As I wrote earlier this week, in the year since the wildfires swept through Maui, I have been deeply pessimistic about Hawaii.

I was a little skeptical about the paddle trip from Hanakaoo Beach Park in Lahaina when I boarded my Mokulele flight from Waimea Airport on Wednesday evening. My wife said it was good that I was coming; I wasn’t so sure.

I have written “year-after” stories about places like Madrid after Atocha station, or Sri Lanka after the Boxing Day tsunami. As a journalist, you have to dutifully report to the scene of the tragedy exactly 12 months later, assess what did and did not happen, and reflect the collective “mood” of those affected.

That didn’t feel right to me in this situation because I don’t have the distance that was possible with the other stories. I keep thinking of the words of Native American artist Boots Lupenui: “This is not for you.” In Hawaii, Boots said, there are places that should be reserved for certain families and peoples. They are connected to this Aina and if you are not invited, then the place is “not for you.”

I understood and respected him when he said that when we talked about the story this spring. There are places in Hawaii that I respectfully avoid unless I’m invited. A friend from Colorado was surprised that I had never been to a famous place in Hawaii.

As tourists, they felt they could visit this place without reservation. As a local, I needed an invitation.

I’m not from Maui. I’m from the island of Hawaii. I came to Lahaina with trepidation a year after the fires.

As I drove past Olowalu, as I had on previous reporting trips, I listened to “Maui Waltz” and “The Sands of Old Lahaina” and thought about being in a helicopter over Ground Zero a few nights before the anniversary of the September 11 attacks.

This story was different from Madrid and Sri Lanka because I lived in New York. All of Hawaii deeply regretted the loss of Maui.

A year later, it should be a commemoration, a remembrance, not an anniversary.

After parking, I saw a shining sign of hope: my younger cousins ​​from Kaimuki: Leimaile and Kepa.

As I always say immediately and with joy when my path unexpectedly crosses that of my family, “There are no coincidences in Hawaii.” The spirits of our ancestors guided us to where we are now. I was happy to see them and know that we would paddle out together.

While our roots are in Hilo, they also have strong ties to Maui and have been on Maui since the fires, supporting the recovery efforts through the nonprofits they work with.

Their regular return to Maui gave them the opportunity to restore their family lands in Waihe’e. They worked to restore their ohana’s auwai to bloom, and they have a dream of restoring the recently abandoned land to bloom. It is an example of hope that could extend beyond their area and to all of Maui and beyond.

They were the people from Maui that I needed to see, and I needed to feel that my presence in Lahaina that day was Pono.

One of the many unique features of Leimaile and Kepa is that they are among the oldest of the new generation of fluent Hawaiian speakers.

They are generous in sharing their knowledge, helping a reporter from a struggling local news organization with the words and meaning of “Na Amakua,” a chant recited during pre-paddle ceremonies attended by a delegation of Hawaii’s highest elected officials.

Then came the opportunity to enjoy Hawaii’s most important medicine: salt water.

Unfortunately, no one from the official state or federal delegation jumped on a board or paddled in one of the many canoes. We are a saltwater people and it would be a blessing if our leaders were also saltwater people.

Therefore, it was a true blessing to have the spiritual embodiment of the Hawaiian Renaissance, Hokule’a, on hand as the centerpiece of the water ceremony.

One of the wonderful stories told on shore was that the Starlink connections for the Hokule’a (which was in Alaska at the start of the Moananuiakea voyage when the fires raged) were quickly sent to Lahaina to be set up at the home of Archie Kalepa, a well-known captain of the Hokule’a.

Leimaile and Kepa skilfully glided along the Maumau quay, the neap tide when the tide is neither high nor low and the water is calm. We could easily see the seabed. They spoke to each other in Olelo, just as my grandfather (their great-grandfather) did with his siblings.

When the pu, the conch shells, were blown, Leimaile paused. As we sat on our boards facing Lahaina, she said that she had had an oli in her head all week and realized that this was the moment to say it. It was a mele hookuu, a chant that drives away pain and anger and makes room for good things.

It was a quiet moment of reflection as flowers dropped from a helicopter floated in the water around us.

Space has been made for the good things that will hopefully happen to Lahaina, Maui and Hawaii.

Civil Beat’s coverage of Maui County is supported in part by a grant from the Nuestro Futuro Foundation.