Origin: Island Voices

I want them to see the ocean forest. When sea moss is fully grown, it moves under the water like trees in the wind—soft and slow. That is where it starts: not in a tank or a factory, but in the open Pacific.

On tiny islands with no human houses at all. We ride the boat almost two hours from the nearest village. No roads, no hotels—just reef, birds, and the sound of waves. That distance keeps our water clean.

My grandparents already did it, and their parents before them. Sea moss was always in our cooking—in soups or as a thickener, part of daily food. We did not call it 'superfood.' For us, it was just one more way the ocean took care of the family.

It is just us and the tide. We go in when the water is right, we check each rope by hand, and we only take the mature strands. You feel the weight, the texture—you know if it is ready. No machine understands that.

First, we rinse it in clean well water and collected rainwater, again and again, until the ocean salt softens. Then we lay it out on drying racks in the sun. The wind does the rest. No ovens, no artificial heat—only sunlight and time.

Nothing at all. We do not bleach it, we do not coat it, we do not 'improve' the color. The sea moss you get is the same sea moss we touch on the racks—only dried and packed.

Yes, we portion and sort by hand. We look for broken pieces, shells, anything that should not be there. It is slow work, but that is the point. Every bag has passed through real hands that know what good sea moss looks like.

Laka is our word for the balance between ocean and people—a gentle kind of strength. When you say Laka Sea Moss, you are talking about that whole chain: the clean water, the quiet islands, the families who still harvest the old way.

I hope they feel like they just brought a little part of our island kitchen into their home. Simple, clean, respectful of where it came from. Nothing fancy, but everything cared for.