Kaʻula Island, a remote volcanic outcrop southwest of Niʻihau, has become a controversial target for decades of military bombing exercises despite its ecological sensitivity and protected wildlife.
A Rock in the Crosshairs
Kaʻula Island—an uninhabited (by humans), crescent-shaped volcanic outcrop roughly 20 miles southwest of Niʻihau—is a place most Americans have never heard of. But for the U.S. Navy, it’s been a bullseye since 1952. Once home to a lighthouse and now designated as a state seabird sanctuary, Kaʻula has been pummeled by bombs for over 70 years. The Navy is now proposing to more than double the number of inert bombing and gunnery exercises on the island, from 12 to 31 and 14 to 24 per year, respectively.
This is not a tale of live-fire warfare—these are inert bombs, cold steel dropped from the sky. But the impact is far from harmless. The island is littered with twisted pieces of ordnance, and the surrounding waters are off-limits to the public within a 3-nautical-mile radius. Kaʻula is shrinking due to erosion, and its cliffs—rising up to 540 feet—are home to approximately 100,000 seabirds, including Laysan albatrosses, as well as endangered Hawaiian monk seals and green sea turtles.
Laysan albatrosses, native to Kaula Island. Image Credit: National Audubon Society
A History of Resistance
The Navy’s use of Kaʻula has been contentious since its inception. In 1961, the Kauaʻi Board of Supervisors officially requested the Navy cease bombing the island, but their plea was ignored. In 1965, a miscalculation led to eight 250-pound bombs being accidentally dropped on nearby Niʻihau instead of Kaʻula. Despite such incidents, the military has continued its operations, often without clear legal authority. The state of Hawaiʻi designated Kaʻula as a seabird sanctuary in 1978, but the Navy has maintained its claim over the island, leading to an ongoing dispute over ownership.
A sea cave on Ka’ula.
Environmental and Cultural Concerns
If you ask the Navy, their bombs don’t do much harm. They’ll tell you the impacts are “less than significant,” like we’re talking about a rowdy frat party instead of war machines dumping metal onto a sacred American Pacific outcrop. But spend five minutes listening to local communities, conservationists, or state officials and you’ll hear a much different story—one filled with righteous frustration and the unmistakable hum of generational betrayal.
Kaʻula Island, that lone volcanic sliver 20 miles off Niʻihau, is no ordinary hunk of rock. The state-designated seabird sanctuary supports at least 18 species, including the black-footed albatross, and it’s a critical haul-out site for endangered Hawaiian monk seals. It might look barren to the untrained eye, but it’s alive—a biological and spiritual haven being chipped away, one bombing exercise at a time. The Navy claims the impact of their increased training is negligible, but critics are calling that a whitewashed assessment. They argue that even short-term disturbances—loud booms, flyovers, and the physical thud of munitions—can disrupt nesting, feeding, and mating cycles of animals already on the brink. That’s not just careless—it’s a potential violation of the Endangered Species Act.
Then there’s the land and sea themselves. Kaʻula’s fragile vegetation and dramatic sea cliffs are ecologically rare and easily damaged. Yet the Navy’s environmental documents barely nod to the cumulative effects of ongoing bombardment. That includes what happens below the waterline, where increased ocean-based operations—boats, sonar, and restricted access zones—can ripple through the marine ecosystem like an underwater concussion grenade. And while the Navy keeps its perimeter tight, local fishermen are locked out of some of the best fishing grounds in the region. That’s not only a hit to their wallets—it’s a blow to a way of life that predates statehood by centuries.
But the damage isn’t only ecological. It’s spiritual. Kaʻula is sacred to many Native Hawaiians. It’s not “uninhabited” in their view—not when you consider the seabirds, the seals, and the ancestral connections to the land and sea. Each bomb drop is seen not just as environmental degradation, but as a desecration of a place woven into cultural identity. To the military, Kaʻula is a target. To Native Hawaiians, it’s an elder.
That spiritual wound is deepened by historical scars. Communities haven’t forgotten what happened to Kahoʻolawe, another sacred island turned into Swiss cheese by decades of military bombing. Even after a $400 million cleanup, it’s still riddled with unexploded ordnance. So when the Navy promises Kaʻula won’t suffer the same fate, folks are skeptical. There’s a deep mistrust of the Department of Defense in the islands, built on a long track record of broken promises and backroom decisions. The Navy’s failure to provide a full Environmental Impact Statement—and its pattern of minimal public consultation—only fuels that fire.
A Rock in the Crosshairs
Kaʻula Island—an uninhabited (by humans), crescent-shaped volcanic outcrop roughly 20 miles southwest of Niʻihau—is a place most Americans have never heard of. But for the U.S. Navy, it’s been a bullseye since 1952. Once home to a lighthouse and now designated as a state seabird sanctuary, Kaʻula has been pummeled by bombs for over 70 years. The Navy is now proposing to more than double the number of inert bombing and gunnery exercises on the island, from 12 to 31 and 14 to 24 per year, respectively.
This is not a tale of live-fire warfare—these are inert bombs, cold steel dropped from the sky. But the impact is far from harmless. The island is littered with twisted pieces of ordnance, and the surrounding waters are off-limits to the public within a 3-nautical-mile radius. Kaʻula is shrinking due to erosion, and its cliffs—rising up to 540 feet—are home to approximately 100,000 seabirds, including Laysan albatrosses, as well as endangered Hawaiian monk seals and green sea turtles.
Laysan albatrosses, native to Kaula Island. Image Credit: National Audubon Society
A History of Resistance
The Navy’s use of Kaʻula has been contentious since its inception. In 1961, the Kauaʻi Board of Supervisors officially requested the Navy cease bombing the island, but their plea was ignored. In 1965, a miscalculation led to eight 250-pound bombs being accidentally dropped on nearby Niʻihau instead of Kaʻula. Despite such incidents, the military has continued its operations, often without clear legal authority. The state of Hawaiʻi designated Kaʻula as a seabird sanctuary in 1978, but the Navy has maintained its claim over the island, leading to an ongoing dispute over ownership.
A sea cave on Ka’ula.
Environmental and Cultural Concerns
If you ask the Navy, their bombs don’t do much harm. They’ll tell you the impacts are “less than significant,” like we’re talking about a rowdy frat party instead of war machines dumping metal onto a sacred American Pacific outcrop. But spend five minutes listening to local communities, conservationists, or state officials and you’ll hear a much different story—one filled with righteous frustration and the unmistakable hum of generational betrayal.
Kaʻula Island, that lone volcanic sliver 20 miles off Niʻihau, is no ordinary hunk of rock. The state-designated seabird sanctuary supports at least 18 species, including the black-footed albatross, and it’s a critical haul-out site for endangered Hawaiian monk seals. It might look barren to the untrained eye, but it’s alive—a biological and spiritual haven being chipped away, one bombing exercise at a time. The Navy claims the impact of their increased training is negligible, but critics are calling that a whitewashed assessment. They argue that even short-term disturbances—loud booms, flyovers, and the physical thud of munitions—can disrupt nesting, feeding, and mating cycles of animals already on the brink. That’s not just careless—it’s a potential violation of the Endangered Species Act.
Then there’s the land and sea themselves. Kaʻula’s fragile vegetation and dramatic sea cliffs are ecologically rare and easily damaged. Yet the Navy’s environmental documents barely nod to the cumulative effects of ongoing bombardment. That includes what happens below the waterline, where increased ocean-based operations—boats, sonar, and restricted access zones—can ripple through the marine ecosystem like an underwater concussion grenade. And while the Navy keeps its perimeter tight, local fishermen are locked out of some of the best fishing grounds in the region. That’s not only a hit to their wallets—it’s a blow to a way of life that predates statehood by centuries.
But the damage isn’t only ecological. It’s spiritual. Kaʻula is sacred to many Native Hawaiians. It’s not “uninhabited” in their view—not when you consider the seabirds, the seals, and the ancestral connections to the land and sea. Each bomb drop is seen not just as environmental degradation, but as a desecration of a place woven into cultural identity. To the military, Kaʻula is a target. To Native Hawaiians, it’s an elder.
That spiritual wound is deepened by historical scars. Communities haven’t forgotten what happened to Kahoʻolawe, another sacred island turned into Swiss cheese by decades of military bombing. Even after a $400 million cleanup, it’s still riddled with unexploded ordnance. So when the Navy promises Kaʻula won’t suffer the same fate, folks are skeptical. There’s a deep mistrust of the Department of Defense in the islands, built on a long track record of broken promises and backroom decisions. The Navy’s failure to provide a full Environmental Impact Statement—and its pattern of minimal public consultation—only fuels that fire.
So what’s the ask? It’s pretty simple. Critics want transparency. They want a full environmental review, not a glossed-over checklist. They want the Navy to justify why this island must be bombed more frequently and to consider other options. They want environmental protections and cultural respect to be more than bullet points in a PowerPoint briefing. And maybe, just maybe, they want the bombs to stop entirely—so Kaʻula can be what it was always meant to be: a sanctuary, not a target.
Because when you drop iron from the sky onto sacred ground, it’s not training—it’s trespass. And the people of Hawaii are watching.
70 feet down off the coast of Ka’ula.
A Call for Accountability
The Hawaii congressional delegation, including Senators Brian Schatz and Mazie Hirono, has called on the Navy to provide a clear national security rationale for the increased training and to conduct a comprehensive environmental impact statement (EIS). They emphasize the need for transparency and accountability, especially given the Navy’s track record with other sites like Kahoʻolawe, where decades of bombing left the island scarred and contaminated, despite the expensive cleanup efforts.
The Future of Kaʻula
As the Navy pushes forward with its plans, opposition continues to grow. Environmental groups, Native Hawaiian organizations, and local residents are raising their voices to protect Kaʻula from further harm. The island’s future hangs in the balance, caught between military interests and the preservation of Hawaii’s natural and cultural heritage.
The question remains: will Kaʻula continue to serve as a silent target, or will it be restored and respected as the sanctuary it was meant to be?
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