(9 Minute Read)

I recently got the honor to spend six days bowhunting on a remote island in Hawaii. The trip was incredible on two accounts. The first was the raw intensity and spectrum of emotions that comes with the ups and downs of bow hunting. It certainly humbles you. The second was how the purity and of island life made me feel more human. I struggled to write this blog because I felt that what I wanted to express had already been written in the book, “Tribe” by Sebastian Junger. In it, he describes lessons from tribal life and the struggles of modern society with staggering accuracy. I’ve read the book four times now, and spending time on the island was my first experience of what he described as “Tribe”. The human spirit was alive and well and I hope to echo that through a handful of short accounts from that trip. 

Communion and Belonging

As our first day of hunting came to a close, we headed back to town to get our deer meat on ice. We stayed at our guide's house and a few neighboring families came over for dinner. As soon as they arrived, the children were instructed to greet us. The boys introduced themselves and shook our hands. The girls hugged and leaned in for a cheek-to-cheek kiss. Toddlers and teenagers ran around and played. There were two babies, and every time I looked over, they were being held by someone new. A sister, auntie, or uncle gave those two babies constant attention. 

The kids running around were some of the most well behaved kids I had ever seen. One stern look from their father and they would come to the table and sit down. If they didn’t listen, they knew the lesson was coming the hard way. The importance given to family and their sense of tribe was refreshing and the babies hardly ever cried. It wasn’t my kids or your kids, but ours.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was surrounded by this much family. No shirts, no shoes, no phones, and not a care in the world. Maybe it was because of the year of social distancing through the pandemic or maybe it was growing up with a small family, but the scene felt foreign. It felt like modern society traded communion for independence.

Craft and Character

All summer long, the locals of the island camp at the beach. The beach is surrounded by a mix of thick jungly valleys and rocky mountain outcroppings. It’s during those summer months that kids discover and learn their craft. They learn to hunt, fish with rods, nets or spears, cook, clean, watch over younger siblings, or help at camp. If they find their spark, the community nurtures that flame. It’s a training ground where passion grows into a skill that contributes to the group.

On our first night camped at the beach, a family drove in and camped at their spot next to us. They prepped dinner and prepared to spend the next day fishing. Most locals don’t welcome outsiders, so we didn’t talk much, but after dinner, a 13 year old boy walked over to our camp and sat right beside me. We’ll call him Kaleb. He sat there with a calm look on his face. I was curious about his life here on the island so I asked what his favorite activity was when they spent the summer at the beach. “Spearfish and surf,” he replied. “Wow, I’ve never tried spearfishing”, I said. I could tell he got excited because without hesitation, he offered to show me! He grabbed a three-prong pole spear from his camp and I grabbed one from ours. I changed into shorts and took off my hiking boots and sweaty socks. Before we walked out of earshot, his uncle said one last thing to him, “Don’t show him everything eh?” We laughed.

We walked across rocks, branches, and broken twigs to get to a small river that flowed into the ocean. We were barefoot and with every step, something jabbed into a soft part of my underfoot and I winced and struggled to keep my balance. It was painful. Kaleb walked so fast I could barely keep up. “Doesn’t that hurt your feet?” I asked. He smiled, “I do this all the time!” I laughed at how soft my city feet were. “How long have you been doing this?”, I asked. “I’ve been diving since I was 3”, he said. I did the math. This boy had been a waterman for a decade.

As we approached the river, he waded in the water with a flashlight in his left hand, and a spear in his right. He swept the water with light, looking for that reflective flash that beams off scaly fish in shallow water. I followed a few steps behind him. I was shocked at the way he could stand on algae-covered stones without slipping. It was nearly impossible for me. “Watch out for eels” he said as he continued sweeping the light. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare me or just testing my nerves. After about ten minutes and not spotting much, we began wading out of the river. No luck tonight. 

Before I got to shore, I turned around and saw that Kaleb was shining the light directly on a bright yellow fish right in front of his feet. Then boom, he released the spear and within seconds was holding the fish out of the water like a shish kebab. He walked over to us, pulled the flapping fish off the spear, stuck his fingers between the gills and with a slow and smooth pull, he ripped the head backwards to kill it. My friend who was watching on the side of the riverbank gave me a look that said, “Damn, did I just see a 13 year old boy kill a fish with his bare hands?”

After that, Kaleb rinsed the fish in shallow river water and began admiring its golden color. It glowed with a deep yellow like the sun on a hazy day. We walked back to camp and when his uncle saw the fish he said, “The queen! You got the queen!” “There were only two!” Kaleb said sheepishly. “She was gonna have babies'' his uncle continued. “Not anymore!” another man jabbed. They burst into laughter as they gave Kaleb shit for removing a female from their waters. Kaleb sliced up the fish and we ate it raw with a little soy sauce. Sashimi style. His friends came by and Kaleb held the plate and we surrounded him as we ate. Within minutes, the plate was clean and we were licking our fingers. I could tell he was proud.

Respect for the Gift

Before each hunt, our guide would lead us in prayer. “Lord keep us safe tonight. Thank you for the animals you have gifted to us.” On the island, the deer are an invasive species with no predators. They’re so overpopulated that many die of starvation. By removing does (female deer) they have a chance at healthier numbers to sustain their population. As stewards of their land and its resources, this duty falls on the hunter.

On the fourth evening of the hunt, my friend shot a doe from about 20 yards away with his bow. We heard the thick “whack!” as the arrow made contact. With all her will to survive, the doe exploded into a sprint and crashed through the jungle. We heard her stop, but didn’t hear her fall. As we followed the blood trail through the woods we suddenly noticed a weird motion off in the distance. The doe was still standing. Barely. She was wobbling dramatically back and forth, losing blood fast, and trying to maintain her balance. We knew she would die soon. Within moments, she fell over and struggled to get back up. We ran over to end her suffering. I stepped on her hind legs while my friend held down her neck, head, and front legs. Our guide asked for a knife so I handed him mine. He slid the blade straight into her chest cavity. “Thank you for your life. Thank you. Thank you.” he repeated. So did we. Within seconds she stopped struggling. There was a moment of silence amongst the four of us and before I could even think, a mix of conflicting emotions rode through my soul.

There was a sense of brotherhood, accomplishment, gratitude, and a respect as cold as steel that soon warmed into an admiration of how sacred this animal was. I ran my hands through her coat. It was a beautiful tan brushed with white spots like a painting. She was soft and still warm. What makes hunting confusing is the sorrow, guilt, and loss you feel along with the joy. It’s a complex branch of emotions that streams out deep into your psyche. A heavy moment. 

Subsistence: The Condition of Remaining in Existence

After the last day of our hunt, our guide brought us to stay with the last two native descendants of the valley. A father and son. They had all kinds of fruit trees including mangos, plums, cherries, bananas, apples, coconuts and more. Potatoes grew in their vegetable garden. Chickens were kept in a coop and there were prawns and fish that swam through the river that ran through their land. Wild deer, goats, and pigs roamed in the jungle they called home. They had a generator to power a few lights and wifi, but otherwise lived entirely off the land. I didn’t see any windows, but they had structures they lived in, a tent to sleep in, and everything they needed to thrive. 

For work, they taught their history and culture to anyone who would listen, led guided hikes, tours, and carried on the traditions of the past. If they didn’t, the traditions would die with them. I got the feeling that they saw their role as a duty, and more than that, an honor.

For dinner, our guide prepared fresh back strap from the doe we harvested that morning. As he was cooking, the native son gave us a tour and decided to take us to the river to show us around and try to spear some prawns. He handed us each a three-prong pole spear. We used our headlamps to spot the reflective eyes of jumbo prawns in shallow water. I tried to spear one but kept missing. Meanwhile, in less than fifteen minutes, the son had filled his net with a dozen jumbo prawns. We walked back to his home and shallow fried the prawns with garlic and Hawaiin salt. Their color changed from a translucent grayish-brown to a deep lobster red. After we sat down and prayed, I looked at the plate of steamed rice with deer from the land, prawns from the sea. I couldn’t help but feel a deep connection with the land and its people. 

For the rest of the evening I leaned in and cherished every moment as we talked story, listened, and laughed. The generational wisdom shared that evening was profound. After the trip, the son wrote me a message, “You are welcome to my home anytime. You got ohana in the valley now”.

After spending the night at their home, I couldn’t help but notice just how opposite our lives were.

At home, I sit in front of a laptop all day with artificial lights on. When it gets too hot I turn on the AC and when it gets too cold the heater kicks on. On the island, he spends most of the day outdoors in the elements. He lives at the mercy of mother nature, whether she decides for the winds to blow, the tides to turn, or the sun to burn.

At home, I can go to a grocery store and buy whatever I want even when it's not even close to strawberry season. On the island, he picks fruits and vegetables from his garden, hunts animals on land and catches sea-life from the local waters.

At home, I don’t know my neighbors, I cover my belongings and lock my doors when I step away from my car. On the island, your neighbors are considered family: you borrow, you give, and you share. 

At home, transitioning to adulthood meant leaving for college and spending many late nights drinking and partying with the newfound freedom. There was no challenge to prove one’s worthiness of adulthood, of manhood. On the island, many are trained from a young age, tested, constantly challenged, and taught to develop skills they’re proud of.

Which one sounds more like home?