Sacred Places

Sacred Memory at Wai Momi

Pearl Harbor holds layered stories that most visitors never hear. Before it became a symbol of modern warfare, this place had a different name and purpose: Wai Momi, Waters of Pearl.

The moʻolelo tells of shark goddess Kaʻahupahau and her brother Kahiʻuka, benevolent guardians who protected Puʻuloa's abundant fishponds from man-eating sharks. This was a place of life, sustenance, and spiritual balance.

The Reciprocity Treaty of 1875 granted the U.S. exclusive rights to the harbor. Dredging destroyed the coral reef that once protected the bay. The Navy's arrival transformed everything. December 7, 1941, turned these life-giving waters into a tomb for over a thousand men.

Visiting this place means holding multiple truths. The same ʻāina can be the source of life and site of death. The land bears all its stories, conflicting and complex. Understanding this depth transforms a military history tour into something deeper—a huakaʻi into layered memory where past and present speak to each other across time.

Healing the Scarred Earth

Coral Crater Adventure Park sits on land with its own story of transformation. The ʻEwa Plain, known as Kalaeloa, once hosted early Hawaiian settlements and fishing grounds. Ancient Hawaiians also knew it as a realm of wandering souls.

Later uses scarred the landscape. First came ranching, then industrial exploitation. The U.S. Navy mined coral heavily to build Barbers Point Air Station runways, leaving deep wounds in the earth.

The adventure park represents modern mālama ʻāina in action. Instead of abandoning damaged land, new stewards work to heal it. ATV tours and ziplines provide thrills, but the deeper story involves active restoration.

The park has planted native and canoe plants—species brought by first Polynesian voyagers. ʻUlu breadfruit, kalo taro, and kō sugarcane now grow where coral quarries once operated. Each planting connects modern commercial enterprise to ancient stewardship practices.

This demonstrates that mālama ʻāina principles apply beyond pristine nature preserves. Damaged and developed landscapes can find healing through dedicated care. The fun becomes meaningful when connected to stories of ecological responsibility and cultural continuity.

Adventure parks might not seem like traditional cultural sites. But when operators commit to restoration and education, they become partners in the larger work of caring for the ʻāina. Every planted native species adds another strand to the ʻaha.

The Cord That Will Not Break

Hawaiian traditions survive because they serve real purposes in real lives. They're not museum pieces or tourist attractions. They're tools for navigating love, loss, identity, and belonging in a complex modern world.

When I was homeless, my buried piko provided an unshakeable identity. When I needed healing knowledge, my kumu guided me through decades of training. When I sought spiritual connection, huakaʻi to sacred places opened new understanding.

These practices work because they acknowledge fundamental truths. Humans belong to the land, not the other way around. Individual identity comes through connection to family, community, and place. Caring for others and the environment isn't optional—it's kuleana.

The ʻaha metaphor captures this perfectly. Each strand represents a genealogical line, a cultural practice, a person living the traditions. Braided together, they create something stronger than any individual thread. No single break can destroy the whole.

This is why Hawaiian culture survived attempted erasure. This is why it thrives in digital age adaptation. This is why it offers hope for anyone seeking meaning and connection in fractured times.