Canoe Alley
up—people sitting on the beach enjoying the picture-perfect day. We waited for a wave, pushed off the sand, dropped the engine, fired it up, and got on our way headed East. We cruised past Black Point, taking advantage of the calm conditions and going farther than we usually would without having to deal with chop or swell. One rod was rigged with squid bait, the other with damashi—a long leader with multiple small hooks— and we dropped in a few spots in hopes of catching some live bait. We kept going and pushed in closer to the reef and jumped in with spearguns, but no luck there either. Even without fish, the journey alone felt worth it. As the sun began to set, we turned back toward Diamond Head, still empty-handed. We hadn’t planned on staying out past dark and hadn’t brought flashlights or headlamps, but none of us were ready to call it yet. Instead, we headed back outside of Black Point to deeper water. Almost immediately, both reels started screaming. Fish—finally. We reeled them in to find a smaller Uku on one rod and a Ta‘ape on the other. From there, it was almost nonstop. On nearly every drop we were rigging up Ta‘ape and To‘au. The current slowly drifted us farther away from Diamond Head, and after about ten minutes with no bites, watching Waikīkī fireworks in the distance, we decided to relocate. I swapped out the smaller damashi for a heavier setup—three bigger hooks, heavier test, and knots that my grandfather had tied about twenty years ago. The sky was clear with the moon shining down on us as our only source of light. As we motored toward the next spot, the water around us suddenly lit up bright blue. We dragged our hands through the water, the bioluminescence shimmering all around us. We took it as a good sign, decided this was the spot, and dropped our bait into about a hundred feet of water. After a few quiet minutes, I felt a heavy tug on my line, followed instantly by the reel screaming. The energy in the canoe shifted immediately. As I reeled it in, we began to see the silver glisten from below. After one last scrap, I brought the fish boatside and pulled it in. “Awa‘awa?” my friend said in disbelief after we were done celebrating. None of us had ever caught one. It weighed about five or six pounds and measured just over thirty inches—definitely a keeper. Just when we thought things might be getting boring, we heard a massive whoosh followed by the water exploding as a whale
Fish Tales: December Glass By Stanley Porteus
A catch he’ll always remember: a rare Awa‘awa, hooked on knots tied by his grandfather.
➳ It was Friday morning in the middle of December on the South Shore of O‘ahu, and the ocean was as flat and calm as I’d seen it all year. I woke up late that morning and glanced out toward the water outside of ‘Āina Haina—noth- ing but endless glass. No wind lines, no whitecaps, just smooth sheet glass stretching out toward the horizon. Days like that don’t come around often, so I picked up the phone and called a couple friends. Time to get the gear ready and take the canoe out fishing. We met up at my house, loaded the truck, and headed down the coast to OCC. We swam out to the canoe and the Holopuni drew a small audience as we loaded
26 AMA | march/april 2026
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