Ode to the Unnamed Fisherman
Kristel Castro
The Kuehu Lepo leaves dust upon my cheek,
Carving a line through your watery tomb
On the southernmost tip of your island home,
Where the two winds come face to face,
A weathered cross withstands the salty spray,
Up on the crumbling cliffs of Pele’s reign,
You are left unnamed, your story unclaimed.
Black trash bags glide through the air like ghosts,
Memories of the endless days you’ve spent,
Casting your ‘Ũpelu and puhi paka out to sea,
Patiently waiting on the pali for the big one,
The sun setting when your line finally sings.
Clutching your pole to your chest you fight
With all your might, body bending left and right,
Your forehead bears a film of salted sweat,
The sharp points of your gaff ready to plunge
Deep into the helpless pits of your prey.
For the last time you made your way down,
As the south swells pulled you into its embrace,
Descending into the depths of your watery tomb,
Your life, your story warped in the currents.
Those who travel the winding road to the sea,
Are now met with a worn down and windswept
Symbolic word of warning and watered down story
Of the unnamed fisherman, his life, and his glory.
Photo: Fishermen off ‘Opihikao by Seri I. Luangphinith