Canigo roses11/9/2022 ![]() He had watched as their waters had been increasingly fished by all those who couldn’t afford the protein, returning to this ancestral icebox. He, himself, had never liked the idea of the plant-based proteins, of meat-being-made and had watched with fear for his people, as the rising protein prices had come along with the industry. Kūkia, a few years older than Māihi, had been part of the project from the beginning as guardian of the manō’s movement through ʻŌiwi waters. People weren’t hungry, maybe, he reconciled within himself, but they were starved for something, the something that he and Māihi now guarded. production had fully switched over to plant-based replacements just 10 years since Hawaiʻi had started the Sea Pathways program in partnership with other Oceania-nations. It had been 20 years since the meat industry had been shut down and U.S. ![]() Kūkia waited several moments before responding. Her hands instinctively reached to the ends of her short hair and her naʻau sank with the remembering. “We have to stop them.” She peered sideways at Kūkia, admiring his loose, long black hair. #CANIGO ROSES SKIN#If she closed her eyes, she could feel the rough sandpaper edge of shark skin she sometimes saw at the market, the bins of fins secretly coveted as black-market-medicine, with the increasing levels of cancer among the islanders, and her anger would bubble through her, like a muscle spasm she couldn’t control. “We know they’ve been coming in the early morning,” Māihi insisted quietly. The four-step-pop steadily followed the rhythm of the sea and boat’s entwined heartbeat. Māihi’s feet tapped an ʻuwehe into the deck: one foot lifted, weight held on the opposite hip, foot lowered, and knees pushed forward, heels raised. The water was clear enough that they could make out the Alice-in-Wonderland outline of the reef below, some 20 or 30 feet down and the undulating indentations in the sand that ran parallel to the shore behind them. The pair gazed down at the slow movements of the large, graceful whale sharks and the gliding movements of the occasional ray below. He began to sing softly, a song composed to honor Kanaloa, the akua of the sea-world. He knew many of the manō by name, easily distinguished by their varying markings or scars, and would often spend the day freediving beside them, trying to immerse himself in their world of salt and humpback song. The waters here were rich with the plankton that they needed. ![]() One and Aka moved languidly beneath his toes with their gentle-giant way. He dangled his feet off of the swim-deck in small, lazy circles. “I don’t think they’re coming,” Kūkia said sourly and shook his head, although he smiled behind his neck guard. They had been watching, waiting for over an hour. Māihi had always liked the warm-muscle feeling in her legs that would come as they anchored her to the deck in the rolling swell and she focused on that now. But it was she who had insisted that they come out. She was not a morning-person, particularly on these crisp spring mornings. To support our nonprofit environmental journalism, please consider disabling your ad-blocker to allow ads on Grist. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply.AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |