Hina looked at the stone, then back at the river. It didn’t look boring anymore. It looked alive. She saw a kōura peek out from a crevice, wave its antennae, and vanish.

He pointed to the mountains. “The birds in those forests… the roots in the ground… the eels in this water… and us. We are all one system. To take a tuna from this river, you don’t just ‘catch dinner.’ You thank the river. You only take what you need. You never poison the water. You clear the weeds that choke the kākahi . You pass the knowledge to me, and I pass it to you.”

“Koro,” she said, her voice quiet. “Teach me to set the hīnaki tonight. I want to learn how to feed the family.”

“Water. Rocks. A dead log. Some weeds.”

The rain had stopped, but the world was still wet. Hina knelt by the edge of the awa (river), her fingers trailing in the cold, clear water. She was ten years old, and she was bored.

“Koro,” she called to her grandfather, who was patiently weaving a hīnaki (eel trap) from supplejack vines. “Why do we have to come here every weekend? There’s nothing to do .”

She sighed and splashed over to him. He pointed to a cluster of dark green, shiny leaves growing at the water’s edge. “That ‘weed’ is kākāhi . Your great-grandmother used to weave rain capes from it. And see those tiny, spiraling holes in the mud?”