With every word I could hear the frustration in my daughter's voice — hear the anger and impatience but never a hint of fear. That was for me to feel, alone at the bottom of the weathered tramway, my heart banging at my ribcage like a boxer on a speed bag.

"Is someone coming? This guy needs help, like now. Daddy, where are you?"

Too far away, I thought.

High above me, at the top of Koko Crater, my 17-year-old daughter had made a choice that few of us ever find ourselves making. While fleeing from a man wielding a knife, she chose to stop and comfort one of his bleeding victims.

I am not going to stamp my daughter as a hero, but I will be the first to call her brave.

Few of us really know how we would respond to a crisis. She had gone on a hike with her boyfriend and encountered screaming, swearing and wailing pain. And then a victim.

I don't know how I would respond.

But I didn't think about that until days later when I began to experience random flashes of relief.

I had been in my backyard hosting a Super Bowl party, savoring a cigar and a fresh beer, when her first text arrived. A girl raised on the nuances of breaking news, my daughter was deadpan in her delivery: "Daddy get ready for a big news story."

Because our home is a block away from the crater, I could clearly see the tramway and a few tiny dots — hikers — coming down. Where was she? It took a few more texts and a phone call to learn the full story.

Then I raced out the door. I had no clear idea of what I would be able to do.

When I arrived, the seriousness of the situation was amplified by police officers on the scene, including one with a bright orange rifle.

My daughter's frustration heightened my concern. I wanted to hear she was safe, but with officers still trying to get up the tramway, all I could do was worry.

To calm her, I told my daughter to call 911 and vent. She did.

But in my own growing panic, I started up the tramway — until the officer with the orange rifle stopped me. He said he might shoot me by mistake. He never mentioned it shot bean bags.

As if that was worse than having a daughter at the epicenter of a growing manhunt.

I let him hike a little further, then continued on myself. What would you do?

To calm myself, I called my daughter.

Nearly an hour passed before I met her near the top of the tramway, the crisis over for her.

We had gone to a frightening place, but my daughter had gone a lot farther. I told her that she had shown courage. I told her some people ignore the call to help.

And I told her she made me proud.

A father has that right.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.