The coconut palm in the field behind my house worships the wind. Its feather duster head sweeps low, bows to the earth like a holy roller in ecstasy, and then snaps back skyward—defiant—in an elastic, resurrecting leap that blasts the law of gravity.

Makani is the generic name, but there are as many Hawaiian words for wind as there are regions and towns. Here in Hawi, on the northern peninsula of the Big Island, we call the wind Apa‘apa‘a. It means strong. Very strong. So strong, its gusts have been known to dash elite cyclists to the ground, rip off ceramic tiles from upscale roofs, and loose countless sheets and pillowcases into the atmosphere.

From my perch on the back lanai, I admire the ancient palm, a navigational landmark old-timers still use to tell you how to find the turnoff to Upolu. Go makai right after that big palm tree in the field where Bothelo grazes his cattle. Can’t miss it! The pili grass below the tree’s smooth white trunk shuffles in the wind like a deck of cards. The quivering green stalks wrap around a coconut that’s come loose in the wind. Yellow-brown in the fierce Pacific sun, the coconut rests on its side trustingly, a perfect burnt offering.

On this seventh day, church has come to me. Heady sweet plumeria, more pungent than burning incense, has sent me into a trance. I put down my mug of coffee, stand up barefoot in my sweats and untie my hair. Thick lengths of my Spanish Moss strands fall past my shoulders and then levitate in a singular current of Apa‘apa‘a.

True worship? It is radical freedom I feel as the air becomes a whirling dervish dancing around me.

Should I say a prayer or sing a hymn? Those might be proper and orderly responses to the divine. But this morning’s wind has stripped me of my doctrinal defenses. I am gob-smacked. Awe-struck. Aware. I rush out of the house, take the turnoff to Upolo Road, and walk makai down a one-lane black-top. On either side are stands of keawe trees, their twisted trunks doubled over because of the constant barrage of wind. The road is virtually a wind-tunnel and the air rushes past my nose so fast, it’s hard to inhale. I drag my toes, grip my quads, struggle to keep vertical.

Here, the wind has a voice, shouting something I can’t understand.

About a mile downhill, the eco-blades of a turbine revolve slowly, slicing the wind into electricity and thrumming rhythmically. When the Vesta wind turbines were first installed, Kohala Surety said Upolo was the windiest place in the universe—valid witness that our wind is a supreme being. Soon a dozen whirring propellers appeared and revolved above the field, gleaming white and holy in the screaming wind.

The temptation to scream too, overtakes me. I open my mouth, but all I do is let out a croak. I pause and look up and down the road, satisfied that I am alone. I lift up my arms. Raise up my head. Then I scream into the wind, giving my voice to the Apa’apa’a as an offering. The guttural sound comes from so deep, I feel my lungs vibrate inside me, and the racket I make is almost indistinguishable from the wind.

Almost as if we are one.

-Linda Petrucelli

Linda Petrucelli was ordained in the United Church of Christ in 1983. A feminist theologian, Linda holds theological degrees from Yale Divinity School and Chicago Theological Seminary. She was a missionary in Taiwan, working for the rights of indigenous fishworkers and served as a national executive with her denomination, overseeing global humanitarian relief. Since 2000, she has lived in Hawaii and served small, rural parishes. In 2018, she retired to her home in Hawi where she writes flash fiction and memoir. You can read her tiny stories at jackrabbitfiction.com