They loaded up di coconut, bundled up di child
and boarded Outriggah
Thousands of miles of open sea
Refuge di only reality
To lay on di Rock to be set free
The Creator, existing in the hearts of all beings, does not select favorites. The perfection of Creation rests in diversity. His selection of Israel as a nation worthy for refuge was due to Israel's choice to always depend on Him. The Creator did not become exhausted by leading the Tribe of Moses to the Zion, He, as always, reciprocates the Love His Own freely appreciate and dutifully serve with rapt attention.
When Babylon exerts itself as Power Ego, bonding fellow beings to the chains of oppression, some call out the Name of the Supreme Lord. The extended family boards the outrigger and heads for the open sea. Navigating with wave shapes, wind directions and celestial configurations, these ancient Israelites of the Pacific were led on a one way trip North, an open and unknown option of spiritual guidance opposed to the oppression, inhumanity, severe drought, war, and famine stricken Marquesas. Many bonafide historians note the possibility that settling of Hawai'i was a one boat excursion. Breadfruit, coconut, ti, sweet potatoes, livestock, and God's chosen people were led to this special destination when it was ready for human occupation. He led them to the Rock, and they stacked His stones and chiselled his Rock to give Him Tribute.
Many waves of the surging Pacific, a storm watch, tapa sails, equatorial sun and mystic quiet nights! Alone, the family, with meditations, thinks of how to survive exile, what awaits the sea nomads, many weeks pass to confirm in themselves that the Freedom that awaits them all is the provision of the Creator. His creation through His agent, Pele, had sufficiently cooled to allow human occupancy. The forest had penetrated the cataclysmic lava flows, the coral was crushed sufficiently to provide soft sand just to please His fishermen. He chose a few families then, as He indiscriminately selects us all to eternally enter the shelter of His Refuge. "Come cross di ocean and rest upon My Rock, plant di coconut and welcome to Kipu'ka." The deed was signed between ancient voyagers and He Who led them. Indigenous rights were signed by grantees with heiaus and witnessed by Kahuna.
The gift of Refuge, the sea, the volcano, the aina, is the hereditary rights to those who were so led, for those who serve the Creator and protect the creation. This pact cannot be broken by illegal occupation, for it rests in a Spiritual Bond. Sing, dance, and prepare feast to celebrate and honor this pact between God and humanity.
Huelo Point is a small hamlet on the North Shore of Maui, Hawaii. This section of banana patch homesteads is known for the lush green rain forest, deep blue ocean and multi-colored skies. It is not a stop for the many tourists who travel to the Islands, but it is a place to slow down, as it is the beginning of the treacherous hairpin turns, steep cliffs, and sheer volcanic walls that punctuate the notorious Hana Highway. This is a story about the workings of Creation that caused a reunion of two wandering souls. Although these ordinary people faced the ordinary happiness and distress the Creation has to offer, they never failed to honor the Hand and the Wonder of the Cause of Creation. Because they always recignized His Personality and lovingly called Him by Name, the Cause of Creation became extraordinarily their well-wisher and friend, and thus bestowed upon them the gifts of true love and a place of Refuge. This story of Creation has no beginning, nor does it end, it is but a small sampling of a fraction of Time that tells the story of the Refuge at Huelo Point.
Martha Anoina was born in 1950 on the small Island of Kauai. She was a rarity, being pure-blooded Hawaiian, and directly related to the ancient aristocracy known as alii. Yet, the 60's were such turbulent times that reached into all cultures, she had no desire to follow her parents as tourist industry novelties no matter how comfortable a life it may have been. She left the Islands in 1967 to find the truth in the New Music, travelling from Monterrey to Altamont to the Isle of Wight. Music called from the wails of Hendrix' guitars, keyboards of Pink Floyd and the vibrations of the Reggae beat. Five years later, she came back to Maui, to relax, working occasionally as a banquet waitress at a Lahaina Hotel. This is when she got to know and fall deeply in love with Martin.
Martin Moore, who was born in Edmondton, Alberta in 1947, was the middle child of an American couple who left the States in protest of Harry Truman's itchy nuclear trigger finger which laid waste to the non-military and innocent populations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki two years prior to Martin's birth. Martin was raised to "want not". As a Quaker, his childhood was hard work and struggle for existance. The Moore's only lasted eight years in the Great White North, and when Martin turned six, his mother, older brother and baby sister returned to Eugene, Oregon while his father went off to work the oil fields of the Middle East.
Martin never saw his father again, who was killed in the desert when a trench collapsed on him during an Iranian earthquake in 1955. At eight years of age, his life became much harder, but his spiritually strong mother and his older brother pulled the family together through the devastating crisis, and, with an unknown insurance policy his father had purchased, they were able to thrive with health and happiness in Eugene. In 1958, his mother had remarried a very kind college professor. Martin lived a normal life as a teen, but always leaned toward the unconventional. He was the first in his school to grow his hair long, even before the Beatles took effect on American Culture. He was a counterculture leader and expert musician, forming a high school band in 1963 called the Ragged Edge. The Band was so ahead of the times, Martin soon had to get a special permit to play the college "boho" pubs and coffeehouses of Eugene. At 16, he had everything, but two short years later, an unfortunate chain of events would rapidly change his life.
The turmoil of 1965 came with the assassination of Malcolm X. In his last year of high school, Martin only had university friends, most of whom were politically aware and headed into the maelstrom of the late sixties. He was despondant at the blatent cruelty of Malcolm X's murder, disgusted at the uncivilized behavior flashing on the TV nightly news from Selma, Alabama, and horrified by the nightly depictions of the holocaust of Southeast Asia. On his eighteenth birthday, he refused to register for the draft, depending on his Quaker religious roots to establish his status as consciensious objector. But this ploy did not keep him from the jungle, for during a performance at a Campus Sorority House, a Vice Squad raid netted three bags of Mexican weed soaked in Dr. Pepper, and because Martin had smoked a joint with a long-haired undercover officer one hour prior to the raid, he faced the choice of two years in a Salem prison or a two year stint in the Army Medical Corps. His summer wasted at Fort Ord, and his winter spent in medic training in Fort Sill, Oklahoma, his New Year was tragically spent in the sweltering Saigon.
For Martin, it was not much of a war. After three weeks of camp sitting and Thai Stick smoking, a skirmish outside the Capitol required Martin to run into the brush to retrieve injured Vietnamese civilians. He stepped into a hole, booby trapped with bamboo shards pointing upward, coated with human excrement. His foot punctured in six places, he sat alone there for six hours, gangreine set in, and the foot was as good as gone. His war was over and Martin was headed to Roseburg, Oregon, to the V.A. Hospital.
The next five years, Martin followed the music. Hew received a boot from the VA which made him walk almost normal, with a slight limp. He celebrated his medical discharge at the Monterrey Pop Festival. From there, he followed the mass anti-war demonstrations and music festivals until it all became quite boring. He even went to Europe in 1970, mainly to see Bob Dylan and Carlos Santana at the Isle of Wight. He had met Dylan at the Rouge et Noir coffee house in Eugene in 1963, and they even jammed together on stage. But that was when Bob was a young folksinger touring beat bistros and he was a high school dance band strummer. Like 500,000 other self-seekers, Martin hoped he would find something to grab onto at the Isle of Wight. Maybe Dylan would remember him? But Martin would never find out, as a helicopter delivered and dispersed the popular counterculture hero without any audience intervention. Two weeks after the festival, he and a handful of others were still camping out on the festival site as part of the clean-up crew, none really knowing how the winds of change would blow them away. On the last night of the clean-up crew's camping permit, all the work completed, they all shared a campfire, Afghan Hashish and a couple bottles of Portuguese Mateuse, talking dreams and aspirations.
Martin spoke about how the war had broken his youthful bubble of enthusiasm, a German couple spoke of how they were heading to India in a quest for Spiritual enlightenment, an Indonesian surfer from Amsterdam was heading to the Canary Islands looking for uncrowded waves. An old Jamaican woman spoke in Patois of how she wished that Jamaican Roots music would someday be included in these "rokarol" parties, a youthful and breathtakingly beautiful Hawaiian woman wanted to study Jamaican music under the guidance of the older African woman who was a poor maid living in Liverpool. Martin gained back a large part of his lost exhuberance and enthusiasm for life in the association with these genuinely honest folks at the omenous lonely campfire of an abandoned "city" of a half million just a short time earlier. He found himself desiring spiritual enlightenment, he heard the roar of crisp surfing waves, he heard roots Reggae in his head, and in his heart, he noticed a never before experianced type of love burning for the Hawaiian woman who he never even thought of asking her name.
Martha Anoina and Chula became fast friends in Liverpool. Her father had sent her a large check to entice her back to the lucrative hotel business in Kauai, but her twenty-first birthday was instead spent in Kingston, Jamaica with Chula, her son and his wife, and two grandchildren. Chula was a maid for many years and was enticed by Anoina to retire and go back home.. Chula was so grateful that she accepted Anoina as her daughter, introducing her to all her friends that she was so happy to see again, George Maytal, Desmond Decker, and a host of other poverty-stricken young musician friends from Trenchtown. Influenced by the Rastafarian Community of these Kingston "government yard" slums, Anoina transcended most of her material wants, replacing them with spiritual desire, peace, love, and joy for Jah. The Dance and Trance produced from "Jahovia" through the music took her soul. But her loving friends were stolen by guns and bulldozers, scattered to the hills and thrown into prisons for the poverty-stricken as political turmoil all but destroyed the tranquility of the Island Nation in the Fall of 1971. Chula ended up in Trinidad, her son's family deported to Guyana, and the better known musicians were aided by bail produced by the popular "Rock against Racism" concert benefits organized in London by the great Clapton, Townsend, Jagger, George Harrison effort. From this assistance was born Chula's campfire wish of exposing Reggae Music to the world, with Decker's song "Israelites" gaining major airplay soon after in New York, London, and Hamburg. The Reggae Explosion was born.
Martha Anoina wanted peace, love, and joy for Jah, and blue sky, blue ocean, and lush green vegetation. She was ready to head home to Hawaii, but shunned Kauai, not because of fear, but on Jahmon advice that one can never go back to the home of one's youth.
She arrived in Honolulu on the same plane taken by Carlos Santana, who had just purchased acreage on the Big Island and was slated to play the Diamond Head Crater Festival on New Year's Day, 1972. Carlos' and Mahavishnu John McLaughlin's version of John Coltrane's "Flame Sky" put this spell on Anoina that put her on the North Shore of Maui, caretaking a house of a music producer. She loved her independence, she loved her self-sufficiency, she found the citizens of Paia and upcountry Makawao much to her liking, she felt quite at home, home from a unique university. She thought often of a tired, but spiritually strong man she had met at a post-rock festival campfire which seemed like years ago, who spoke little, and left her with no name to remember him by. In honor of Chula, she dropped her first name to direct honor from herself to that of her cultural background. Then, refusing to accept any more free money from her father, she wrote to them her declaration of independence.
She had a home for free, expertly grew fresh vegetables to sell at a local farmer's market in Paia, picked guavas for a fruit juice company, and even got a high-tipping but very intermittant banquet waitress job at the Kaanapali Sheraton Hotel. Anoina was very well liked by all who had a chance to know her, yet her gravity and non-attraction to gross materialism created somewhat of a loner image to the Lahaina / California surfer / Hippie / Herbal Vegan crowd west of Maalaia. She was not rude, but not really interested in the social scene offered by the end-of-the-war, West Maui Party. She was glad she only had to make the fifty mile trip from rain forest to desert beach once a month. She would spend Saturday to Tuesday or Wednesday in town, and after four days, was always eager to head back to Paia. The breeze up north was much more to her liking than the oppressive heat of Lahaina, as it reminded her of her childhood in the paradise of Anuhola.
Time removed three years swiftly as Anoina became very well read in her chosen relative isolation. She was very intellectual, and her simplicity and tranquil attitude matched her wonderful surroundings. She studied world scriptures, read biographies of political and cultural leaders, had a good laugh at the Nixon-Ford fiasco which proved that politicians were really well dressed buffoons. She cried tears of compassion at the plight of Bangladesh and Biafra, played soulful music, self taught by memories of Desmond Decker and Chula, and was excited upon hearing new releases of Toots and the Maytals and Bob Marley and the Wailers, and of course, her genetic attraction to the slack key of the Great Gabby Pahanui and the sweet singing of Auntie Emma was permanently engrained in her very nature. She uniquely combined the Hawaiian slack key stylings with roots Reggae beat. She also combined the horticultural talent of Chula by planting cultured Jamaican ganja seeds in Hawaiian soil. The Herb she grew became famous. The police were always high themselves and the locals respected her "sistahood". The pot farmers down the street were burnt down and sent scurrying back to Frisco, but she was always protected from all types of harassment. She smoked a little, shared with her friends, and sold for no profit occasionally to friends of friends. Nice life, but for the letter she received on Christmas, 1975. Her three-acre sugar shack would soon be history and the Music Producer was retiring to the Islands by the fall of 1976. Economic realities were clouding up and ready to rain on her parade.
The wonderful attitude of Chula, her constant dependence on the Joy for Jah, that carried her through 65 years of homelessness, this was the entire mindset with the ever humble and tolerant Anoina. She certainly could surrender to the aristocratic alii clan of Anuhola, but she new she was of age to have a child, not to become one again herself. Her dependence on the Supreme Lord, the "gift" from her adopted mother, Chula, she knew He was whom to surrender. She would simply load up her 1952 Chrysler Hana Rustbucket with books, backpack, ukelele and guitar, and leave on the arrival of "Mr. Music", she would bid her services and skills on the local health food stores' bulletin boards, and survive on the approval of Jahovia. But nine months was next September, and in twenty five days was another five day journey to the tourist Mecca of Lahaina. Her savings took on new meaning, anxiety was subdues if not surpressed.
A tropical squall hit Wailuku on January 19, 1976, and while Anoina was struggling to see through her windshield, her wreak cast it's last bellow of pollutants into the atmosphere near the junction of the road to Lahaina and the County Dump Road. She was in a bad spot as the Iao Valley was swollen and rivers were pouring out of the cliffs of the West Maui Mountains. "A dead car on a blind corner in a squall! What next? Darkness of night?", were thoughts racing through her mind. Not at all, a hitchhiker with a limp, running toward her, to lend a hand to a damsel in distress. As the Chrysler rolled accross the road, Anoina steering as the kind stranger struggled to push, she only thought about Jah's kind sense of humor, making her car die right at the dump, saving her the expense of a tow truck. As she placed her signature on the title of the eternally dead car, the sun burst through the clouds. The good Samaratan flagged a surfer-hotel worker in a Volkswagon Bus, who stopped, and was asked to wait to see if the Young Lady needed a lift, too. So beckoned from accross the street by the limping stranger, Anoina grabbed her suitcase, left the key in the ignition, cleaned up papers from the glovebox, grabbed a small plastic bag from under the seat, and then stopped, bowing gently with hands folded to the Maui Cruiser that had rendered her such good service. She then ran accross the street and got into the van with the drenched helper/stranger and the kind surfer who offered the ride to Lahaina.
When Martin left the Isle of Wight, he was quite unsure of himself. He had no home to return to. His brother was a lieutenant in the Navy, stationed in Pearl Harbor, and not favorably disposed to the new generation. His sister had just graduated from a Eugene High School and was engaged to an auto mechanic from Coos Bay. He returned to Eugene to visit his parents and thought about going to Los Angeles to try the music scene there. After certifying his disability through the V.A., he headed south to get busy with his life. He arrived in south Redondo Beach just in time to fall in to a nice boarding house arrangement for only $50 per month plus change for a community vegetarian kitchen. This left him $100 per month, enough for a ball of Afghani hashish and a bag of Columbian herb. The only rules of the house were "no booze and all visitors must leave by midnight".
The owners were an old couple from Indonesia whose Hindu ways tolerated any lifestyle as long as they did not have to smell burning animal flesh. They were seldom home, and lived in a Hindu community in Culver City. Their two sons, Hans and Cornelius VonOvereem, each had a room, and when one boarder moved out upon getting married, the brothers put a sign on the living room window advertizing the room just as Martin was leaving the beach accross the street. Martin was at the right place at the right time.
In the late fall of 1971, South Bay was dead. Martin was quite content because despite being in the megaopolis of L.A., he was eight miles from the nearest freeway. His needs were minimal, his associates were not envious nor hedonistic, and he was accross the street from waves. His situation was sent by God, he thought, because it came so quickly after the Isle of Wight campfire where his Canary Island friend, from Indonesia, had influenced him. Now he was living with Indonesian surfers accross the street from an uncrowded stretch of perfect beginner surfing waves. So, he was with good smoke, his music, which he hadn't worked professionally with since the Ragged Edge days 6 years previously, still was his main desire, and now he had new excitement provided by waves. He was immediately noticed as he surfed Torrence Beach at the base of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. He couldn't wear his boot in the water, so with the interest of "hanging ten" out of the way, he only needed a very small surfboard to support his unique prone style. Very quickly, he developed into someone who was very fun to watch as he whipped through sections of the waves that he only had access to. His center of gravity and aerodynamics were completely different from the hot-shot, Hermosa Beach stand-up surfers. Torrence Beach didn't support his style for long and so he always journeyed the better wave beaches from Ensenada to Santa Cruz as a lifestyle. He could not afford this for long on a pension, though, and when the summer of 1972 was on the horizon, and the tourists were expected back in droves to attend the South Bay pubs and bistros, he now needed to form a band or join one that needed a 25 year old strummer.
After the Isle of Wight, Martin lost interest in rock music, and it was a good time to do so. The only new music that was coming out was regurgatative versions of the British Invasion of the late 60's. He still liked the old tunes, especially the obscure cuts that weren't overplayed, but he never could copy someone else's music. He was not a lyric writer, but his riffs were dreamy and rhythmic, and very ethnic. He loved sitar music and really loved the stuff Hans and Cor listened to. But to do money music, he had to melt into four other musicians' styles. There was a band of early twenty year olds playing in a garage up the street, and one day Martin intruded on them. After a shy introduction, he was surprised to find that he was just what they needed. They were working on mostly originals written by the lead singer, Kekela, a huge Hawaiian who was also a disabled Vietnam vet, and, at the urging of a black keyboard player, they were practicing a new beat from the radio from a Jamaican Band, Bob Marley and the Wailers. The song was Rastaman Vibration, and though the beat was different, the band learned it very rapidly. Around July, they were confident enough with 10 songs to look for a gig. So, picking the name "The Holy Smokers", they succeeded convincing a Manhatten Beach pub owner to start a Thursday night slot for $10 per musician plus tips.
O'Ryans was a big venue. Fridays were attended by lots of affluent people. The music was always outstanding on the weekends. The Doors once played there. Canned Heat started there, as did the Strawberry Alarm Clock. It was kind of a Mecca for a rapidly dying generation. The draft was a dead issue, Vietnamization and Watergate and a landslide defeat for the last gasp attempt at 60's left wing political aspirations left a large mental gap in the survivors. Many vets were just staying high, the lucky ones, like Martin, who did not get in too deep in the killing fields. Others were gone, many people dead from a lost generation, and O'Ryans was a way to "hold on". But O'Ryans, too, was going backgammon and disco, and the Culver City Lebanese and wealthy Kuwaitis soon used O'Ryans as a way to escape their rigid Islamic homelife. Glittering ladies, limos, cocaine, dirty disco dancing, backgammon and Arabs in Polyester soon stole the show at O'Ryans on the weekends. But the old crowd still felt quite at home at the pub during the week. Kekela wanted to make Thursdays special, "big luau, good music, free veggie snacks". Needless to say, the Holy Smokers ran for three years as the Thursday Night Event, incomes rose to $300 a week, which was not a bad second income. Martin was comfortable with the subsidized surf and herb money, and he an Kekela became fast, inseparable friends, and were the "musicians" of the group, while the others were full time employees of LAX and other aircraft industries. Kekela and Martin now each had a room at the boarding house, but the VonOvereem brothers moved on. The rent was now $125 per month and the beach house was up for sale.
Martin was tired of Southern California, tired of cocaine users, tired of playing the same old gig. 1975 seemed like it was going to be a year of transition as it unfolded on New Year's Day. Even the waves were getting boring. He and Kekela were always talking of disbanding the Holy Smokers and heading for Hawaii. He had a brother he could visit, Kekela had family in Kula, Maui. The wheels of time were turning, and by February, each had sold about everything they owned. Kekela had sold his PA system and Martin sold his Stratocaster and Marshall stack, his Karmin Ghia and traded his Leslie Speakers for a classic Gibson SG. All Martin now owned was the Gibson, a boogie board, a backpack, and far too many books. Kekela, who by 1975, was very tall but was very thin. His voice also was failing, and the V.A. was talking about how some Vietnam vets suffered cancer-like symptoms from a defoliant used there called Agent Orange. Kekela knew he had a "terminal" problem, having built airstrips in Danang and Hue during the Tet Offensive in the summer of 1968, remembered how while driving bulldozers he was showered by the red fog spewn from Helicopters flying overhead, and how it burned his unprotected lungs. However, his philosophy confirmed within him that death began when he entered his mother's womb. Agent Orange was not going to be blamed for his demise, because death is but a fact of life. Kekela was uneducated in the worldly sense, but his lyrics and his talks with Martin confirmed him as the ultimate erudite philosopher. Martin was a lifelong world and religious history and geography buff, and Kekela's spoken word was the catalyst of understanding of reality.
Martin was apprenhensive about moving to Hawaii because of his financial status. His pension was only $300 per month, which wouldn't rent much on what he had heard of Maui's housing costs. His disability prevented him from labor intensive work, so he had to rely on being an outsider trying to crack into the local, hotel and tourist driven music industry there. South Bay was easy, as his reputation would have produced a much more lucrative future, but his laid back patience with L.A. was thin, Kekela needed him, and he always threw caution to the wind, leaving materialistic and selfish desires at a low position on his list of priorities. He and Kekela headed for Kula.
Kekela's parents met him at the Kahului Airport, and they tried to hide the shock at seeing such a gaunt Kekela. They welcomed Martin as Kekela's brother and their own son. They lived on a dried up mango orchard near Poli Poli Ridge on the rise to Haleakala Volcano. They had recently lost water rights which were diverted to the concrete condo world of Kehei, where the wealthy Amerikans were demanding resources for their oceanfront retirement havens. Kula was the forgotton breadbasket of the Island, but the local indigenous population of truck farmers lacked political clout to ever win on "growth issues".
Martin was not on vacation. His friend and mentor was rapidly losing grasp on this world, but that did not stop Kekela from telling Martin about the ancient ways. Not only did he speak the wisdom of the Kahuna's spiritual treasures, but he actually made the connection to even more ancient sources of the Kahunas' knowledge that predated Hawaiian History. This six-month death-bed discourse, Kekela tied all of Martin's educational loose ends together. The philosophy imparted bridged all gaps by using Gospel, Bhagavad Gita, Polynesian Lore and even the tribal appreciations of African culture. One God-One Love-Praise Him. Their last days together were spent healing Kekela's parents of the grief of the loss of a loved one.
Martin then was alone, in a place where he had nobody. Kekela's parents offered to have Martin "stay forever" after the funeral, but Martin needed solitude. He had played no music, and had not even been to the ocean for the six months he had been on Maui. He had to regroup. Kekela's parents, having developed such parental fondness for Martin, had an overgrown two acres on the very wet side of the island that they insisted in granting to Martin. Nothing but bananas and holoholo grass, but a panorama ocean view at Huelo Point. Martin was never given the opportunity to humbly decline their generousity, and the deed was recorded in the Wailuku Courthouse in September of 1975. He was driven there by Kekela's father, and, after pitching his tent in a very dry area of the property, waved "aloha" to the generous donor, promising to visit often as a grown "son" should.
Huelo Point was serene. Many families in the area had nothing but friendly attitudes. Martin set up his P.O.Box in Peahi, and immediately received a $3000 check from the V.A. He had not been in touch with them since leaving California, and the back pay was seen as a gift to help him settle into his new surroundings. He spent the whole check on building materials, and dug in, praising the fact that he was but a puppet in the hands of the Creator.
Martin soon got to know the locals, a mix of 60's refugees and local Hawaiians, and the waves were calling him. The waves were awesome, but Martin eased into them. He didn't surf much, though, because his building project took all his time. The herb he was smoking was more potent than the hashish he loved in South Bay, and it seemed to be free of charge. Everyone in the hamlet had their own crops and there were no shortages. However, after dealing with the last six months and the demise of his dear friend, he smoked ritually but not often. He discovered that the high was better after not smoking for two days than the "perma-buzz" he got from never letting the smoke stop. He used the herb as sacrament rather than a party implement. He spent much time by himself in serious contemplation on the words of Kahuna Kekela, making occasional hitch-hike trips to Wailuku for food and Library books. He practiced daily on his Gibson, even without electricity or amplification, and promised himself he would end his mourning when the New Year came. He decided that he would try to reform the Holy Smokers in Kahuna Kekela's memory.
Martin quickly adjusted to island life. His skin turned purple and his hair turned orange, and his speech was changing to the informal pidgin English of his area. North Maui closes up at night so his only social life was hitching the 12 miles to Paia for a Thursday afternoon card game and herbal tea with an old Philipino W.W.II vet he met at the V.A. office in Wailuku. Richie was living inland in Makawao, teaching kids martial arts in his home. Richie provided a totally new kind of association fro Martin, not the twenty-something Woodstock newcomers moving en masse to the new Marijuana Capitol of the world. Martin was not completely rejected by the beautiful people who daily jammed the health food stores, head shops and pubs of Paia and hung out at Baldwin State Beach Park on the outside of town. But he was a Vietnam war monger to many of them. He felt no loss because he always knew his circle of friends would be small, and Richie provided the social stimulus with his war stories, his North Maui farming tips, and his martial arts descriptions and adventures.
Martin soon realized that though his economic overhead was very controlled as were his needs, at 28 years of age he was compelled by natural forces to establish some roots. He got a free round trip ticket to Oahu to see his brother�s retirement ceremony. With his family and subsequent reunion, he was also able to catch a show by Toots and the Maytalls at the Waikiki Shell. He did not have much to say to his family, but was greatly inspired upon seeing familiar Reggae Music. He had played Rastaman Vibration by the great Bob Marley with his band in South Bay, and was more determined to play professionally soon. His late brother Kekela had often spoke about the Theistic wonder of the Dreads, the wisdom of Solomon, the true home of the Ark of the Covenant, and the glory of the Supreme Jahovia.
He flew back, thus inspired greatly, and instead of heading North from Kahului to his rain forest homestead, he headed to West Maui instead, to check out the music scene of Lahaina. Stopping briefly to eat and visit the library in Wailuku, he continued his journey as the clouds were ominously forming above the West Maui Mountains, above Iao Valley. On this January 19, 1976 day, he walked south to the outskirts of town and beyond.
Hitchhiking in Maui in the 70�s was illegal, and a violation netted the pedestrian a $50 fine. However, there was no restriction on a driver picking up a walking pedestrian on the highway, therefore, if one was seen with a backpack and walking with thumb in pocket, the drivers would assume that a ride was needed. But on Saturday afternoons, Wailuku shuts down and those wanting West Maui party life from Kehei to Kaanapali were already there. Without traffic, Maui hitchhikers walk. Four miles outside of town, at 5 P.M., the sky turned black. Looking back down the ridge toward Kahului, Martin saw an explosion at the base of a huge lightening bolt. The ensuing blackout assured Martin that the PUD substation just blew. Then the raindrops, if they can be accurately called that, began to fall. Each raindrop was full of enough water to overflow a shot glass, and after standing through 10 minutes of the deluge, Martin's boot became water-logged. 10 minutes later, pavement was buckling under his feet, washing into the pineapple plantation and county dump below the road. And then, shocked to see such a sight, a 1952 Chrysler with a plume of black smoke following so closely, died at his feet, rolling 20 yards by sheer momentum. Spontaneously, he ran limping to the rear bumper, motioning the unseen driver to make a hard left to the dump turnoff.
The flash flood gave one last belch before the sun again appeared at the ridge of the West Maui Mountains, and the rain stopped as instantly as it had begun. The driver stayed in the car, and Martin was able to flag down a Volkswagen bus, the occupant very compassionate toward the rain drenched good Samaritan. Martin opened the door, sincerely thanking the young surfer for stopping, and asking him to wait to see if the dead car operator also needed a ride. After getting the attention of the driver, the Hawaiian woman got out of the Chrysler and retrieved belongings out of the trunk, folded her hands with a gentle bow to the car, and ran with her suitcase to the bus.
Darkness was upon the evening as they drove off toward the Maalaea Junction and Anoina turned to thank Martin for his helping hand. When their eyes met, there was mutual astonishment, but recognition did not take place. They were both very tired and ready to get to the dry Lahaina. Martin had never ventured to West Maui, but all he needed to do was to find Mr. Natural's health food store and Richie's son and family lived down the same street. They were expecting him, wanting to show him the active music scene there, especially the non-hotel affiliated clubs that the locals frequented. Anoina was staying with her hotel worker friends further north from Lahaina, past the Kaanapali airport. Her day started at 6 A.M. on Sunday, and now she knew that her whole paycheck and tips earned on this journey, plus a large chunk of her savings, would be needed for a new car. She dreaded the thought of having to move to Lahaina, but she knew that she would probably have to, at least for awhile. The next six months appeared to be anxiety ridden due to the basest struggle for existance.
A surfer cannot pass Maalaea Harbor in January without stopping to see if any perfect waves were bouncing around, so the bus stopped and the three strangers were sitting on the beach. It was light again when they got around the shadows of the West Maui Mountains, and the west coast sunset exploded in glory. With Molokai and Lanai as a backdrop, the brilliant golden and orange sky with purple and black clouds lined with silver and azure blue was a certain invitation for an evening, stress-of-the-day-ending reefer. Anoina asked permission from the others, and Martin certainly was in the mood. The surfer gracefully declined as he was stress free already. The three sat silently, watching God's glory, the orb melting into the dark blue sea, leaving a flash of indescribable green. The sweet smell of hemp wafted through the air, and did destroy the stress of the day. As the golden sky turned dark purple, the three continued their trip to Lahaina Night Life. Anoina was very hungry and decided that she, too, would stop at Mr. Natural's and call her friend to meet her there. So Martin and Anoina were about to meet each other again. As the weary, hungry, and stress-free hitchhikers stepped from the bus, Martin fell helpless to the pavement. His boot had collapsed beneath his weight, and, as Anoina helped him to the outside booth at the restaurant, for some reason they were both uncontrollably laughing. Instead of being embarassed, Martin was laughing at God's sense of humor, because since he first saw Anoina running toward the bus, he thought he had known her all his life. Now, as he was trying to put on a glow in front of her so she would feel the same way, BAM! Down he went. Martin knew the score, for he had heard from Kekela, he was blessed by the Kahuna. Anoina was also laughing at God's sense of humor, after bulldozers, arrests, crushed little children, she was provided 3 years of carefree living, now she was faced with homelessness, no transportation, the humbling thought of living in Lahaina, she was on God's rollercoaster. This wonderful free ride was provided by Mata Chula, the ancient Jamaican Shaman healer who taught her to not waste too much time with worries about her future, that "Jah" provided protection to the true Israelite. Her laughter ended with "O Jahovia" as Martin simultaneously prayed aloud, "One Love - One God - Praise Him".
Certain awe was to overcome them, as Martin repeated the same "foot" story he was obliged to tell all he met. He was whole, but the obvious gap, when discovered, was a conversation starter. Anoina knew the story, she had heard it by a soulful campfire 8,000 miles away five and a half years earlier. Almost speechless, she said, "You nevah tell me your name, I think of you allah time now fo ovah five years." Martin replied, "Illa White is the name I gave you in my memory, I'm Martin Moore." "I'm Martha Anoina, so glad to know you." Silence fell at the table as they were both struck with wonder at the smallness of the world, the odds of two logs floating on the river of Time, would meet, disperse, and meet again. "How long will we sing this song?", was playing in the hearts beating at the same table. Their herbal induced appetites made them devour their dinners, and their fatigue of the day caused them to separate for the evening. Anoina's friend arrived and she headed North, Martin, rebooted, ambled toward the old Lahaina Whaler Prison, where Richie's son lived nearby. Martin gave Anoina the phone number there to call when she finished work on Sunday, and she promised she would.
Martin and Anoina's evening, though separated by eight miles of coastline, was spent in total unity. Both were charter members of the "Free Love Generation", yet both had experiances that just proved that shortly after the realization that "free" was a lie, "love" was discovered to be illusory as well. Both had superficial relationships and both had tasted the bitter fruit of loss. Both were reluctant to jump into another "promise" of love, yet they were now "educated" as to whom the recepticle of Love really should be. Chula loved everybody because she loved Jahovia. Kekela refused to dance with Death because he always danced with Sri Purosattama, the Original Tiki, from Whom all beings eminate. Now their wards were praising God within the depths of their hearts. While her friends scurried off to a night of club-hopping, Anoina stayed back, playing slack key music on a guitar while humming Nyabinghi Chants she had heard from Mata Chula on the Trenchtown Beach, then collapsed on the couch in utter exhaustion. Martin, meanwhile, decided to not go with Richie's son and his wife to the clubs, staying behind to fall asleep to Auntie Emma's Polynesian Prayers playing on the radio.
Anoina was supercharged on Sunday. She hosted a huge banquet breakfast attended by a convention of tool making executives from Texas to Miami, most of whom were stone drunk by noon. She had a break from 2 P.M. to 5 P.M., so she went swimming in the fresh water pools flowing through the grounds of the Hotel. She got high, and really wanted to call Martin, but she had always felt that telephone conversations were useless. She decided that she would call on Monday morning so she would have a month before their association would need to be broken again.
The well rested Martin spent the Sunday with Richie's son, surfing 8 foot perfect waves at Honolua Bay. He was exhillerated using a small surfboard built for a five year old, and was also excited to find out that a well established Lahaina band lost their guitar player and singer, and was having informal auditions that evening at the Blue Moon Saloon. Richie's son knew the drummer, who was also the leader of the band, and the keyboard player, and had already told them of his father's guitar playing friend had thirteen years professional experiance. Martin thought, "Nice hype, but three years Ragged Edge and three years Holy Smokers doesn't make 13". He was also without his Gibson SG, which was under his bed 60 miles away at Huelo Point. He had no amplifier, nor could he afford one. But, if he could just throw his unique riffs on top of any original band's stuff, maybe he could soon be able to afford an upgrade of his music system. Heading back to Lahaina, he looked intently at the Kaanapali Sheraton as they drove by, knowing that she was at work there and wanting a real long time to get to know her.
Martin found himself with a Lahaina job as the lead guitarist with Kamaina, a four piece instrumental group with a drummer, a bass player who also played congas and a steel drum, and an excellent keyboard player. All were native sons, though two were not of Polynesian descent. They were all schoolmates from Kahului, and had been together since 1970. They started out playing covers of Quicksilver and Jefferson Airplane tunes, but for the last three years leaned toward electrified versions of the Hawaiian Folk Music. Their lead guitar player / vocalist broke off when a popular Honolulu group stole him away for a mainland tour. The audition jam was a hit. The Blue Moon Saloon took notice of the new guitar player, and the tips were flying. His obligation was Friday to Sunday, every other week, and though money was not discussed in a contractual way, their Sunday gate was equally distributed, Martin finding himself $50 richer. He went to sleep that night thinking how well Kekela's lyrics and voice would fit in. He also wondered if Anoina would ever call.
Richie's son awoke Martin on Monday morning to tell him to make himself at home while he went to work. He also gave him the keys to an old 1961 Rambler station wagon to use if he wanted to go back up to Honolua Bay. He also mentioned that the wagon was for sale for $300, ran perfect, air-conditioned by huge rust holes on the floor board (screened to afford camping without mosquito bites). "Great deal," thought Martin as he drove north at 8 A.M. He stopped by a gas station in Kaanapali, and was again amazed to see Anoina drop a coin into the phone booth there. The phone rang once, and Martin appeared, in person. Again laughing at God's sense of humor, Martin invited her surfing, so she got her belongings from her friends house and bid them farewell for another month. She was going to take it easy and get to know her old campfire friend once again. The Rambler stopped at the Honolua Bay cove while 15 foot waves blew down from the point. Martin, using the child's surfboard, gulped, yet paddled out, bootless. Only five locals were good enough to be at the outside break and they did not appreciate the intrusion by the one-footed haole. One of them paddled over to Martin to tell him he did not belong and was going to spend the day being their target.
The locals were being more practical than rude, as inexperianced tourists were dangerous to the point of fatal injury in such waves. But they soon noticed that he was with a noble Hawaiian sistah, so they backed off a bit. Martin found the third wave of a clean-up set, at least 18 feet. All five other surfers, taking the previous waves, were way inside waiting for a lull to paddle out in. They all watched Martin drop into a critical section of wave as if they expected him to die. Martin dropped to the bottom, spun around and rose back up the face of the wave as the crest was about to explode. He found a pocket, shifted his weight and held on as the wave completely swallowed him. 15 full seconds later, he reappeared on the shoulder of the wave to the hoots and happy hollers of the surfers, 10 people on the beach, two professional photographers, and an appreciative and thoroughly impressed Anoina. His biggest wave previous to this bomb was only a 12 footer at Santa Cruz the previous winter, two weeks before he moved to Maui. His heart was pumping much too fast to go back out, so he crawled out of the briny whitewater to sit with Anoina, who had "fresh reefa" to reward him for his effort.
For two hours, they shared their histories of the five and a half years since the Isle of Wight. Though they were so culturally different, they were alike in many more ways. When Martin asked if she still was in touch with Chula, Anoina sadly replied that the letters she has written have no address to send them to. However, Chula had often explained that communication of the heart of the Israelites need no approval of postal authority. Martin then told her that Kekela always was with him in communication despite leaving the realm of biology. Martin and Anoina both knew that God had placed them together and would not allow them to get away again. After more hours disappeared, the question of "where to now" had to come around. He was surprised to find out that Anoina was not a Lahaina resident, rather a neighbor only 12 miles south of his north shore residence at Huelo Point. Knowing that she had no transportation, he decided to purchase the Rambler so they could head to the rain forest together. They both bathed in the salty shorebreak of Honolua Bay, dried off, and headed south to Richie's son's house.
The title was signed with no money exchange, Martin promising to send $150 on the first of February and pay the rest after his first full weekend with his new band. Saying, "Mahalo nui loa", they headed back to Wailuku and then onward to the North Shore. They were both all talked out by then and unsure of what was next on this journey that suddenly placed them as inseparable beings. A combination of shyness and ghastly fear overcame them. They were truely in love with each other, but it happened all too suddenly. Three days earlier, they were both in confusion of transition, facing turmoil and not knowing how the future was panning out. They were dust blowing in the wind, independent, lonely, introspective, neither elated nor full of sorrow or self pity. Now they were being joined together by forces they could not understand. Was this to be a metaphysical event masterminded by Kahunas and Shamans? Or were they headed for another wall, another roadblock on the way to the Supreme Lord? The answer to their apprehension was soon to come.
KIPU'KA - Reunification (ch 1)
KIPU'KA - Insurgency (ch 2)
KIPU'KA - Occupation (ch 3)
KIPU'KA - Remedy (ch 4)
KIPU'KA - Realization (ch 5)
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