Benjamin A.
Google
If you can stand where the coral breathes thunder
And not be moved by the white-lipped roar;
If you can watch the reef rise up from under
And still step forward, asking no more;
If you can trust the wave when it bends and hollows,
Yet know when the ocean must have her way—
Yours is the salt, the wind, the sanded shallows,
And ʻEhukai shall call you kin that day.
Here the sea does not bargain, flatter, or plead,
She teaches in pounds of water and bone;
The break is a book that only the freed
Can read, line by line, alone.
Men come humble, or they are made so fast,
Boards like prayers under arm and chest;
The reef remembers every fall that’s past,
And keeps no ledger, grants no rest.
The palms stand watch like patient guards,
The ironwoods whisper what’s been learned:
That courage is quiet, earned in yards
Of paddle, and wipeouts hard-returned.
The sun burns gold on the waiting sand,
Tourists point, but the elders know—
This is not conquered by strength of hand,
But by listening deep to undertow.
So take your wave when it’s truly given,
And bow your head when it’s taken away;
For the sea at ʻEhukai is a living heaven
That tests the soul before letting it stay.
If you leave with respect, not triumph or claim,
With salt in your blood and calm in your eye,
You may speak the beach’s unspoken name—
And the North Shore will answer you, passing by.