierarchy. They were victorious, and I will obey the law they decreed. When I am a shark and the hunger hits, nothing can stay my jaws. There are none of the weaknesses brought by your flabby human form to hold me back. I stay in this lowly human form so the hunger does not overwhelm me.
Two hundred years.
I shove the weke’s head into my mouth, biting down and feeling skull crunch. Fishermen say that if you eat the head of a weke, you get nightmares. But I am the nightmare: That feeling on the back of your neck. The movement out of the corner of your eye. The shadow in the sea.
Now I have been relegated to eating only fish. Sometimes, your ancestors used to sacrifice ulua to the kini akua in place of people, a fish standing in for a man. Let me tell you though: fish are no replacement for a sawn femoral and the long slender thigh of a kanaka. Eating all this fish, I may as well start eating vegetables too, like a godsdamned sea cow or some idiot pescatarian in Kaka‘ako obsessing over coffee and asking if his golden tilapia filet was harpooned or line-caught.
My knuckles are white, clutching my threeprong. It would be so easy to use it to put a hole in one of these meat sacks lounging on the beach around me and drink the life from them. To say the ritual words and then tear them to pieces. I feel my pupils dilating to let in more light, more information for the hunt, my foot twitching, wanting to propel me into action like a sweep of my giant tail.
“Uncle, you doing okay?”
My eyes snap to the boy, unrecognising, seeing only flesh and vulnerable spots to drive my jaws into. Belly. Throat. Face. Anywhere on this whelp actually.
“Uncle!” Instead of retreating, the boy hurries closer. “You okay or what, Uncle?”
Most prey runs, rather than approaching. I cock my head and he starts to separate from the background, coming into focus from the frenzy.
“Eh, boy,” I say slowly, words thick in my mouth. “Yeah, I’m fine. And stop calling me Uncle. What’s your name?” I ask, starting to feel a little calmer. I grudgingly appreciate that the boy is bringing me back. “You know what, never mind. I’m just going to call you Uncle so you know what it feels like.”
The boy giggles loudly and comes closer. “So what are you doing here, Uncle?” I ask, eliciting another giggle. (...)
The boy’s eyes glitter as he eyes my spear, maybe even a spark of hunger. Once more, I look him over, with an appraising eye, not as meat, but as something else. He’s not much to look at. More like a trumpetfish or a fence pole than anything, but perhaps this boy is a hunter too.
“Next time I come, ask your father if you can come dive with me. We’ll get some fish for them throw on the grill.”
“Uncle” beams. “Shoots!”
I walk past him to get in my truck, flicking his hat off his head, ‘‘kay, Uncle.’
He giggles again as he catches his hat against his chest before it falls to the ground. My engine coughs to life and I drive off, seeing him in my rear-view walking towards the little flock of tents.
Uncle runs up to my truck when I pull into the lot early in the morning. He has a three-prong in his little boy hand, and I can see his dad and the others by the tents yelling at him to stop running, ‘bumbye you fall and poke your eye out.’ He’s standing right outside my window, making shaka, bouncing up and down.
“You did come back today!
“I told my dad you was going come back!
“He had to go back home to get my spear!
“See, Dad, he’s back!
“When are we going to go diving?
“Do I need a wetsuit like you?”
I try to keep a look of disgust off my face. Regret surges for my lapse yesterday. What was I thinking? This wet paper bag a hunter? I get out of my rusty red truck and nudge Uncle toward the back, where I have all my gear stored. I lift the rear window of the camper top, hinges screeching. I reach in with one hand, using the other to pass gear to him, all the while trying to ignore his steady stream of conversation. (...)
“We probably just stay in the shallows today,” I tell the dad, beckoning to his son with my head. “We go.”
Uncle grabs all his gear excitedly and his dad takes a picture of him with his phone.
“Dad! Send that to me!
“I’m going to put it on Instagram!
“Are you on Instagram? You should just post pictures of your tat!”
If he asks me to take a selfie with him, I am going to eat him right now.
“You did come back today!
“I told my dad you was going come back!
“He had to go back home to get my spear!
“See, Dad, he’s back!
“When are we going to go diving?
“Do I need a wetsuit like you?”
I try to keep a look of disgust off my face. Regret surges for my lapse yesterday. What was I thinking? This wet paper bag a hunter? I get out of my rusty red truck and nudge Uncle toward the back, where I have all my gear stored. I lift the rear window of the camper top, hinges screeching. I reach in with one hand, using the other to pass gear to him, all the while trying to ignore his steady stream of conversation. (...)
“We probably just stay in the shallows today,” I tell the dad, beckoning to his son with my head. “We go.”
Uncle grabs all his gear excitedly and his dad takes a picture of him with his phone.
“Dad! Send that to me!
“I’m going to put it on Instagram!
“Are you on Instagram? You should just post pictures of your tat!”
If he asks me to take a selfie with him, I am going to eat him right now.
by Brian Kamaoli Kuwada, Hawaii Review of Books | Read more:
Images: Amelia Barklid, Alexander Kondriyanenko, and Laura Chouette.Portraits by Jocelyn Kapumealani Ng
