As I drive down S. Kihei Road, a bright red bench catches my eye. "LAHAINA LUNA" reads in bold white letters—lovingly painted by hands that refused to let Lahaina disappear. Someone made sure the world knew: these kids were here. They're still here. And they're going back home.
I was sitting at this exact spot in grade school, waiting for my bus. Thirty years later, seeing that bench felt like touching a ghost of old Maui—the Maui I knew before everything changed.
What strikes me most about that bench is what it represents. Yes, Lahaina was forever altered in seventeen minutes, the time, some say it took for the fire to sweep through Lahaina. Yes, these kids lost everything. But they have this—one anchor to their old life, one place that says *home still exists*.
When you're a kid without a car, home isn't just a location. It's your world. Wailuku, Kihei, upcountry—suddenly those weren't just "far away." They were exile. Scattered across the island, many Lahaina Luna students faced a choice: give up or fight to return.
Dylan Riley chose to fight.
At first, he thought the school had burned down completely. When King K opened its doors for six months, he went—uncertain at first if Lahaina Luna would ever reopen, wondering if he'd get to go back. He worried he wouldn't know anyone. Instead, he found friends already there. King K wasn't bad. Dylan actually enjoyed it. But it wasn't home.
When Lahaina Luna finally reopened, something shifted. "It felt good to be able to go back to like, kind of like the original school," Dylan said. There's a weight in those words—relief, belonging, normalcy returning.
The fires taught Dylan something most people learn too late: **"You never know what could actually happen. It was so unexpected... it just kind of was like a good reminder... just to be prepared, just to be ready, in case something like that does happen, because you never know."**
But Dylan also discovered something deeper. "I'd say probably stronger," he told me when I asked if his class was more or less bonded after the fires. "More like together. I feel like everyone kind of came together after that."
That's not just survival. That's transformation.
---
To Lahaina Luna's Class of 2026:
Congratulations! You did it!
These last five years may have been the hardest any generation has seen in decades. You grew up during a pandemic that shut down your schools and isolated your friends. You lost time you can never get back—proms, games, normal moments that define high school. You watched your community flood. You lost friends. You lost family. You lost homes.
And still, you showed up.
You went through literal fire to graduate from your school, in your community, with your people. You could have accepted displacement, scattered to different schools across the island, letting tragedy rewrite your story. Instead, you committed. You fought. You refused to be erased.
Standing on your stopping grounds, diploma in hand, with the West Maui shoreline behind you—that's not just a moment. It's proof. It's a testament to your resilience, your kindness, your refusal to break.
That red bench isn't just paint on wood. It's a promise you kept: *We are Lahaina Luna. We are still here. We are unstoppable.*
These are hard times. You're right about that. But you're not just surviving hard times—you're *pushing through* them with grace, strength, and a spirit that won't be diminished. Your futures are bright. They're full of possibility. They're unstoppable.
We all are so proud of you. I cannot wait to see what comes next.
Keep going. You're doing great!
With Aloha,
Your Auntie Zorah Meyer
