Fishing tradition must be passed down to children
By Ka'ohua Lucas
"Aunty, I got one! Can you help me take the hook out of its mouth?" a little girl screamed as her tilapia twirled around on her fishing line.
Wincing at the thought of handling a wriggling fish, I agreed.
Our community college was hosting 90 fourth-graders who were studying early Hawaiian life.
They came to visit the lo'i kalo (taro patch) where they would learn about the ahupua'a, the role of the mahi'ai (farmer) and the craftsman and to experience first-hand the art of fishing.
I was assigned the task of overseeing the fishing activity.
As the tilapia spun around on its line, I gingerly grasped its body and attempted to remove the hook.
The slimy creature slithered out of my hands to swing like a pendulum on its line.
If anyone was out of her element, it was me.
Both the little girl and I tried to stifle our screams as the fish thrashed about like an angry alligator.
A 9-year-old boy, witnessing our predicament, sauntered over to rescue us.
As a fishing expert would, he grabbed the tilapia and deftly removed the hook from its gaping mouth.
In early Hawai'i, lo'i kalo were used as fishponds.
These loko i'a kalo were stocked with a variety of fish and eaten during times of famine.
Early Hawaiian scholar Samuel Kamakau wrote, "Fish and the taro patch ponds gave life to the husband, the wife, the children and the whole family 'ohana. When anyone was hungry, the wife would get a few 'o'opu (goby), or 'opae (shrimp) or aholehole (Hawaiian flagtail) and some taro leaves to relieve the hunger."
The loko i'a kalo was an integrated aquaculture-agriculture system.
As my fourth-grade charges baited their lines with Spam, I watched their fishing techniques, which were reminiscent of my own childhood experiences.
One little girl had gotten her fishing line tangled in the kukui nut tree that hung over the loko i'a.
"Aunty, can you help me?" she pleaded.
Another boy was shaking his head, refusing to aid his partner who had a 10-inch tilapia dangling from his line.
Still another was prodding a crayfish with a stick, trying to return it to the safety of the pond.
This scene brought memories of my own father's ordering me to join him as he gutted weke for dinner.
"No, daddy, I feel sorry for the fish," I would whine.
"Come on, what kind of Hawaiian are you?" he scolded.
"One that likes to eat fish but doesn't like to clean it."
"OK, get in there and mix the poi, then," he ordered.
Gratefully, I would trudge into the house to seek the solitude of poi and bowl.
Fortunately, my children have not adopted the errant fishing ways of their mother.
In fact, my daughter is quite adept at the art.
When she was 7 years old, her father took her to a pier where the fish were running.
She noticed a hole that was carved out of the middle of the wharf and decided to cast her line.
Her father insisted that she fish off the pier, but she flat-out refused and lowered her hook into the hole.
Within minutes, she felt a tug and pulled up a mullet about 10 inches long.
I know that I should continue to foster my children's interest, particularly because it is historically a skill of their kupuna, or ancestors.
But for now I'll opt to have the tradition of fishing passed on to my children by someone else in the family.
And in the meantime, I'll have to muddle through the role of the lawai'a (fisherman) within the context of Hawaiian society, watching over fourth-graders, who I know cannot be fooled.
Ka'ohua Lucas has a daughter, 17, and two sons, 10 and 7. Lucas holds a master's degree in education curriculum and instruction, works as a counselor for Native Hawaiians at Windward Community College and writes curriculum with a Hawaiian culture focus.
She and fellow Hawa'i parent Lynne Wikoff take turns writing the Family Matters column. If you have comments, questions or suggestions for future topics, write: Family Matters, 'Ohana Section, The Honolulu Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Honolulu, HI 96802; e-mail ohana@honoluluadvertiser.com or fax 535-8170.
