What Makani Christensen remembers most about the first fish he speared as a kid was how cold he was while doing it. He recalls the details clearly: his eager arrival at Hawai‘i Island’s Puhi Bay with a three-prong spear in hand, his barely contained excitement of tagging along with the “uncles,” his assigned duty of towing the homemade dive buoys fashioned from Clorox bottles. When the young Christensen finally speared the fish, a kole tang, his initial triumph was quickly superseded by the shivers. At this point, he had been out for four hours with men who showed no sign of heading to shore. “You’re a kid, so you’re scared to go in by yourself, but then you’re freezing to death,” Christensen says with a laugh. “But the uncles … well, they’ve been working on their body fat for years.”

Learning to spearfish is a rite of passage for many keiki growing up in Hawai‘i, where it has long been a cultural tradition. In ancient times, Hawaiians stalked their watery prey with slim wood spears hewn from native hardwoods like kauila or uhiuhi along shorelines or at sea on canoes. At night, they carried lit torches and chewed kukui nut. By spitting the masticated oil onto the water’s surface, hunters created a brief sheen that acted as a temporary looking glass through which they could take aim at their quarry.

The thrill of the hunt endures, although modernity has ushered in changes. Today, spearfishing runs the gamut from simple setups for shoreline diving, such as swim trunks, a snorkeling mask, fins, and a three prong (also known as a Hawaiian sling) to bluewater dives that utilize state-of-the-art equipment such as neoprene wetsuits, carbon-fiber fins, and high-power spearguns.

It’s a fair-weather morning in January when Christensen, owner of local tour company Keawe Adventures, and I launch the boat from Waikiki Yacht Club and head east. A rising sun has etched Diamond Head’s crest with gold and the sky above us feels wide, open and blue. As we gather our gear, Christensen shakes his head in good-natured exasperation: He’s forgotten his rash guard, which would have offered him some warmth. Luckily, we’ve planned a short dive with a single mission: Catch five mamo, a perfect amount for lunch.

Anchoring a hundred yards off Kaiser’s surf break, we jump into the water. Instantly, our world shifts to another version of wide, open and blue. Below us is a dazzling underwater delight: Schools of red weke ride in on the current, their flow occasionally interrupted by frisky hīnālea. Along the coral heads, robust manini hold court as graceful, demure Moorish idols glide by. I squeeze myself into a cavern and immediately squeal bubbles of surprise: Right before me is a black-tip reef shark. It shimmies into a deeper pocket as I back out, legs and arms all akimbo. I’m not sure who was more startled. Christensen, having witnessed the exchange, chuckles when we reconvene on the surface. “Oh, that’s Bruce,” he says by way of introduction. “He’s always there.”

We skirt a reef shelf, and the fish swirl and scatter before resuming their activities. Christensen takes a drop, an individual dive down, with his sights set on a silvery striped mamo. Thwack! His spear shoots forward. I see the familiar wriggle of a fish on the end of the three-prong. Four more mamo to go.

Christensen, who is Native Hawaiian, believes the ability to feed one’s people is a keystone of society. “It’s the one constant in culture that has never changed,” he says. Because fish were a primary protein, Hawaiians implemented a strict system of cultivation and conservation. To ensure fishing stocks remained plentiful, a kapu, or sacred ban, was placed on fishing grounds during spawning season. An ahupua‘a system ensured that villages did not take from areas that were not their own. Certain fish, like moi, were reserved for ali‘i (royalty). Other fish, like ulua and kūmū, were off-limits for females to eat. Such practices allowed the people to not only survive but thrive. Hawaiians champion sustainability because sustainability means life.

To Christensen, spearfishing is a nod to the intersection of conservation and culture. “This is a primitive form of hunting,” he explains. Because each drop is just one breath—and one shot—spearfishers must be selective. “You’re going to catch exactly what you want to catch,” Christensen says, noting that, unlike with traditional line fishing, there is no bycatch. He emphasizes how responsibility is paramount: good spearfishers let ko‘a (fishing holes) rest, and remain cognizant of if a fish is of legal size, in season, and, for some species, like uhu, the proper gender. There are other traits that also mark a good spearfisher. During a shared drop, Christensen motions me over to a small hole where a female mamo, her blue stripes aglow in the shafts of filtered sunlight, is fervently dashing about, warding off hungry intruders. “She’s protecting her eggs,” Christensen tells me as we take a recovery breath. “There’s probably a million eggs right there.” We move on from that spot, leaving her be.

Within the hour, we spear our five allotted mamo and make our way back to the boat. Dozens of mamo continue to eddy and swirl below us. Christensen is already planning how he wants to prepare our catch for lunch.

The ability to hunt his own food and share the bounty with others strikes a satisfying, primal chord for Christensen. He hopes his young children will one day have the opportunity to experience this, along with the responsibility that accompanies it. “Whenever I go out and fish, I’m always thinking, ‘Will people eat this? Is this too much to eat? Who can I share this with?’” Christensen says. “All of that is important to think about. I treat fish like gold.”