A kupua in Hawaiian mythology in a hero, like Hercules, who is born of a god and a mortal.  Sometimes they are part animal, based on an animal ancestor that entered into the child at birth.  A battle between two kupuas would be interesting to watch, as they are shapeshifters and would constantly be changing to gain the upper hand.  Even if they are just human, a kupua might be recognized by supernatural strength or a special skill.  They roam the countryside, ridding the land of unjust rulers and are proficient in weapons such as the spear, sling, axe, and club.

Kupua leave their mark on the land as they are passing through and certain landforms are sometimes attributed to one of their adventures.  Like figures of folklore, stories about them are meant to be fictional and fun.  Humor is incorporated into the retelling of their exaggerated exploits. 

The story about the lives of the kupua follows a predictable pattern.  They are born in a nonhuman form and discarded, but then rescued by the grandparents.  The child grows up to be wild and mischievous, and after a while begins to demonstrate traits that set them apart.  At one point they may be recruited by a prominent chief to perform deeds that no other can do.  The reward is often the hand of a daughter in marriage.

My father believed he had a special calling in his life.  He used to tell a story about being a boy at Bible camp, afraid that God would call him to be a preacher.  Indeed, that’s what happened when he came to Hawaii.  He started out as an English teacher but was recognized as a man of God and sent off to seminary.  When he returned, he had new powers.  He aspired to heal the sick, cast out demons, and gather souls for Christ.  Miracles did occur.  People were saved.  Signs of God’s presence appeared everywhere my parents turned in those days.

It was never the same after we moved back to the mainland in 1976.  I often told my parents that their wild years had been my only years.  I’d lived in a haunted mansion, been baptized in the ocean, spoken in tongues, been exposed to exotic dances, learned to perform spiritual music.  The concerns of other children would never be my concern.  I’d made a heroic quest out of my own life as well, but nowadays it seemed like the magic was gone.

There were only two days before my flight left for Los Angeles.  I’d decided I’d had enough hostel living for now and knew I’d have to either find a sponsor or come up with some major bucks if I wanted to spend any length of time in my birthplace.  It was Sunday and I had the day to kill.  I walked up Kalakaua Avenue, all the way to Ala Moana and then started walking back through the park.  They were doing construction.  The canal was choked with garbage.  Ugly mutant fish were stacked on top of each other, being asphyxiated by a lack of oxygen in the water. 

The park was full of Hawaiian families having picnics.  I felt very alone and strange now, a modern Rip Van Winkle who fell asleep in the mountains for twenty years, in my case forty-five, and woke up to find that the world had changed, and he was an old man with a white beard.  There had been nothing concrete in all those years, only changing environments, new explorations. 

I’d always thought that I would return from my wanderings with a gift for mankind, perhaps something as simple as a song that could make people smile.  There were no people to return to, however.  There had never been a community.  The country was a collection of strangers all fighting for the same piece of the pie.  I saw a blue tarp stretched over a homeless camp and a bridge where someone had scrawled, Free Hawaii from American Shackles.  It wasn’t that simple.  Everything had changed.  There was no going back.