The long road from Hilo to Kona stretches before me and Marilyn. It is our first time on the Big Island of Hawai’i, where Kilauea volcano spouts lava that either burns or expands the land. In our economy rental, the scenery shifts from ocean to mountains and lava rocks. The two-lane road is narrow, and one could easily slip through to the other side.
After five hours we reach Pu‘uhonua O Hōnaunau, a national historic park on the coast of Kona. Marilyn and I walk along a sandy path. Two wooden Tiki statue guards greet us at the entrance. There is an eeriness about this place. It’s as if we walked through another vibration. Marilyn held my hand. What is this place? I don’t know.
Right by the coast is a fenced reconstructed heiau, a Hawaiian temple, built of grass and bamboo with more Tiki gods guarding the entrance. Our path leads to a large rectangular stone wall, and here we stop. It is a place where many had been sacrificed. We say a prayer.
We wander farther towards the shore. Marilyn lays on a flat rock. I marvel at the scattered twigs and fallen coconut branches that look like works of art on the ground. I don’t know what this place is. I gaze at Marilyn, and she back at me. Stillness.
I drive back along the long road from Kona to Hilo; this time we can’t see the ocean, no highway lights, just a dark road.
Rocks still
Illuminated by the night
left unturned