Finally, hours into the night, it is Halau O Ke Aalii Ku Makani's turn. As the women mount the stage, the by-now familiar scent of pikake fills the air, and their faces glow with expectation and pride. Their dance is a deeply sensual one in which a lover bemoans the departure of "Sweet Emalia" Kaihumuna as she leaves Hawaii for San Francisco. (One line in the song translates as "You will not escape the lure of the sticky liquid of the Hawaiian." If that sounds racy, it's because it is. "That's referring to poi," one of the dancers had explained to me earlier, referring to the gluey staple of the Hawaiian diet, made from taro root. "But," she says with a sly smile, "that's not all it's referring to.") The dance is done to a stirring melody that was written by Boyd, a talented musician and singer in his own right. As beatific as the performers look, I can tell, after many hours spent watching rehearsals of the routine, that something is off. I learn later that one of the women, weakened by fever and nausea, had fainted moments before Boyd's halau was to come onstage. She was taken away in an ambulance, and the carefully choreographed dance had to be recast literally seconds before it was to be performed. Even so, the routine strikes me as both gorgeous and deeply moving. As it ends, I sneak a look at the judges, trying to see if they agree.

It's after midnight when the final results are tallied. Despite losing one of its dancers at the last minute, Boyd's halau places third overall. (It came in fifth in kahiko and fourth in auana.) It's a good showing, and proves that Boyd is a kumu to be watched. Still, he is clearly disappointed. Afterward, as he paces outside the stadium, cigarette in hand, he talks of the judging—"There was one judge who just didn't like what we were doing," he mutters—and bemoans the flu that robbed his dancers of the chance to show everyone what they could accomplish.

I've only known Boyd and his dancers for a week, but I too am saddened. I know that winning and losing are supposed to be beside the point, but after witnessing these women's dedication and determination, I want their work to be recognized and appreciated. But my disappointment is overwhelmed by the feeling that I'm incredibly lucky. I understand—in a way I didn't when I arrived in the Honolulu airport just over a week ago—that I've been given the opportunity to witness one of Hawaii's most precious arts. The experience itself has been deeply affecting, and just as important, my understanding of this island paradise has been forever transformed.

After the last cars have left the muddy field that serves as the stadium's parking lot, Hilo returns to form, and a steady, thrumming rain falls from the sky. Boyd's halau gathers one last time, at the house where they've lived these last few days, for what has come to be known as one of Merrie Monarch's more raucous after-parties. In years past, this blowout had continued well into the following day, with hundreds of people—dancers from other halaus, friends and relatives, and Hilo locals—showing up for beer and roast pig. Tonight's fete, however, is relatively tame. Other dancers have also fallen ill, and Boyd, while insisting he's focused on the process and not the results, is dejected. At 2:30 a.m., I'm ready to call it a night. As I make my way around the party, saying my good-byes—I'll be making the long trek back to New York in less than 12 hours—the dancers insist on filling my pockets with dozens of pikake buds. By the time my farewells are finished, my jacket is overflowing with flowers. "Now you can take some of what you witnessed here back with you," one of the dancers says. "That way, you won't ever forget what hula really means."