I pulled my faded blue kayak down the sandy beach access-public access sign defaced to confuse and ward off tourists-slid it down the seven, steep wooden stairs and right to the edge of the water. Moku Nui was just to the southeast from my windswept perch on Lanikai's affluent shore. The wind was howling at 25 knots, the surf was 4 to 6 feet, just below advisory levels, and the gray sky was warning of rain. Dreading the paddle into the wind, I was already thinking about the way back.

But the task at hand was too important to dwell on adverse weather. The wedge-tailed shearwaters would return to the Mokulua Islets in the coming weeks and the offshore islet restoration planned by the Department of Land and Natural Resource Division of Fish and Wildlife had already been canceled once due to extremely poor, borderline dangerous, weather. I pushed off and paddled through the shallows as the DLNR helicopter raced by overhead, a small shed filled with supplies hanging precariously from the chopper, spinning like a top.

The sandy landing at Moku Nui is never graceful, the hollow, plastic shell that is my vessel whimsy to the battling swells that wrap the island and cross paths along the small beach. In all, five loads of supplies came be helicopter and were received by DLNR staff on the two-and-a-half-acre restoration site. Small sheds and large nets were filled with shovels, native plants, countless jugs of water, fertilizer, 2 augers, gas and pick axes. As soon as the chopper dropped its final payload, the fifteen volunteers joined about ten DLNR employees on the leeward slope who had already begun digging holes.

Moku Nui, the northern most of the two islets, is covered in sand bur, an invasive grass that has taken over the islet, choking out the few remaining patches of ilima, naupaka and naio. Sand bur dies back quickly in the spring, its roots unable to hold the soil together. Heavy rains in the summer can lead to erosion events that literally bury shearwater chicks in their terrestrial burrows, killing the fledgling migratory birds. The plan was to plant native species like ilima, naio, nehe, ihi and pa'uohi'iaka to replace the invasive grass, enhancing the shearwater's nesting grounds and reducing soil erosion.

I stepped cautiously around the empty burrows, the matted, dead grass depositing sharp and sticky burrs on my slippers, feet and ankles. I had a tray of ilima, individually planted in little plastic nursery containers. I also had a bucket of fertilizer and a five-gallon jug of water. Following instructions, I canvassed the lower hillside below the saddle, placing three plants in each pre-dug hole with a little natural fertilizer and a healthy lick of water. The other volunteers were planting the native shrubs and grasses. The staff was all about the heavy labor: digging the holes and tackling the task of keeping one of the augers running. Sea foam produced from the crashing waves on the windward side of the island rose up and over the saddle, raining down chunks of sea spray as we worked.

With the generous show of dirty hands, we wrapped up in the early afternoon. Mission accomplished. Before descending down to the beach I took a moment to look around, to suss the view from my vantage point, one I might never have again. The Mokulua Islets are seabird sanctuaries and passage above the beach is normally not permitted. I guess my gesture of giving was paid in full.