Maui Salt and Sage recommends:

Dr. Pualani Kanaka‘ole-Kanahel

Dr. Pualani Kanaka‘ole-Kanahele in the Green Room

On Friday, June 9th, The Merwin Conservancy presents an evening with renowned Hawaiian spirituall leader Dr. Pualani Kanakaka‘ole-Kanahele, whose lifetime accomplishments as a kumu hula, writer, educator, musician, and dedicated community leader make her a very sought-after speaker and cultural consultant. Dr. Kanahele is the guest of honor at the next installment of The Green Room, an environmental and literary salon series on Maui that is hosted by the Conservancy and fosters a reverence for language, nature, and imagination. The event begins at 7:00pm in the McCoy Theater at the Maui Arts & Cultural Center, with doors opening at 6:30pm. Tickets are $25 per person, with a $10 student rate available with valid student I.D..



A WALK TO RESTORE STREAM FLOW, Monday, May 29 at 8:08 AM – 12:12 PM
Join us this memorial day as we remember and walk the natural path of water from mauka (mountain) to makai (ocean). Our route begins at Pi’iholo Road in Makawao and ends at Ho’okipa Beach in Pā’ia. To learn more about this event, sign up and receive registration forms via email, please visit

kanekoaStringz n Finz: 6/17 Conservation Benefit

June 17th, 2017, we invite you to our first annual Stringz n Finz Conservation and Education Benefit. This is a celebration of ocean conservation in motion. We are hosting a group of top musical acts and personalities to share music & stories and inviting the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society as our guested honoree.

Join international acts Keller WilliamsPeter RowanLarry Keel and local bands YumYum Beast and Kanekoa for this epic day music, education and action! Great voices come together in song to celebrate & educate people on action and conservation

Sea Shepherd GlobalWhale TrustHawaii Wildlife FundLove The Sea and Surfrider Foundation will be holding down the education hub, with Captain Paul Watson, founder of Sea Shepherd Conservation Society our keynote speaker.


Mauna Loa


Mauna Loa

by Philip Scott Wikel




oozing through vents to depths

no diver dares




heat so hot that touching

no midas tries



joined together by melting

stitching patches of

cooled and cracked


an island chain forming

rock and iron

and the greenest of life

worn smooth by water and time



air thick with love

and bound by aloha

At Play on the Reef


At Play On The Reef
by Philip Scott Wikel (Waikoloa)


A south swell strums softly
across the reef
it’s summer in winter
if only in brief

the coral is tickled
and surfing kids rise
anticipating the rush and
the thrill of a ride

They stand on the tide
the white curling mist
with whistling spindrift
a swirl and a hiss

They giggle and wriggle
and manage the glide
become one with the ocean
and feed their insides

For a child it’s pure
no hinderance of vision
they feel everything at once
and know only their mission

to ride salty waves
to smile and cheer
today is the best day
“the swell is here”

Puka Hunting

Puka Hunting

by Philip Scott August


We comb the beach for pukas

we are fishers of shells bound

by love’s umbilical

as we sift, scratch, and dig for treasure

I go to one end

and she the other

meeting in the middle

we find ourselves children again

and blend as friends and lovers

we make a competition of it

and I declare the lead

yet very quickly the duel is lost

to awe, and the exaltation of discovery

she, me, we, sand, sun and surf

the light of the eternal tryst

a fusion in time unbridled

Revolution: Maui AMPFest #3 – Labor Edition

Revolution: Workers of The World Unite!

The Maui AMPFest is part of The Aloha Project:
Promoting Aloha, Music, Hawaiian Culture & sustainable living through international collaboration.

This Video Fest strives to showcase diverse bands from around the world with Hawaiian Culture and music as it’s centerpiece, thusly perpetuating the Spirit of Aloha and creating a worldwide bond between socially and politically conscious people and musicians from around the world.

It’s a celebration of the diverse incarnations of the Spirit of Aloha…

maui music2.2Join dozens of musicians including Mailani Makinai, Ekolu Kalama, Aidan James, Soul Redemption, Bluerays, The Nerves and many more on the Maui AMPFest Official Facebook Page. Watch individual videos, read about the artists, and see both the May AMPFest and the July AMPFest. Also look for news and developments for the Labor Day AMPFest, coming September 7th. And please contact us at or 808-281-6020 if you’d like to get involved. The AMPFest is more than just music, it’s a celebration of the diverse incarnations of the Spirit of Aloha and a celebration of the global village.

I’ve become one with the machine…

maui music_openingFinishing up production on the Aloha Maui “Mixed Plate” Music Video Fest and I think I’ve become one with the machine. For better or for worse I am a laptop with magical software. We’ve spent the past 7 days conspiring to create what we hope will be “the” event or at least “an” event of your year. We’re both tired and overheated but we think we might have created something cool, something fun, and something edifying. All this in one video you ask? Well, she’s one hour and fifteen minutes long. Chances are there might be something worthwhile somewhere in there. We’ll be giving away the first 50 copies. So watch out, a couple of strangers might just force a free DVD on you.

MauiSalt is going live! Call for submissions!
“Go ahead and write about it, I dare you.”

Hey Guys and Gals! Bust out the pen and laptop and give us your best Hemingway!

We’re looking for great maritime writing. Anything to do with the ocean experience. Windsurfing, Kite-surfing, Sailing, Surfing, Stand-Up Paddling, Kayaking, Canoeing, Bodyboarding, Fishing, etc., etc., etc.

Please email them to

MauiSalt is going live!
This is a call for submissions!

Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 32: Weight, balance, weighing, balancing, quiet…




These boys who love their mother

who loves men, who passes on

her sons to other women;

The cloud across the sky. The windy pines.

The trickle gurgle in the swampy meadow

this is our body.

– from “The Bath” by Gary Snyder


Livy walked to the desk in the corner and looked over Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan wrote:

Family in the East

“Paradise” to the West.


North is not a choice to consider.

Weight, balance, weighing, balancing, quiet.

Too many doors in a room. Too many doors leading into and out of a room. You can either wait patiently, hoping something will appear in a doorway and follow it, choose one and go, and never come back, or seal off those that are less enticing, or all of them, and be happy with the room you find yourself in.

This room, their living room, could be best described as belonging to the “poetic aesthetic,” or the base camp for a National Geographer; patterns and prints mixed in an eclectic manner, an antique here, a borrowed table there, nothing quite thread-bare but also nothing quite new. But somehow, when arranged as an unlikely set, and with the addition of something colorful on every flat surface and almost every wall, it was like warm clothing against the cold in winter and refreshing and restful in the humid, cornhot days of summer.

Morgan’s answer and source of direction had finally come. From the island he’d left 4 years ago, he was contacted by Miko. His friend planned to begin publishing a magazine devoted to the publication of ocean-related fiction and he wanted Morgan to be its editor or at the very least for Morgan to write the introduction to the premier issue; did he have any ideas about art for the cover?

Ticket To Ride, Book Two, Chapter 1: To lead a better life, I need my love to be here…

thames2Just Another Day

Livy Tinsley’s Story

“To lead a better life, I need my love to be here.”

– from “Here, There And Everywhere” by the Beatles


As the sun was setting over the Pacific Islands, casting it’s multi-color, thousand shaded dance on the faces of people she would never know, if only through the stories of a future, decade away lover, Olivia Tinsley (Livy) was waking to the new day. North London, having yet shed its coal-smoke past, greeted the morning like a stepmother embracing an unwanted child. But Livy’s spirit was above this, stepmother or not, she was connected to the morning. Her world was never just East Finchley. Hers was all that the equator bisected and all that lay between the poles. And while only a young girl, she knew she would bring them all to see this.

This particular morning, Saturday, December 17, 1967, was Livy’s birthday. She was turning ten today, double-digits, the first step toward young womanhood and the springtime of Psyche.

Trudy would be waiting. And the two friends, connected by a vision that stretched beyond the High street and market day, would walk above what others saw. Today their trek would take them to the Thames, a river which, in both their minds, led to the all of the oceans of the world.

They met at the corner as they did on so many other mornings, liberated from the utilitarian drabness of their council-flat homes. (This drabness should be seen as only the narrator’s point of view because neither girl could be “bothered” with pigeonholing themselves as being poor.) Poverty was something they saw in their parents’ eyes. It scared them, like the [Boogie Man], and solidified in them, a desire to not be poor, at least in spirit, and dreams. Dreams were what they had, a warm cloak against the morning air and their protection against their mother’s insistent urging to dress more warmly. The only warmth Livy needed today was what she saw in the floppy-haired eyes of Paul McCartney. The Beatles were in full force and she saw in them, especially in Paul, the promise of the world outside; a world full of Europe, America and the power of words to make change.

They walked along the High street, peering in the windows of the shops that had yet to open, not to appraise the wares laid out for sale in the way their mothers saw them, as objects to be possessed and kept, but as objects of discovery and promise, things that told tales of the people that created them and the lands from which they had come. In the window of the Tea shop sat boxes and tins bearing English names but the brands were so much less important than the places they had come from. Ceylon, Bombay, Jakarta and the like were names that conjured in them, fantasies and dreams of sweet-smelling air and fragrant fields of tea, places where their supposed poverty was alternatively noble, and lives built around the cultivation of these crops were simple and pleasurable and fraught with tradition, ritual, and beauty.

At Finchley Road they turned, and walked the long stretch from the here to there. A long walk for you and I, but just here to there for Livy and Trudy. Just here to there. The “there” being the banks of the Thames, and a bridge. And it was on this bridge, Blackfriars Bridge, looking East along the river that their conversation began. With the warm lands in their minds, their Saturday dreams took flight and Livy would often pose a question. “What would this have been if it wasn’t for Norsemen and Saxons? If we two had had a say in the building up of this island?”

Instead of answering, Trudy would turn inward, subconsciously erasing feudalism and Burgundian kings. She would instead picture a world where Joans’ of Arc would ride in on silver steeds and carry a message of peace. Or Emile Guillame’s, La Deliverance, an actual female nude statue standing in the middle of Finchley, holding a sword in the Battle of Marne, projecting power and grace and a vision of something other, other than the usual outcome of war, and other than a temporary half-conjured promise, but a promise of finally broaching that next world, that world where definitions are based on how well all is defined and not on the appearance of things. And while the barges and steamships of commerce rolled by she would picture a river full of music and romance, and a body of water that carried instead promise, and intangibles like adventure and freedom. These commodities would, in most cases be, under the cold eyes of the economist, trade goods, but to Trudy they weren’t simply traded goods, but an exchange of the wealth of kingdoms, kingdoms borne of diplomacy, goodwill and temperance.

“Didja know Trudy… an early, maybe the first, Briton and his wife, Hwll and Akun came through here in the summer some seventy-five hundred years before Christ, on their way to Salisbury? They came down here to find a new home, somewhere warmer as the last ice age was ending. This place was full of trees but they didn’t stop. Something drove him further south. London was a forest and the Thames ran freely, wide, and big. * Trudy there was nothing here. No off-licenses, no Minis, no Austin Healeys, no Ty-phoo or Tetley, no London Times or BBC… just trees and the river. How must that’ve been?”

Livy had  broached this before, several times thought Trudy, but Trudy never tired of the speculation. She loved that Livy would ask it. That’s where Trudy wanted to go, away from the council flat, away from the sinking feeling that permeated it. She felt this more deeply than Livy. She could feel it creeping up around her ankles, threatening to choke her, and she, unlike Livy, felt powerless to fight it. Her only escape was through Livy’s words, and her questions, and her spirit, and her eyes, blue as nothing she’d seen. Livy was like a happy little female Buddha, smiling lovingly and defiantly at the world. It couldn’t touch her. She was wholly Psyche; nothing of Aphrodite and her sometimes steamrolling quality were present. She was fun, and hope, and promise, “cheeky” and detached.

“I’m ten Trudy, a decade old, ten years, double-digits. I mean, what will I mean? I’m sorry but, bloody hell, what is this councilflat-eastfinchley-povertyshite. I’m biding my time Trudy. I’m not long for here. I’m just ten but there’s work to do…

St. Paul’s. What do you think of St. Paul’s? Trudy? What do you think of St. Paul’s?”

Trudy had drifted off. She felt Livy pushing, moving, couldn’t be there  for her anymore. Livy wanted too much. Trudy wanted just to talk. Livy spoke her dreams and Trudy rode on them, but Trudy couldn’t see it for herself. Livy, livy, livy, she thought. She’ll leave me here.

“I think my mum got me new ballet slippers. God knows why, I’ve only done one thing right in four years. Stopped the whole class to show them I was so excited. But mum still thinks I’m going to make the Royal Ballet.”

“But you’re going to be a writer Livy.”

“Mum’s dream.”


“The ballet… girls don’t write, not supposed to… not girls from East Finchley.”

Trudy sort of nodded in agreement and disbelief at the same time then pulled something from her coat pocket.

“I wrote this for you,” handing a folded sheet of paper to Livy, “You’re a much better writer than me, but well, here it is. Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks Trudy, I suppose they’ll be more coming out of East Finchley than just ink.” **

She stopped to read.


“Silken voice,

silken smile

whistles on wind

all the while

sweet songs of seashells, seabirds & sandy crabs.

Transplanted manner

wide-eyed sigh

walks in whispers

under white light sky

through pretty poetry of

mustard greens and autumn sun

Lancashire castles

reproduced in sand

lyrics and verse

composed in her small hand

conversation adrift that she can’t understand

she sleeps quietly with Nana

in Nana’s new land.”


“Thank you so much lovey. You are a love…”

Livy put her arm around Trudy.

“I love the look of St. Paul’s from here. It looks… well… it looks like someone cared…. but, at the same time… the constructs of it.” she continued.

“Construction…” Trudy added.

“I hate construction…” said Livy.

Trudy frowned, “Exactly.”

They looked at each other and Trudy smiled through Livy, then both turned back toward the Thames and at a passenger ship heading downriver to Dover, the Channel and everywhere else.

“Nana’s new land Livy! You can see it too.”

“You’re going to leave someday,” Trudy finished.

They were quiet again until Livy had to speak.

“My dad drank a lot again last night.”


The two of them hugged one another.

“I love you sweetie,” Livy said.

“I love you too,” replied Trudy.

“Best friends forever.”

“Best friends forever.”

It ended like this most every time.


* gleaned from Sarum by Edward Rutherfurd

** In 1874, Henry Charles Stephens, son of the Inventor of modern ink and also known as “Inky” Stephens came to live here and to establish a laboratory.