Workin’ on et
Aloha mai, Ethnomads! Keili here :)
Lately, we’ve been a bit like fish out of water—or maybe more like our waʻa out of the big blue moana. While we wait for her to be seaworthy again, I’ve been using this time to learn how to make her shine when she’s back in action.
Disassembling, sanding, varnishing, letting it dry… then sanding, varnishing, and drying all over again—this kind of repetition teaches you how much aloha and mālama go into caring for a boat. Especially a wooden one.
While Chris and our good friend Chromwell have taken the lead on building our new rig (and having most of the fun), I’ve found deep gratitude in these quieter, meticulous acts of service for ‘AʻĀ.
That kind of love and attention is rare these days.
We live in a time where almost anything can be ordered in minutes and delivered within days. We eat things that aren’t even grown here, aren’t in season—because we can. So when something takes effort—when it’s inconvenient and slow—it suddenly feels precious. You don’t toss it aside. It stays with you. Like your first hand-shaped board or a piece of clothing you mended yourself. It stops being a thing and becomes a piece of you.
And that’s what Nāhōkūho’okelewaʻa is for us. She represents a different rhythm of life. A slower, more intentional, sometimes inconvenient rhythm. In a world chasing speed, profit, and perfection, she offers companionship, patience, and quirky flaws that almost make her feel human.
It’s made me reflect on how often I let convenience and cheap prices replace labor of love and true quality. There’s so much we can do or make ourselves—but instead, we outsource it in the name of efficiency. We chase higher income to pay others to do more things for us, and the cycle just keeps spinning. I revisit this rant often—so I’ll spare you the whole spiral!
My point is this: sometimes it’s worth slowing down, learning the hard stuff, and becoming a little less efficient—but also way less dependent.
Truth is, I still struggle with that inner voice that tells me to do more and be faster. But I remind myself that good work takes deep breaths. Between each big goal, there’s room for rest. Space to watch the varnish dry and enjoy the process.
And when I finally see her out on Moananuiākea again, I’ll smile. Because I’ll remember every stroke, every step, every moment we poured into her.
