We awaken on a Monday to find that
the power in our little hut near the sea
has vanished. This happens, we know,
having been here many times. But,
awake early for me, I pull on my suit
and flip flops and head to the beach.

The surf is up; there will be no
swimming today. But that’s not
why I’m here.

Once I shuck the footwear and my feet
meet sand, I find myself under a sky
bisected with white fluffy clouds
as well as a swath of gray—a promise
of droplets at any moment. When they
come, as I stand ankle deep in warm
ocean, gazing toward the big mountain,
a surprise:

The sun breaks through just enough
to reveal a large honu close to shore
paddling hard, a large brown saucer
bobbing through earnest swells
that keep pushing him backward.

Up to my calves in frothing waves,
I watch this ancestor of the sea until
clouds again swallow the sun,
water morphing into murky marine
green tinged with navy.

The honu disappears.

I can’t say why my spirits rise
when I see a sea turtle’s head
periscope through waves,
how, even when he vanishes,
and I’m powerless to make him
reappear, I hold onto the notion
that he is still out there
somewhere, somewhere.

All I can do is wait, trust in
that constancy of presence,
that the spirit of the ancestors
is never far away, knowing
that, whether I’m here
to see him or not,
he will pop up again.