UNSPOKEN PERMISSION
Ka’ena Point Trail
O’ahu Hawai’i
April 21, 2022
Seven days before hiking Olomana, I dropped Ceci at school and drove out to Ka’ena Point alone, expecting the trail to offer up her usual: a five-mile stretch of beauty with no-one else around. Well, maybe a monk seal or two, but preferably, no other humans.
Ka’ena is rugged and isolated, on the completely undeveloped westernmost promontory of O’ahu and the challenge comes not from elevation but exposure. There is no shade, no shelter, no trees. The weather is mercurial and merciless, vacillating from intense, unrelenting sun to wind-whipping salt spray to torrential rain and crackling mudslides. I’ve never hiked Ka’ena without returning to my car, both sunburnt and drenched to the bone, boots covered in thick mud. Exhausted but deeply situated in my body. Out of my looping monkey mind.
At its furthest point lies a sixty-acre nature preserve, a sanctuary and restoration project for endangered seabirds, monk seals, honu and native plants, eleven of which are federally protected. It’s one of the last intact dune ecosystems in Hawai’i, the broken reef churned to sand by the thunderous Pacific winter surf.
The peninsula is bordered by a seven-foot-tall, stainless steel, mesh fence that keeps out the mongoose but allows people to enter through pedestrian gates. The fence has been painted to “blend in” and has properly done its job. Monk seals lounge camouflaged among the lava rocks. Seabirds dance around their nests. I’ve seen massive sharks, just off the coastline, rip through the surface of the water, terrifying schools of fish. I’d never been more grateful to be standing on dry land.
Ka’ena is a holy place.
Also known as Leina a Ka’uhane, the leaping place of souls, legend says Ka’ena is where upon nearing death, a person’s soul comes to meet the spirits of their ancestors. If their death was true, honorable and final, the ancestors guide the soul to a sacred rock on the northern side, where the soul plunges into the ocean and unites with eternity.
If however, a person’s earthly obligations are not fulfilled or the person has been disrespectful, the ancestors either send the person back to their bodies or condemn them to wandering Ka’ena for eternity. Only the compassion of an ‘aumakua - the ancestral family protector (often made visible as an owl, honu, or shark) - can release them from this purgatory.
It truly is sacred ground.
I never, ever enter Ka’ena without first introducing myself, asking permission to walk the land and announcing my intention: to remember and visit with my husband. When I reach the sanctuary, I always make an offering of a prayer, usually finding a heart-shaped bleached coral to place on the lava rocks, in gratitude for Ka’ena’s comfort and her beauty.
Though it seems the obvious place to do so, I do not bring Clayton’s ashes there. I bring prayers and offerings of flowers or coral. I bring memories and reverence. I even bring granola bars and water but never ashes.
Ka’ena isn’t my ancestral burial ground.
I tread lightly there.
Since his diagnosis in February 2018, birthdays had become increasingly difficult. Clayton turned forty-one just two months after they found the tumors and I knew, in my heart, it would be his last. Selfishly, I wanted us to spend it alone. With help from his parents, I booked an expensive hotel room overlooking Santa Monica Beach. We had lobster and chocolate covered strawberries. We sat by a fire pit wrapped in fluffy robes. It was romantic and sad and looking back, I see it was his gift to me. Clayton loved parties. He should have had a blow-out celebration but instead, he allowed me a private moment.
Which is why, six months later, when he was painfully sick but still alive, having survived three brain surgeries, chemo, radiation and a week-long Disney Halloween cruise, I kept my mouth shut as he announced he wanted to throw a 1/2 birthday party for his friends. He was in no condition to throw a party. Neither was I.
But party we would throw.
Barely back on land and still wobbly with sea legs, we gathered our friends for Korean BBQ in Ktown, as Clayton handed out morbidly dark but amusing skeleton stickers that made his Mom wince. Friends came, loaded their plates with buffet kimchee as I played chef with the grill. It made Clayton happy.
In the pictures from that party, Clayton is barely recognizable as the man I married. His face and body were swollen from steroids, the side of his skull concave and hidden under a hat, his eyes were watery and wandering. It was difficult for him to follow a conversation. He summoned every ounce of energy in his body for that 1/2 birthday dinner with our friends. To laugh and joke and be present. The actor in him was well-trained for a fantastic performance.
It was a performance he couldn’t repeat for Cecilia’s seventh birthday just a few weeks later. By that time, he was totally exhausted and often confused, unable to chase the kids up and down the inflatables. Instead, he sat at a table as I took on his role of party host, bought us all Transformers T-shirts, hired a face-painter, rented a bunch of bouncy houses and made sure there were gluten-free cake pops especially for him. I absolutely “blew it out” for Cecilia’s big day, knowing it was the last one she’d ever celebrate with her daddy, but when everyone circled to sing “Happy Birthday,” I couldn’t. My throat was full of tears.
By the time my birthday rolled around in January, Clayton was two-weeks dead and I was in no mood to celebrate anything. Even my continued existence among the overwhelming proof of my own mortality. I just wanted to disappear. My friend, Eric R., wasn’t having it. He showed up at the front door, cake in hand, acknowledging my life amidst the ruins. I think I blew a candle out. Maybe I had a few bites? I’m not sure. I only remember it was chocolate and the living room curtains were pulled shut, darkening the apartment.
As I said, birthdays had become…increasingly painful.
Dates like buried land mines.
The battlefield of a calendar.
So on April 21st, what should have been Clayton’s 45th, I went to Ka’ena with a heavy but respectful heart. I wanted to widow walk and be miserable with my grief. Honestly, I fully expected to hike alone, cry alone, pray alone and end up covered in mud.
Clayton had other plans.
About thirty minutes into my hike, I came upon two adorable young guys, standing in the middle of the dirt trail, only one of them was wearing shoes. “Slippas” to be specific - or as said everywhere else - flip flops. They seemed to be negotiating, in Spanish, about who should go shoeless.
I stopped for a moment and smiled, knowing without a doubt, that Clayton placed those hapless and handsome young men in my path as a fun distraction. I could almost hear Clayton’s laughter in the wind. “Why spend my birthday trudging and moping when you can hike with a coupl’a cuties instead? You’re welcome!”
It’s true, they were adorable but I was still confused.
Ka’ena is a rocky, uneven trail that requires a sturdy shoe. Surely, people wouldn’t be out here without water, food and…shoes?
But they were.
They had absolutely nothing with them.
My writer brain immediately created a story of an attempted swim in one of the tidal pools, a rogue wave sweeping away their shoes and maybe some clothes, their water bottles, backpacks?
None of that was true.
The details were fuzzy, but the cocoa-skinned, baby-faced English speaker explained that his charmingly scruffy Spanish friend woke up late, forgot to wear shoes but didn’t realize it until they were already parked. They’d chosen to hike regardless but since they’d not seen anything interesting, they were headed back to the car.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “The monk seals weren’t there today?”
That stopped them in their proverbial tracks.
Monk seals? What monk seals?
I gestured out to the farthest end of the island. “You see that tower? If you climb over the rise, there’s usually a monk seal, or two, sleeping on the beach. I’ve even seen the bulls fight there.”
After a hasty translation, it was decided the boys were not returning to their car, they were instead, hiking all the way out with me. I hesitated, warning them, “It’s still a really long hike from here. The beach isn’t sandy. It’s stone and coral.” But they’d already made the decision to go, shoes or no shoes.
So, off we went.
They were from Spain and only had a few days left on O’ahu before heading to the Big Island. They wanted to surf the Pipeline, which isn’t something I encourage tourists to do. The North Shore waves are for pros only. In the winter and early spring, they can be upwards of forty feet high. Beginners are not welcome in those waters; it endangers everyone’s life but the boys seemed confident and determined so I shrugged, wished them well.
As we walked, I explained that the trail we were on continued by wrapping around the mountain range to our left, hugging the coastline and continuing down the leeward side of O’ahu, south towards Makaha Valley and Waianae. I told them in the early mornings, pods of dolphins swim in those waters and that it was one of my favorite things to do. Bob like a jellyfish as thirty or forty or fifty dolphins slowly cruise past, underneath you. They put it on their agenda.
I loved their curious spirits, bright smiles and their willingness to hobble barefoot for hours motivated only by the hope of seeing a seal. I loved that they were young and spending their twenties traveling the world, uninterested in assuming the role of “cog in wheel.” I loved that they were poorly prepared and making mistakes and figuring it out. I loved that they were joyful.
I hoped, someday, my daughter would be equally as brave (though hopefully, not as ill-prepared) and that, in that moment of bravery, she’d be sent a benevolent guide to walk her to the sanctuary. A wise elder with a backpack full of water and granola bars, a mouth full of stories and advice.
I hoped she’d be wearing shoes.
The boys and I made it to the gates then I walked ahead to spend time with Clayton on his birthday.
Without him. With him. Without him. With him.
That’s how it always feels.
That he’s gone and still here.
It’s always both.
Hello. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye.
There was only one monk seal lounging in the shallow waters of the tidal pool. She was a dark steel grey and lying quite still, camouflaged among the lava rocks. I almost passed her until I noticed the boys staring intently in one direction. They saw her first.
It is always a blessing to be in their presence, the monk seals. They are among the most endangered animals on the planet, one of the rarest species on Earth, with only an estimated 1,500 or so living among the remote, largely uninhabited northwestern islands of Hawai’i. Seeing them on O’ahu means they’re a thousand miles from home but they’re not always welcome here.
The Hawaiian name for the monk seal is Ilioholoikauaua, the dog that runs in rough seas, and because they feed on the delicacies of the ocean: urchin, eels, squid, octopus and crustaceans, they’re considered a giant, 500 pound nuisance to fishermen. They’ve been known to steal fish off of lines, bump boats and bite when threatened but on Ka’ena, they mostly just haul out into soft sand for a nice nap.
This big girl was definitely asleep so I felt comfortable, walking at a safe distance, out onto the promontory and placing my white coral heart among the black lava with a prayer for Clayton. The baby-faced English speaker joined me and we were quiet together for a long time, watching the waves and the sleeping seal. I finally explained I was a widow and it was my husband’s birthday. Why I’d come on my hike.
He began to speak then, about his own struggles with depression. About a bad break-up that sent him into a spiral of unworthiness. About the universality of loss and love and the serendipities that happen on hiking trails, when seeker meets seeker, and truths are told. How hearts are opened and soothed by sharing and sad days become happy ones.
Our conversation continued and deepened as we slowly returned along the dirt roads back to our cars. Their feet were destroyed, each step a bit more painful than the last, but eventually we made it, hugged each other and said our goodbyes. It was only then I realized I’d never asked their names.
Jaume and Marc.
There is that quote from Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home,” and some days, we do that both metaphorically and literally. Ka’ena was one of those days when I understood I was no longer required to live like a monk seal, a solitary life, thousands of miles away from home, navigating choppy waters, beached from exhaustion and misunderstood.
It would be okay to want companionship again.
It would be okay to share my life again.
It would be okay to love again.
“He would want that for you” as well-meaning people say to widows, a gesture of hope and comfort that somehow swallows like a bitter pill. But, before Clayton died, I never found the courage to ask:
“What do you want me to do?”
I sat in support groups, listening to widowers speak about the tearful, bedside blessings of their wives, offering not just permission to love again but imploring them to remarry. To rebuild rich, full, happy lives with someone new.
Clayton never said those things. The only conversation we had about my future happened on our last family vacation to Palm Springs when Clayton noticed I was sprawled out on a pool lounger reading Option B by Sheryl Sandberg. The book she wrote about resilience after her healthy husband had a fatal heart attack on a treadmill.
“Really?” he said, when he saw the cover. “I’m not dead yet.”
To which I replied, “Yet.”
We’d both done our time in New York.
This is how we joked.
After a quiet moment, I gently added. “I have to take care of our girl, Clayton,” and he just nodded his agreement and that was it. We never spoke about my future again. We were too busy fighting to keep him alive. I never got a bedside blessing.
Instead, Clayton shows up in moments like Ka’ena, placing adorable, shoeless young men directly in my path. He sends fit Nike yoga instructors to live in our guest room. He stage-whispers “talk to her” in the ear of a handyman dad. He places his marriage vow, “I will be your rock” into the mouth of Kez.
That was Clayton’s version of permission.
Sorting out the bad ones.
Bringing in the good ones.
Waiting for me to take the bait.
I just shake my head, “Really, Clayton? This guy? I’m not ready yet.”
I hear his dry reply, “Yet.”
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