Hawaiian Skies: Kaulua 2026
Kaulua 2026 (Pepeulali 18 - Malaki 18)
Na Leilehua Yuen, Hawaiʻi Culture and Language Resident at Gemini / NOIRLab
We usually hear the term “kaulua” in reference to the waʻa kaulua, the double-hulled canoe. It applies to a pair of things that work together or are coupled by a span or a yoke. It can refer to two of a kind. Figuratively, it can mean "fickle," "two-natured," or “having two minds.” The month of Kaulua is said to be a fickle month, varying between lovely sunny days of light but steady winds and fierce rainstorms with strong blustering winds.
Click to view in detail - Credit: NOIRLab/NSF/AURA/L. Yuen
As the sky turns dark, we may just be able to see Kokoʻiki (Scheat), that star we associate with Kohala and Kamehameha Paiʻea. Makulu, Saturn, is preparing to set.
To the northwest, a few fingers above the horizon, Lehua (my placeholder name for Mirach) glows. Lehua is not just the lovely blossom of the ʻōhiʻa-lehua (the endemic Hawaiian Metrosideros), but also denotes blood, female, and red.
For the past few months, we have been talking about Mūlehu. Mūlehu is an old name that references a blind chief, Polo-ahi-lani, who is cared for by his attendants Polo-ula and Mūlehu. This month, we will learn about them as Nā ʻIwa. Diving into Kahaʻi, the sea of stars that is the Milky Way, ʻIwalani, the frigate bird, chases Mālolo, the flying fish. If he ever catches that tasty Mālolo, he will take it to his mate, ʻIwahine, who circles Pūnana, their nest, the North Star.
Looking straight up, Makaliʻi, Aldebaran is just past zenith, looking for Huihui-a-Makaliʻi, his net with its collection of food plants. But, by this time of the year, ʻIole the rat already has chewed a hole in the side — which is why the net of the Pleiades does not hang perfectly straight — everything has fallen out, and the people have gathered it up and stored or planted it.
The Winter Hexagon, or Winter Circle, Hōkū-lei, is high overhead. “Lei” has many meanings in addition to “garland,” one of which is “to rise like a cloud,” and encompassing so much of Kahaʻi, the Milky Way, in such a dramatic frame, it does, indeed, rise like a cloud.
Looking inside Hōkū-lei, we find Kāʻelo (Betelgeuse) and its horizon companion, Hoa-Kāʻelo (Elnath). There was a discussion of these names in last month’s column.
We also find Nā-Kao, the darts, or Orion's belt and sword. Despite Kao also translating to “goat,” this has nothing whatsoever to do with goats. Don’t let anyone claiming that it is Kanaloa’s sea goat in Hawaiian astrology trick you. The first goats in Hawaiʻi, a ram and two ewes, were brought by Captain James Cook on February 1, 1778. He left them on the island of Niʻihau to propagate as food for sailors. They then proceeded to desertify the once-productive island. In 1779 he released more on Hawaiʻi Island, and Captain George Vancouver brought even more to Hawaiʻi in 1792.
Gemini also forms a prominent part of Hōkū-lei. As I interpret these stars, Nā-Māhoe refers to the companion stars Māhoe-mua and Māhoe-hope. Ka-maile-mua and Ka-maile-hope refer to the ulu hōkū, the lines of stars, which extend from them. "Māhoe" translates as “twin,” so “first twin” and “second twin.” The mailes could be translated as "male vines," but the word also means the wands used in a type of courting game. With Ikaika — stalwart, strong, potent — between the two ulu hōkū maile, I wonder what or who might be pairing off!
Ke-aliʻi-o-kona-i-ka-lewa, Canopus, the chief of the southern sky, rules to the south until the wee hours.
Kau-ʻōpae is Rigel on this sky chart, but the name is given to several stars that follow a similar track. In one bit of folklore, the head and mane of Leo make a nice shrimp. As Kau-ʻōpae swims across the sky, I decided to start drawing her “in berry,” with her egg clutch, which you can see if you look closely at the pre-dawn chart.
When I was a girl, my ʻohana still would catch ʻōpaekalaʻole. They were about an inch long and sweet. We ate them with blanched warabi (Japanese fiddleheads), as the native ōʻiʻo fern had become hard to find. These freshwater shrimp climb to the headwaters of our rivers and streams. The females hold their clutch of eggs under their abdomens. When the babies hatch, they are swept downstream, where they become an important part of the plankton that feeds our marine species. Those that survive return in a few months to their home streams to mature.
Click to view in detail - Credit: NOIRLab/NSF/AURA/L. Yuen
In the pre-dawn chart, we see Meʻe. "Meʻe" is a name that the Polynesian Voyaging Society applied to this ulu hōkū because there was no recorded Hawaiian name. Meʻe is the Marquesan name, which is translated “voice of joy.” In Hawaiian, "Meʻe" translates as “hero,” so I show it as a petroglyph of a hero.
Kaʻalolo is said to be the tutelary star of Niʻihau, Hikianalia was renowned as a guide to fishermen and sailors, and Hōkū-leʻa is the zenith star of Paeʻāina Hawaiʻi.
Ka-iʻa is often translated as “the fish,” but iʻa is any marine animal, whether fish, shellfish, or marine mammal. Some people see it as a naiʻa (porpoise), others as an aʻu (billfish). Keoe and Koea, and the Humu-ma bracket the tail of Ka-iʻa.
We have three ulu hōkū in the morning sky (and evening sky later in the mahina), which are associated with our culture-hero Maui. Peʻapeʻa-maka-walu, the giant eight-eyed bat who kidnapped Maui’s wife, Ka-makau-nui-o-Maui/Ka-mānai-a-ka-lani, and Pimoe. Ka-makau-nui-o-Maui is a descriptive name for the entire ulu hōkū. I recently learned that Ka-mānai-a-ka-lani is the personal name of the hook itself. Pimoe is the name of the giant ulua fish Maui tried to catch.
Maui comes to us from the southern Pacific. Here is a delightful telling of the Māori version of Maui and his hook from the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. For more stories of Maui from Aotearoa, I highly recommend the series by beloved New Zealand author and illustrator Peter Gossage.
In our islands, the giant fish is an ulua named Pimoe, rather than a flatfish or sandray. Instead of bringing up a whole island, Pimoe flips away, leaving a piece of his lip as a tiny offshore islet. You can read one version of the Hawaiian story here.
Pouli ka Mahina: Coming up, we have a total lunar eclipse. Totality will be from 1:04 am to 2:02 am Hawaiʻi time on 3 March. In Hawaiʻi it begins on 2 March at 10:44 pm and will end on 3 March at 4:23 am, a duration of 5 hours and 39 minutes.
Pouli ka Mahina can be translated as “darkening of the moon.” I expect it likely was considered a portent of some sort in ancient times. I doubt that a total lunar eclipse was viewed with the general terror that some of the Western writers claim. For one thing, it does not make the moon disappear. The moon turns red. You can still see all the features. You can even see them better because you are not being blinded by the bright glare of the moon.
Red is a sacred color. So in my own training, a red moon would be a portent, but not necessarily a disaster. It could be anything to do with someone of royal birth.
If I were a kilo hōkū (astronomer or astrologer), I might read the events thus: In the previous malama of Kāʻelo, the Mahina o Hōkū (full moon) was meeting Puana (another name for Kauʻōpae/Rigel). "Puana" means the beginning of a song. Rigel is the primary hōkū in the ulu hōkū of kau-ʻōpae, also known in folklore as Ka-lei-palaoa, “the whale tooth lei,” a royal insignia. The Antehelion Meteor Shower also was coming from that area. So, I might interpret that as possible new beginnings in leadership.
The following Mahina o Hōkū in the malama of Kaulua has a Pouli, and it has moved away from Ka-lei-Palaoa and is facing the Antehelions. Definitely some shift in power among the aliʻi is happening. Will it be good? Will it be bad? Hard to tell at this point. But back in the day, the kāhuna kilo hōkū would have had intimate knowledge of all the players and the political intricacies, so they would have been effective prognosticators.
