Fifteen years ago, my cousin Kaia invited a lively group of Maori from Aotearoa to join us on a ghost tour along the Wai’anae Coast. Although I can’t recall exactly which territory they hailed from, their vibrant spirits and enthusiasm left a lasting impression. Armed with a guitar, they shared their traditional mele and haka during our dinner break, creating a captivating atmosphere that set the tone for the evening.
As the sun dipped below the horizon at Kaena Point, we gathered our guests into our car and drove to Keawaula, while Glen organized the rest of the group on the bus. Upon arrival, we parked near the first bathroom’s lot and began discussing the similarities and differences between Hawaiian and Maori cultures. As we chatted, we noticed a peculiar light reflecting on the back window of our car. Assuming it was a flashlight, I turned the ignition to lower the window, only to discover there was no flashlight at all.
One of the women in the group exclaimed, “What do you suppose that is?”
We turned to see her pointing toward the ocean. There, just above the water’s surface, floated a perfect round ball of light, slowly moving with a tail trailing behind it. This mysterious orb had been reflecting on our window, not a flashlight beam. The glowing ball of light was the only illumination in the pitch-black night at the westernmost point of ‘O’ahu. Suddenly, it separated into small white sparks and shot directly toward the satellite tracking station on the ridge, dissipating into nothingness as it ascended. The silence that followed was profound, only broken by the sound of the yellow school bus creaking around the corner with its bright headlights.
Glen and Kaia exited the bus first, standing aside as the rest of the group disembarked. Kaia then led everyone to a large grassy area, where he began sharing tales of the night marchers. The Maori guests, still buzzing from what we had witnessed, quickly grabbed Glen to recount the experience. Though I couldn’t hear their exchange, Glen’s wide-eyed expression revealed his astonishment.
With our stories shared at Keawaula, our final stop was the nearby cave. As we waited for the bus to empty out, Kaia asked me, “What happened now?”
“Akualele,” I responded.
“Who was it for?” he asked.
“Not any of us,” I replied. “It was just checking us out.”
“Tonight is Po Kane,” Kaia said. “We better finish early.”
I wholeheartedly agreed. We wrapped up in under twenty minutes and headed back. During the drive to the guests’ hotel in Waikiki, our conversations were filled with laughter and lively chatter. Before parting ways, the eldest male in the group shook my hand and said, “If you ever get to Aotearoa, look us up. What we saw tonight is nothing compared to what I can show in our home territory. Things will walk right up to you and give you an introduction!”
Though I never took him up on that offer, the memory of that night has remained vivid. Each rare occasion when we venture on a ghost tour along the Wai’anae Coast, I think of that man and our shared encounter with the living orb that seemed to observe us from the ocean before vanishing in a burst of sparkling light.
Do I hope to see it again anytime soon? Honestly, I’m in no rush. The experience was profound and mysterious, leaving us all with a sense of wonder and respect for the unknown. The Wai’anae Coast continues to be a place where the past and the present intermingle, creating moments that are both haunting and beautiful. This shared experience with our Maori guests was a reminder of the deep connections between our cultures and the mysteries that still linger in our world.
