The dead zone was demarcated by rows of cars idling on dangerously narrow highway shoulders near the Ocean View Market.
Hurricane Lala had torn through the Ka’u district on the southern tip of Hawaii’s Big Island two days earlier, and farther down the winding two-lane mountain road were thousands of people in rural communities. Most were still without electricity, mobile phone service and gas two days after the storm.
So the residents of Ocean View, a remote community of fewer than 5,000, had taken matters into their own hands. On Monday, the parking lot of the Ocean View Market gas station just off Route 11 was teeming with locals looking for help and looking to help others. Shortly after Hawaii’s worst storm in years, residents had spontaneously organized to provide information, commodities and even air support.
The front entrance was locked and the gas pumps were inoperable. But the store had become an impromptu disaster relief center, complete with a mobile radio station run by Tim Reed, an Ocean View resident who hooked up his computer to a satellite to run the broadcast.
“We’re the emergency communication for Ocean View,” Mr. Reed said in an interview.
Usually, he plays Hawaiian music and classic rock for listeners in his corner of the island on a low-power FM station. Today, though, he was spreading the word about the resources on offer in the gas station parking lot. One was his Starlink terminals for those hoping to connect to the internet via satellite and make calls to the outside world.
Mr. Reed, 55, sat in a wheelchair at a plastic table next to Karen Field, 58, who was helping him broadcast. They took turns on the matchbook-sized wireless microphone.
“We have a few more announcements to make,” Ms. Field said into the microphone. “We have some gracious volunteers that are going around doing wellness checks for seniors.”
Hurricane Lala, which was a Category 1 storm, did not make landfall but wrecked highways, ravaged homes, toppled trees and knocked out power for much of the island.
On the Big Island, the coastal town of Pahala, with about 1,800 residents, was cut off after floodwaters overtopped roads and bridges — six were destroyed or severely damaged. Route 11 collapsed, isolating Ka’u Hospital, the only such facility in the region.
The Ka’u region isn’t the Hawaii of tourist fantasies. It comprises rugged mountains and thick vegetation broken up by vast lava fields. Its communities are remote and are home to lifelong residents who scrape by, often living off the grid, and middle-aged and retired mainlanders who sought cheap land and a quiet place to start over.
“It’s not like you’re going to drive up and go, ‘Oh wow, beautiful homes,” said Carrie Fraser, an Ocean View resident. “These are people that are just trying to survive.”
In the parking lot of the Ocean View Market, Katie Tyner — who had suddenly become “the gas lady” — was standing next to the open hatch of her Chevrolet Trailblazer S.U.V., jotting down names and numbers on her clipboard. Her operation was simple and in high demand in a community where many do not own cars: Hand her cash and a fuel can and she would return with gas from an operational station half an hour up the road.
By noon, her Trailblazer had been filled with about a dozen red cans, each labeled in marker with the name and number of its owner.
Ms. Tyner was preparing to go on her gas run soon. She had another critical mission — deliver fuel to people farther down the road in a town called Discovery Harbour, which was one of the hardest hit.
Ms. Tyner had heard that residents there who rely on electricity to power their medical equipment were running out of fuel for generators. The town was inaccessible by the highway, but Ms. Tyner, who has lived in Ocean View for eight years, knew her way around.
“We have a little road we take, but it’s a mudslide right now, so you have to have a four-wheel-drive car,” Ms. Tyner said.
Next to Ms. Tyner’s S.U.V., a pastor hugged a man who was in tears, then prayed over him. The pastor, Pamela Ako, 70, who runs a church and volunteers with a community group that provides shelter and other assistance when disaster strikes, was passing out water bottles to anyone in need.
One man handed Ms. Ako a paper grocery bag filled with provisions. She set the bag on the ground and tore it open. She laid out the donated items: batteries, rope, rice flour, wet wipes, a first aid kit and instant Korean noodles. There was also some ready-to-make turkey stuffing.
“If you guys are in need of anything, come get,” Ms. Ako announced to the people milling around the parking lot.
One man grabbed the rope.
Ms. Ako invoked the Hawaiian principles of aloha, an ethic of love and compassion, and ohana, one of family and community.
“It’s people helping people,” Ms. Ako said. “This is when we come together as a family. You talk about aloha; You talk about ohana — this is what it’s all about.”
Kahi Young, 30, a hula teacher, had heard about the aid at the gas station and approached Ms. Ako and other volunteers with a big ask.
“I need help getting everybody’s attention right now,” he said, and went group to group in the parking lot.
Mr. Young had persuaded a helicopter tour company to make a drop of supplies in Pahala, about 25 miles away.
In about two hours the chopper would be landing at a nearby park, and he needed help filling it with as much as 700 pounds of supplies and nonperishable food.
Ms. Ako directed him to Mr. Reed, who handed Mr. Young a microphone so he could make his plea on the radio waves.
The small blue helicopter touched down on a grassy park field. Volunteers filled it to the brim with boxes of baby wipes, toilet paper and ready-to-eat food.
Much came from Kris Cunningham, 48, who runs a food truck in Ocean View with her husband and learns the art of hula from Mr. Young.
She looked as the helicopter lifted off from the park with Mr. Young and the supplies onboard.
Mr. Young acknowledged her from the air. He flashed the shaka gesture, the extended thumb and pinkie signal used on the island to say thanks or goodbye. Ms. Cunningham, her dyed blue hair blowing in the rotor wash, shot up a shaka in return.
“That’s how we do it down here,” she said.
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