We premiered our short at the 2010 Maui Film Festival
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Watch the 10 minute short we wrote
Directed by our talented friend Andrew Goodman
Starring Justin Chambers, Megan Hilty & Cindy Williams
Island Out of Time
Story by Aaron Kandell
CLICK HERE TO READ THE ARTICLE
photos by Jyoti Mau (my talented sister-in-law)
(This article appeared in the Dec-Jan 2011, Hana Hou Magazine)
The Kalai Wa’a
Story by Aaron Kandell
(This article appeared in the Oct-Nov 2011, Hana Hou Magazine)
(photo by Jyoti Mau)
Tucked deep in the labyrinth of Sand Island’s industrial back lots,Tay Perry’s canoe workshop appears at first like a post-apocalyptic nightmare straight out of Mad Max: Abandoned sailboats line the gravel drive; vagrant harbor kids play hide-and-seek among a graveyard of abandoned cement blocks. But then all at once you see the canoes, stacked against the sixty-foot-high sheet metal awnings. Rows of ancient wa‘a in varying states of repair hanging like a hunter’s trophies.
For the ancient Hawaiians canoe carving was both a necessary and a deeply spiritual practice. Each canoe was believed to house a spirit, and it was the sacred duty of the kalai wa‘a — master canoe builder — to bring that spirit to life. At 73 Tay Perry is one of only a handful of canoe builders left in Hawai‘i and, though he’d never say so himself, one of the best.
Perhaps it was inevitable. Tay’s father, George Perry, was a beach boy and canoe shaper who founded the Lanikai Canoe Club in 1953; Tay, only 16 at the time, was its first president. Where most boys learn to throw a baseball from their father, Tay learned to carve a hull. Together father and son built Ka Ehukai, Lanikai’s first racing canoe. Over the next fifty years Tay would build another four canoes from scratch and restore sixteen, eventually taking over his father’s workshop.
When it comes to canoe building, it seems there’s a distinct generational pattern. Tay gestures across the football fieldsize hangar to where his partner, master shaper Jay Dowsett, is restoring a racing canoe with his own 18-year-old son. “I learned to be a canoe builder through osmosis,” Jay laughs. “My grandfather and Tay’s father were friends. Instead of playing, we used to go over to Tay’s house and work. From the age of 7, I was sanding canoes. By 19 I swore I’d never touch a canoe again.”
Thirty years later Jay’s rebelliousness has not only shifted, he now runs his son through the same tedious routines his own father pressed on him: cutting, planing, framing and sanding. “I’m trying to give everything away, anything I know,” Jay says. “It’s gone from my grandfather to my father to me to my son. That’s four generations and I’m really proud of that.”
Canoe building is a patient man’s game. To restore a canoe, Tay goes to great lengths to gather the right wood, even if it means chopping down trees himself. Each stage, from logging to lacquering, requires specialized skills and can take months, even years to finish. Canoe builders therefore often juggle four active projects at once, a balancing act that demands an architect’s vision, a sculptor’s endurance and perhaps most of all, a spiritual connection to the wood itself.
Tay says that you don’t build a canoe; you let the canoe reveal itself to you. Intuition plays an indefinable, powerful role. Rather than force a design, Tay follows the feeling of “pono,” or what’s correct, for each particular canoe on which he works. “Some canoes are male, some female,” Tay chuckles. But whatever the gender, each canoe “has a soul,” he says, “and it wants to come out.”
With the constant drone of chainsaws and power sanders, you’d think any sense of the sacred would have been blasted to sawdust. But standing in Tay’s workshop beside the massive twin hulls of the Hawai‘iloa, a full-scale replica of a traditional Hawaiian sailing canoe, or tracing the smooth gunwales of a recently polished outrigger, one can’t help but sense that each canoe has its own story— from the hundreds of hands that have touched it to the innumerable miles it will travel across the Pacific.
On Papa’s Farm
Story by Aaron Kandell
(This article appeared in the April-May 2011, Hana Hou Magazine)
William Aila Sr. crouches among rows of red oak lettuce and baby kale, pointing out the plants mature enough to harvest. Attentive students huddle around him to hear his soft baritone. At 72, William serves as chief agricultural consultant on O‘ahu’s largest certified organic farm. Set on a sixteen-acre stretch of volcanic soil in the sun-parched heart of Lualualei Valley on the leeward coast, MA‘O Organic Farms doesn’t fit the typical pastoral image. Nor is William, or “Papa Aila” as everyone calls him, your typical farmer.
With his weathered physique, Aila resembles a Hawaiian Clint Eastwood. He’s always in motion, his hands often dipping into the garden with the precision and speed of a hummingbird. He’s quadruple the age of everyone around him, but he moves twice as fast. He speaks eloquently but directly and simply. Nothing, neither action nor word, is wasted—just as in the agriculture he teaches.
“Organic farming isn’t new,” Papa Aila explains to the assembled youths. “Our ancestors practiced it for hundreds of years. It was how they survived, it was their way of life.” William moves on to the herb garden, pausing along the way to fix things. Near the kale fields he adjusts a leaking irrigation hose. Among the kalo he bends to correct a small plant growing crooked. “This is love and respect,” William tells the kids as he crosses through rows of mustard greens and chard. “If we neglect the Earth, we hurt ourselves. But if you love the land, the land will love you.” He pauses, his crow’s feet deepening as he smiles. “And if you have that here, you’ll carry it with you always.”
But transforming the harsh landscape of Lualualei Valley into a verdant organic farm was a long and rough road. Papa Aila was born poor in a house with no address. His grandfather was a Hawaiian paniolo, a cattleman, who in 1939 bought ten acres in Wai‘anae for just under $400. William grew up close to the land, raising his first horse when he was just a boy. When he got out of the Navy in 1960, he leased his own four hundred acres in the back of Lualualei Valley, which “was a military buffer zone filled with live ammunition,” he says. The Navy had used over nine thousand acres of Lualualei to store live ordnance. “No one could live there, but they let me ranch.”
Ranch he did. For almost forty years William worked as a cowboy—all day, seven days a week. “I was kinda young and stupid,” he chuckles. “I rode bulls, I raised cattle, I raised kids … four sons and six daughters.”
It wasn’t only children and livestock that flourished under William’s care; the land did, too. In the red dirt of his backyard, William taught himself sustainable farming in a time before “organic” was a buzzword. For many years he operated one of the largest compost businesses on the island. He used his own compost to raise a nursery of thousands of palm trees, which he sold. William’s reputation as a green-thumbed Midas spread—anywhere he touched, it seemed, plants would grow. Which is why in 2001, when Kukui Maunakea-Forth and her husband, Gary, decided to establish MA‘O Organic Farms, the first person they called was William. He’d long been retired, but once William heard about their community-driven vision, he pulled himself out of retirement to become MA‘O’s first official employee and the lifeblood of the organization.
MA‘O, which stands for Mala ‘Ai ‘Opio, or “youth garden,” was born with the mission of growing not just organic produce but educated leaders. Every year MA‘O enrolls up to thirty-two high school graduates, most from marginalized backgrounds, in a two-year college internship program. Students work eighteen hours a week, learning every stage of the organic farm industry from seed to sales. In exchange they receive free tuition to a local community college plus a monthly stipend. Profits raised from the farm flow directly back into its education program, rounding a sustainable circle.
So ingenious is this system that the Yale School of Management awarded MA‘O a $25,000 national prize for Best Nonprofit Business Plan in 2005. In July 2010 the WK Kellogg Foundation gave MA‘O a $4 million grant to expand. But the program, which is creating ripples of positive change within the community, would never have succeeded if not for Papa Aila. “He is the foundation,” says Kamuela Enos, director of community resource development for MA‘O, who also serves as committee adviser to President Obama’s Initiative on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders. “We wouldn’t have been able to get started without his incredible mana‘o [knowledge].”
For his part, William humbly deflects such praise. “I just teach the kids what my grandfather taught me, the three most important things in life: love, respect and a willingness to work.”
These are more than words for William. “The way Papa talks is the way he lives,” says his youngest daughter, Charlie, the farm’s executive administrator. Aila’s oldest son and board president at MA‘O, William Jr., agrees. “My dad always taught us, ‘Don’t be afraid of hard work.’ He’s up at sunrise and out the door, and he doesn’t come back or stop until sunset. That’s the way he’s always been.”
“And he hasn’t changed,” says Charlie. “The kids constantly complain, ‘We can’t keep up with him!’ To this day he still carries big rocks.”
For Papa Aila, cultivating the farmers is the real aim. He can’t talk long before somehow circling back to the kids—and not just his own: William regards every student on the farm as one of his children and tries to instill in them the same simple but sustaining ethic. “I tell the kids that they aren’t just workers, they are part of a family. It takes each and every one of us to make this farm work. If nobody works we’ll have nothing, but if everybody works we’ll have a lot.”
“When our kids work with him side by side, they see his commitment and belief in them and the farm,” Charlie says.
“Then they believe. His presence alone, the positive pillar of reinforcement he provides, is often enough to break the cycle of rejection and failure many of these kids face.” Cheryse Sana, a student co-manager who represented Hawai‘i at the 2010 World Slow Food Conference in Italy, can’t say enough about the kupuna (elder) of MA‘O: “Papa Aila is a great man. I see him as my own grandfather.”
Just as a seed grows to flower only to produce new seed, wisdom has a way of circling back. William Jr., who was recently appointed director of the Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) by Gov. Neil Abercrombie, believes it’s his duty to share his father’s teaching. “I think about my dad every day as I drive to work. This guy from Wai‘anae who came from humble origins has allowed me to take on this huge kuleana [responsibility] as head of the DLNR. I do it because of the values my dad instilled. We all share this responsibility to the land and our future generations.”
Locally and internationally MA‘O has become synonymous with quality. Walk into any major health food store on O‘ahu, and you’ll find the “No Panic, Go Organic!” MA‘O label. Hawai‘i’s premier restaurants like Alan Wong’s, Nobu, Roy’s and Town all feature MA‘O greens exclusively on their menus, and MA‘O students continue to win national fellowships and awards. October 2010 marked the farm’s tenth anniversary, and things are only growing. MA‘O is working on securing eleven more acres of land, planting more fruit trees and finishing a new visitor center, complete with gift shop, restaurant and wood-fired pizza oven. In five years they hope to be 100 percent self-sustaining and grant-free while doubling the number of kids who can enroll in the program.
“Every day I can come here is a good day,” William says. “I wake up in the morning with a smile on my face, I tell my wife I love her, kiss her goodbye and then come and work here. I go home with the same smile on my face. You can build the life you want with your own hands,” Papa says, running his red-dirt-stained fingers across the bark of a kiawe tree, “and that’s what we’ve done here.”
I’d like to say a few words about love. Not the word or the idea, but the feeling of love. This deepest human emotion, which so many writers before me have tried to capture in poem, prayer, and song.
But the thing is, no one can explain love. The first year we started dating, Rebecca and I used to debate about the concept of true love. That fantasy of the Princess and the Knight: the perfect love that sweeps you up and fills everything and every moment of life.
Which as we all know only happens in Disney movies. Which ironically, I happen to write for a living.
But to me, the truth and power and beauty of love is not in perfection, not in what we know… but in its mystery. For who can say why we end up with each other? Or what we give away for the one we’re with?
But I have a theory…
8 years ago today, Rebecca and I met on the lawn of her beach house. 10 minutes later she was making me banana pancakes and I knew… Not that I would spend the rest of my life with this amazing pancake making goddesss. But that there was something here. A feeling. A feeling that we followed. And as the years rushed by full of laughter and Bisquick, that feeling remained. And grew. And she followed it, as I did, through the years to this moment now. And we follow it together still.
Perhaps love is blind then afterall. Everyone with their hands out, stumbling through the world, hoping to touch another. And who can say who we hit or why or from where the feeling is born, or even why it remains.
But it does.
Joseph Campbell said “Follow your bliss”. Well bliss is nothing if not a feeling, which we all know but can’t describe. I’ve found my bliss in Becca. And I give myself to her, that we may stumble blindly together, hand in hand, into the wide future of our lives.
We two now one
I would like to say it was always this easy
the gathering and casting of petals
the white cake perfectly sliced
the pilgrim promise of pressed palms
But once you were two cities
stranded on broken continents
two shadows playing hide and seek
parallel paths close enough just
to never touch
In the labyrinth of youth
what unspooling thread guided you to each other?
In what mad workshop did you learn
how to tie your lives into this tapestry of two?
We stumble into love, we fail, we fly
Perhaps we were not meant for wings
Still we have made our mecca, one by one
All that we were wearing like tattered thrones
We scatter across the salt sky
Into the company of love we are joined again
by this night that unites us
Where kiss by kiss, seed by seed
you two have planted a garden of promises
until that desert space between two people
discards its arid solitude
and the heart’s secret geometry
at once dismantles
Cities pull anchor and drift together
Continents collide
Here at last you see
how the trees and tide had destined you
for these hands of wicker
when your fingers weave together the basket
of affection, and all that falls between
will be caught and treasured
like a thousand sea-stained shells
And the wind growl of the ocean
that whistles through the eaves, will blow back
the curtains in the house that you’ve built
on the shores of tomorrow
where barefoot and sand-swept
you two will walk, hand in hand
collecting sunsets
In light of requests from Jordan and Rebecca’s glorious wedding, I am reposting this reflection from their engagement announcement last year.

“Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.” --St. Augustine
This month my parents celebrated their 37th year together… my twin brother and his girlfriend their 7th. To commemorate the moment, my brother also proposed to Rebecca. She of course said yes.
After all the happy exchanges, the congratulations and blown kisses, people eventually turn to me and the question inevitably arises… how do I feel about the engagement? It’s a trigger question, often tinged with a subtle note of concern. Those who know us best, know the intricate kinship we twins share. Our whole lives have been one of synchronicity: we read the same books, played with the same friends, competed in the same sports, excelled in the same subjects, went to the same schools, were interested in the same girls. The first time we’d ever been apart for more than 3 weeks didn’t happen until 21. Until the age of 8, we even slept in the same bed, head-to-toe.
Beyond brothers, we are also travel companions, writing partners, joint shareholders of our co-created business. Our twin joke has always been: “who needs a soulmate when you were born with one?” So you see, it is only fair to ask the question, and to ask it with leveled concern, how do I feel about the engagement?
To which I respond — HAPPY. Unconditionally so.
You see, my brothers and I were raised as hope-full romantics. I say this because I’ve never understood the term ‘hopeless romantic’. To me, romance is all about the fulfillment of fantasy, the uncovering of hidden desires, unspoken needs… and that startling pleasure of straw spun into golden reality. The very definition of romance is hope kindled, set ablaze.
To be a romantic then is to be full of hope. To walk a high wire over an abyss of rejection and potential shame, without any safety net below. It’s to relinquish any fear of failure… for dreams of flying. It’s a vulnerable, terrifying way to be. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In matters of Love, people finds themselves caught up, swirled in eddies and whirlpools, carried downstream over rocks and fallen trees toward the infinite promise of an expansive ocean of devotion. Often we are subject to the tide, to the sudden torrential flashfloods of affection, or the long draughts of loneliness. We can no more control the fluid nature of sexual chemistry as we can the depth or direction of how love flows.
So when it roars down the mountain and sweeps you up in its rapids, you can either choose to fight the current, to swim upstream or cling to shore. Or you can let it carry you. Learn to float. And place your trust that in spite of the many waterfalls and ripples, the other person won’t let you drown.
Watching Jordan and Rebecca over the last seven years is to witness a mighty river hit the sea and fan out toward the horizon. Theirs is a love both playful and effortless – with a graceful art to their affection; the ability to maintain unbridled passion over the dilution of time.
Love is a happy accident that requires constant attention. I look at my parents and see the roots of two trees so intricately entwined that they are no longer two, but rather one sheltering canopy. And perhaps I am guilty of watching too many Cameron Crowe movies during the sensitive developmental years of my adolescence. Or anchoring my early definitions of love in the nostalgic interplay of Kevin and Winnie in the Wonder Years. Nor does it help that I spent four years of college writing and reading the poetry of Pablo Neruda and E.E. Cummings. Or that I picked up my first instrument out of a driving desire to play John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”. The fact remains that when it comes to love, I am hopelessly hopeful.
And since my brother has found it, I am hopelessly happy.