My blog title accommodates my meandering mind, allowing me to sit down and write whatever comes up in the present moment. I want to take a journey now to past moments – to the South Pacific where I traveled when I was young, wild and untethered to worldly responsibilities. These stories are for my grandchildren. This is meant to encourage them into lives of big adventures.

wooden menehune


It was the middle of the night when I suddenly awoke. I could hear the soft lap of the waves against the hull of the boat. The full moon was shining through the porthole in the main salon where I had been asleep next to my husband. It was 1968. We were anchored out in the middle of Reeds Bay in Hilo, Hawaii, and had been living on this yacht for a few months, caretaking things while the skipper was back in the mainland sorting out a sticky relationship with his soon to be ex-wife.

I felt a peculiar sense that someone was in the room and turned cautiously to my right side. There at eye level was a funny looking little man. It was a low settee, so he must have been only three feet tall. I could see him clearly in the moonlight. His face was round and he had on a pointy hat. His ears were big and stuck out from his head. His countenance was kind and his eyes looked merry.

Okay, this is so crazy. You’re in the middle of a weird dream, I thought. I looked away to orient myself. Bookshelves at my feet…check. Husband snoring on my left…check. Again – I turned to the side. There he still was, calm, quiet, just standing there – a little smile turning the corners of his mouth upwards. Somehow, this didn’t worry me. It all seemed quite normal.

Now, I do not have visions; I am not plugged into that kind of frequency. But in that moment it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have a leprechaun looking midget staring at me on a boat. We just looked at each other like old friends for quite a long while. I smiled. He smiled. It was very sweet.

I decided to wake my husband – to share the moment. Without taking my eyes off my guy I reached over with my left arm and shook him. “Wake up. There is the sweetest little man on the boat,” I whispered. No response. I tried again; still no response. Finally I turned to face my spouse and shook harder. “You just have to see this sweet little guy. Wake up.” That did it. He sat bolt up in bed. “What man? Who’s on the boat?” He became wild-eyed, looking for something to use as a weapon, his protector instincts kicking in.

“Right uh…here? Where is he? I swear; he was just right here?” I stammered. “He can’t be far. We’re out in the middle of the bay. He had to have rowed here.” I leaped up and we dashed to the deck, looking frantically everywhere, listening intently. Not a sound. There was no one there.  Nada. I could have wept.

Hubby gave me the cocked eyebrow look. I shouted. “You’re not a believer. That’s why he left!” I burst into tears and kicked the cabin wall. I had no idea what I was talking about, but nonetheless; I didn’t talk to him the entire next day. Later friends told us I had seen one of the legendary people of Hawaii who lived long ago and still appear mysteriously at night to some people. It was considered a blessing.

Years later, as a midwife, I took care of a Hawaiian woman who gave me a little wooden carving. She said it was a Menehune and would bring me luck. “Oh my,” I said. “That’s the little man on the boat.” I told her the story. “That was a rare and special moment,” she said. All these years later I have known that to be true.



  1. I remember this story and recently told it to Lily. We’re reading one of my old childhood books of the adventures of a couple of menehunes.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s