E Kala Mai Ia’u: A Reflection on Paddling

by Dena Cassella

In the matter of canoes, there was nothing to be understood. Everything was instinctual. Paddling canoes is the sport and spirit of Hawaii. A way to preserve a sacred culture in just seconds: spurts of remembrance when wave touches wood. It was a rite of passage. For me, it was a chance to redeem a fair complexion. I had always been a strong and structured girl, with broad shoulders and thick trunks of legs. Sturdy is what my father called me. Only feeling small and delicate while nestle in the sands of Makapu’u beach, sinking deep into the moist crumble of earth, feeling the sun boil and birth our connection as we’d melt into ourselves.

Digging deep into the current’s white splashed tips, I became a paddler at age ten. I became useful, fluid in motion and incredibly effective in a canoe. Dragging 600 pounds of hollowed Koa wood great distances with such elegant intensity sent shivers down my shoulders and awakened my body to the miracle performed by our crew of six girls. The canoe cradled me, positioned so neatly in its flat plank seats. It was my kumu, my teacher, nurturing my learning. I knew how to navigate the current of an open ocean, and keep the balance of the canoe in treacherous winds and unforgiving waves. Paddling was my being—I’d sweat salt water and breathe ocean breezes. There is no sensation more powerful than feeling as mighty as the sea.

In late May when I was nearing seventeen, something went wrong.

With the six of us seated and alert, we lined our vessel up to our starting mark, an empty gallon milk jug bobbing above its anchored self. We sat up straight and listened for our commands. Our coach, a tall, tan man screeched with intensity, hut ho, and we were off. Blades following one after the other in sync with our lunging bodies as we pulled the canoes down the murky stretch of canal. I dug my paddle hard and wrenched my body upright sternly. Harder and faster, the stroke count rose and we followed intently, not like young girls, but like brutish creatures with unstoppable resolve.

Without warning, it happened: I could not feel anything. Nothing. Not the dried layer of salt blanketing my skin, not my wrists, not my fingers, I could not feel the waxy wood of my own paddle in my grip. Nothing. I looked down at my limbs, for reassurance, and they still seemed intact. The sensation distracted me and our boat slowed down as we neared the finish. My crew relaxed breathing heavy sighs of exhaustion. I lay my paddle on my lap and stared at my fingers, plump and tense, and watched as my hands uncontrollably shook and twitched. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what this was. I panted, turned to the girl in the seat behind me and displayed my hands in her face. My eyes releasing a flood of tears made her panic and share in my numb terror. She held them still with her own tired hands, trying to stop the shaking, but she could not. The weary head of every girl in the vessel perked up, confused and frightened by my condition. The shaking grew worse. It weakened my body, stripping me of my sturdiness, causing me to slowly slip out of my plank seat in the canoe. Only my weeping strengthened. Mixing with the salty film of dried canal water, my tears rushed down my cheeks, bombarding my lips with a rotten taste.

Carpal tunnel syndrome said a doctor, who suggested surgery and I refused it. Damaged nerves, said another doctor, frequent ice baths. But they did say one thing in common you cannot be fixed. But I could not stop paddling. Though my body pleaded with its mental, and my performance as a paddler weakened, I did not know how to exist with out it. I did not want to exist with out it. After two more years of numbed races and practices, my parents told me to quit. But it is hard to leave your successes behind you. It is harder to leave your entire being behind you. The sacrifice of belonging: the trade off of ethnicity and identity, pale and tan, an existence and a life.

I still go to races, to sit, and watch the canoes take off. I nest near the shorelines, by old hala trees and smooth water-washed stones, and I wait. Feeling all I can in my sandy burrow, the tiny dips of indented skin on my thigh from the clinging granules, never letting me go, and the warm sticky island air rushing from ocean to meet my face with humid kisses. I wait to remember the delicate neck of the paddle and the miraculous sensation of muscles moving. Digging my hands deeper into the grainy surrounding, grasping what I can of the sodden sands beneath my body, holding it tight and desperate. With browning skin blistering in the sun’s rage, I silently request forgiveness from the waves, and understanding from the wooden vessels fighting the tide out to the starting mark. E kala mai ia’u, I beg them, pardon me for sitting these races out.