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FeedThe Lure of Limu
The study of seaweed has enabled Hawaiian women—past and present—to sharpen their scientific eye, flavor bland meals, and exercise the art of metaphor.
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When big surf pounds the Hawaiian shoreline, the air carries the scent of the sea. That wild, clean, and invigorating fragrance originates with seaweeds. Nestled in the reef, half-buried under sand, the many varieties of Hawaiian limu (a term encompassing both seaweed and freshwater algae) compose an underwater forest. It’s ripe foraging grounds for those who know what and where to harvest.
A pair of ten-year-old boys, Mohalu ‘Aikala and Rejan Singleton, strap on masks and dive down to scan the ocean floor. Time after time, they race up the beach, a soggy seaweed specimen in hand, asking, “Is this the one, Auntie?” “No,” says the infinitely patient Napua Barrows, a silver-haired Native Hawaiian schoolteacher. “Find the one that’s standing up like a Christmas tree,” she says. “It’s the one without branches.”
During school breaks, Barrows takes kids from her Central Maui neighborhood to the beach, where they learn about limu, the rich underwater resource of their ancestors. While few island residents nowadays can name more than a handful of limu varieties, Hawaiians of the past knew at least seventy edible seaweeds—each with a distinct flavor, scent, and use.
Traditionally, limu expertise belonged to women. Until Queen Ka‘ahumanu and Princess Keopuolani overthrew the kapu system in 1819, royal decree forbade Hawaiian women from enjoying many of the Islands’ tastiest foods—pork, turtle, coconut, and most bananas, to name a few. Had they not been so resourceful, wahine would have endured a bland diet; instead, they turned to the sea for nutritious and flavorful delicacies.
Limu kohu, the “supreme” seaweed, was among the most sought after. Once a staple condiment in every Hawaiian household, it imbues fish and meats with a penetrating, iodine-rich taste that is still adored by many by locals. Crunchy, red manauea was another favorite, cooked with meats in the imu (underground oven) until melting into a savory jelly. (Today it’s preferred in poke: diced raw ‘ahi or octopus mixed with chili and salt.)
Queen Liliu‘okalani liked limu huluhuluwaena so much that she had the dark, stringy seaweed transplanted from its native range in West Maui to her seaside residence at Waikiki, where patches can still be found sprouting from sand-covered rocks. (This limu might owe some of its popularity to its spicy name: “huluhulu” translates as “pubic hair,” a reference to the plant’s wiry strands.)
Hawaiians didn’t just eat limu; they wore marine plants as lei, and used them in dyes and medicines. Golden-brown, speckled limu kala was employed to heal both physical and emotional wounds. “Kala,” which means “to forgive,” was instrumental in ho‘oponopono, the ancient Hawaiian process of conflict resolution. During ho‘oponopono, the injured and accused parties gathered to pray, seek forgiveness from one another, and eat a limu kala leaf as a symbol of reconciliation.
Hawaiian healers applied leafy limu kala poultices to coral cuts, and those burdened by persistent illnesses wore a bristly lei into the ocean, letting the waves remove the ailment along with the lei.
Unfortunately, most of what washes up onto modern Hawaiian beaches is invasive, or “rubbish limu.” Aggressive alien seaweeds dominate marine resources and diminish diversity. In particular, Hypnea musciformis and Acanthophora spicifera, two recent introductions, have been wreaking havoc on the reef, smothering native limu and corals. The damage spreads to herbivorous fish and their predators. For islanders who still practice many of the old ways, this can be devastating.
Over the years, Barrows watched native limu slowly disappear from her family’s fishing grounds. In 2004, she formed the Waihe‘e Limu Restoration Group, dedicated to “reforesting” the shoreline.
She describes how her late grandmother asked her to malama, or care for, the family land in Waihe‘e. “I thought, okay. It’s just this yard. I can do that. I didn’t realize at that time that I would end up caring for all of this!” Sweeping a hand towards the mountain, she indicates the Waihe‘e ahupua‘a, or land division, a wedge from the top of the West Maui Mountains down into the water.
Most of Barrows’s field trips start at nearby Kanaha Beach, where the comparatively healthy reef tosses up limu fragments to be identified and perhaps replanted down current at Waihe‘e. Several seaweed varieties found onshore or drifting in the tide can be transplanted, after they’re painstakingly cleaned to prevent hitchhiking invasives from tagging along.
Barrows untangles a piece of spongy green wawae‘iole from a mat of alien algae. “This one is good,” she says, slipping it into her bag. “It can be replanted.”
