Sunset Inn: Tales from the North Shore

By Aloha Romance Writers

Hawai`i authors and poets took the bait and ran with it: create a poem or story anchored at Sunset Inn, a family-owned Victorian inn built at the turn of the last century on Oahu's fabled North Shore. The result is a delightful collection of historical, humorous, paranormal, and, yes, romantic vignettes sure to please anyone who's ever been to Hawai`i. Or dreams of going there. Or dreams...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780971795679

Book preview

Wilson

Welcome

There it was, North Shore touched

by wood and nail,

a lying-down place

where sea shooshes

and we had strolled

like two new lovers

in shifting twilight.

And we felt like that glimmering

line of horizon with a hot

golden pellet feeding itself

to its flatness, its singularity,

the invitation of night.

We finished our open-air footsteps,

walked over the threshold

of the welcoming inn.

Sally Sorenson

Preface

I

N

1898, the wealthy and enterprising Benjamin Dillingham opened a hotel at the end point of the railroad on O‘ahu’s North Shore. It catered primarily to the affluent of Honolulu. For the princely sum of $10, they bought round trip fare, an overnight stay at the Hale‘iwa Hotel, and a tour of Dillingham’s Waialua sugar mill.

In 1901, not so wealthy but equally enterprising dairy farmer Marcus Steadwell loaded his milk cans onto the train returning to Honolulu. He then re-fashioned the restraining slats on his wagon perpendicular to the sidewalls to form seats, and handed up three newly-arrived, adventuresome young couples who couldn’t afford the luxurious Hale‘iwa Hotel. Annalise Steadwell cleaned the bedrooms vacated by the Steadwells’ grown children, who had moved to the big city to pursue careers, and cooked meals for the first of their long string of guests. While not nearly as splendid as Dillingham’s hotel, the farm offered its own style of charm and peaceful retreat.

Annalise made it a habit of greeting her guests on the front porch of the farmhouse with a smile and a warm towel. Aloha. Welcome to our inn, she would say, for it sounded much more upscale than dairy farm. Once you’re settled into your rooms, won’t you join us on the veranda to enjoy the sunset?

Word of their gracious hospitality seeped through the Honolulu community and beyond, until their guest rooms were nearly always booked. When it came to a decision between investing in new milking equipment or expanding the inn, the Steadwells sold ten acres, remodeled the house, and added more rooms. They also commissioned a local artisan to carve and paint a proper sign for the bottom of their lane. The Sunset Inn was born.

Like a family tree, the Inn grew with each passing decade, eventually adding a two-story wing on each side: Hale Plumeria and Hale Orchid. A small swimming pool and hot tub squeezed into the U-shaped courtyard created between the wings and the main building. Behind, the lush foliage of the Waianae Mountains beckoned hikers and nature lovers.

Also like a tree, each generation produced a branch that maintained ownership and managed the Inn. Through that century and into the present, staff and guests, locals and foreigners, met and mingled within its warm ambience. Family gatherings, illicit trysts, hopeful dreams, intrigue, and supernatural happenings paraded through the hallways and into Hawai‘i’s lore.

Not all those secrets and stories were lost to the passage of time. Some are retold here.

Let your imagination travel to O‘ahu’s North Shore, past the shops and restaurants of Hale‘iwa toward Waimea Bay and Sunset Beach. When you hear the surf rolling ashore and can taste the tang of salt air, turn mauka up the lane. Pleasure awaits you on each page.

the way it was

Patrice Wilson

This Haven

Built in times named for a queen,

its majestic walls, courtyard, portals

call out to ghosts—

Victoria, Lili‘uokalani

mixed into its wood and cement,

haunted by wayfarers

who lazed by its pool,

steamed in its hot tub,

hiked behind its hard Victorian haunches

in thick woods,

it stands white as salt,

bleached coral in the sea,

whispers the ocean to all who hear

after cars have ceased sighing by

in the dimly-lit midnight;

all who have come and gone taste

its conjured liquids—mai tais,

red lavas—to ease the ache of travel,

away from Waikīkī where tourist

hustles reign, would-be dreamers

bed in past comforts and discomforts.

Out beyond this haven

on a small invaded island,

the world people come here to escape

whirls in its ancient orbit

in the space between

what comes and goes.

Jodi Belknap

Things Aren’t Always

What They Seem

"S

UNSET

Inn! I can’t believe that old place is still standing!" I said to Dad when he told me where we were going as soon as I got home to Hawai‘i.

Of course it’s still standing, he shot back, in the I’m-in-charge voice of my childhood. It’s the most popular place on North Shore now. You won’t recognize it—new paint, nice big rooms. Besides, I told you, my old friend Joseph is celebrating his birthday at Sunset Inn. I want you to meet him.

In the garage before we left, I asked Dad, Want to get started driving again? Maybe do a little warm up? The car’s all ready to go. I had it lubed and cleaned up for you.

Dad gave me a bewildered look. My car? This is my car? he said.

The question jolted me into a thought I was nowhere near ready to deal with. I watched him open a back door for Maka, and told myself that his focus was on the dog, not driving—but I knew better. The reality is my father is not the same. No way. In fact, nothing’s the same.

Heading out to Hale‘iwa I’m glad to see Dad in good shape, physically at least. The exercise program his cardiologist recommended after Mom died seems to be working. Maka takes me for a three-mile walk every morning, he announced, a little guiltily, when I arrived at our old house in Makiki Heights and saw his aging golden retriever lounging on the oversize futon in the front parlor. My mother never allowed Maka near the furniture, especially not the custom-made futon with its Hawaiian quilt cover. Now the old dog is snoozing happily in the back seat as I drive. Things have changed.

Back in the 1970s I spent a lot of weekends with my father helping him and other members of the fledgling Hawaiian Railway Society restore sidetracked old steam locomotives, boilers, warped tracks, and a complicated assortment of rusty train parts for the startup of a vintage train ride service for locals and tourists. Sunset Inn was where we crashed at the end of long workdays. Rates were $12 a night, four to a room. It was a pretty tacky place, but a great hangout for a bunch of tired, dirty guys who just wanted some cold bottles of Primo and a good night’s sleep.

Truth is, I’m looking forward to seeing Sunset Inn again and maybe catching up on what happened to those old steam locomotives we worked so hard to get running once more.

Son, did you bring your tape recorder? my Dad asked, as we reached Hale‘iwa.

A travel writer by trade, I don’t go anywhere without my tape recorder and a few extra cassettes. Having it for interviews or just to record my own notes makes my life so much easier. You know I brought it. It’s in my bag in the trunk. Do you have something special for it in mind?

Well, I’ve been thinking. You know the friend I told you we’re meeting? His name is Joseph, Joseph Iokewe. He worked on the old Dillingham railroad a long time ago. You remember the Hawaiian Railway Society? I’m still a member, and we’ve been collecting stories for the archives. Joe agreed to tell me about his experiences this weekend, but maybe it would be better if you…

…could interview this Joseph and get his story recorded? Sure thing. But you better give me a little background before we get there.

Right. Okay. Joe’s from an old Hawaiian family that goes way back to early voyaging time. He lived with his ‘ohana out Waianae way when he was young, and he knows…he knows all about trains—especially Dillingham’s train.

We’d reached the entrance to Sunset Inn by then and I soon saw that Dad was right; it was nothing like what I remembered. We drove to it on a driveway flanked with blooming yellow and red hibiscus bushes until we reached a building that barely resembled the rundown old house I recalled.

Any evidence of what I remembered as a dingy façade of faded yellow was now painted white, with what looked like real New England whitewash. When we parked, a middle-aged guy in what I recognized as a vintage Hawaiian shirt from Reyn Spooner got up from an Adirondack chair on the lanai and trudged down the wide front stairway to greet us.

Aloha Joe, my Dad said, as the two of them greeted each other before turning to me. Joe, this is Kawika, my son from New York, who used to come out here with me all those years ago.

Son, this is Joseph Iokewe; he runs the Sunset Inn now.

Actually, I’m assistant manager, a man who was a lot younger than I had anticipated said as we shook hands. Aloha Kawika, he said. Welcome to the Sunset Inn…again.

Glad to meet you. Glad to be here, too. My Dad’s been talking to me about you. I understand you’ve got a good story to tell about old times and the OR&L, Dillingham’s railroad. I’m looking forward to hearing it.

Joseph Iokewe looked at me oddly and then he laughed. My story? Oh, I see. The railroad! Kawika, I’m Joseph number four. It’s the first Joseph Iokewe who wants to tell you folks about trains. He worked on the OR&L years ago. Let’s get you settled in your room, and Maka, too. There’s a grassy fenced-in lanai for him. Then we’ll join kūkūkāne, my great-grandfather. He’s waiting for you in the Queen’s Parlor. I know he wants to get everything down that he still remembers. Oh, and your Dad probably told you already, tomorrow is his birthday, and you’re both to be honored guests at the party we’re holding for him.

After Maka was settled, we followed Joseph number four to a room in the center of the hotel surrounded by elegant glass panels etched with Hawaiian themes. I recognized a pahu, a drum, and what looked like Queen Lili‘uokalani’s favorite crown flower plants. There was something eerily familiar about the room and its fine furniture that I couldn’t get quite straight in my mind. The centerpiece was a round wood table I knew I’d seen somewhere before. An elderly gentleman rose from a chair beside it to greet us.

Aloha, aloha, my good friend. And you must be Kawika, the son who is a writer. Aloha kakou. Please…please sit down. You’ve had a long journey. We’ll have something pono to eat for lunch and then you can help me share my story.

We joined the first Joseph Iokewe, and after an hour of visiting and dining on a lunch unlike any I remembered from the old Sunset Inn, I set up the tape recorder. What follows is the story Joseph Iokewe shared with us the day before his birthday, word for word, exactly as it was told.

Mr. Dillingham’s Fire Wagon

by Joseph Iokewe

Recorded at the Sunset Inn, Hale‘iwa, Hawai‘i

I thought about it the first time I heard of the hotel Mr. Dillingham was building on the north shore of our island. He named it Hale‘iwa Hotel, house of the ‘Iwa, after the great birds that fish offshore. Hale‘iwa also means beautiful home. Benjamin Dillingham built his hotel so people would ride his train to stay in it. Even Queen Lili‘uokalani rode the train to the hotel, and though she hadn’t been Queen since 1893, she remained Queen in our hearts. But it wasn’t the hotel I thought so much about the year I was old enough to go to work for our family. It was the train that interested me. I wanted to be the engineer on the train that went to the hotel. A kua‘aina, a country boy like me? How could that be? So now I’ll tell you from the beginning about Mr. Dillingham’s fire wagon and me.

When I was growing up life was very peaceful where we lived in Wai‘anae on the leeward side of the island of O‘ahu. Our whole family, all eleven of us, lived in a big house made of wood and stones with a lanai all around. Some days from the front of our hale you could see honu, turtles, swimming off shore, and koholā, whales, down from the cold north seas to have their young in our warm waters.

At the back of our house the Wai‘anae mountains kept us cool. Mango and papaya trees planted for shade and fruit edged one side of our house. Tutu’s garden of healing herbs grew on the other. Tutu could fix anything with her mixes of dried leaves, roots and berries. People came from all around the island to see her. She was a very wise healer.

The best thing about our house was the ocean in front of it where we went swimming and fishing. Our family name is Iokewe, which means curved or crescent, like the curve of a wave when it reaches the sand on shore. Tutu said our family had lived beside the sea from first times. She said I would understand how important that was when I learned the chant that traces our genealogy from the beginning. Then and now I loved where we lived, and I loved my family too, from Tutu to my best friend and cousin Kalani.

It used to be peaceful there, but changes began long before I became a man. The biggest was in 1889. That year Mr. Dillingham’s men finished laying long sticks of steel across blocks of wood they put on the ground all along the coast from Honolulu to ‘Aiea, a town about fifteen miles south of us. They said it was for a new way to travel that was much better and faster than the horse and wagon we used when Tutu and my mother and sisters went to Honolulu. That took all day. The new way would be by ka‘aahi, a fire wagon, or what Mr. Dillingham and his men called a locomotive. It was like a big cart made of steel but without horses to pull it. Instead it had an engine fed by burning coal that heated up water to turn into steam. The steam made its wheels go around. The ka‘aahi moved fast along those steel sticks called rails, pulling cars behind it for people to ride in. The whole contraption—the locomotive and the long cars it pulled—was called a train.

But my love for Mr. Dillingham’s train began long before that, early one morning when I was a small boy. It was just after dawn and I was heading to the ocean to fish with my little kōkō net, when my father called me.

Joseph, hele on over here to the house. Put on a shirt and your short pants. Here’s your uncle Kekoa and your cousin Kalani with extra horses. We’re going to see the king’s ka‘aahi.

Uncle Kekoa, Kalani’s father, worked at Wai‘anae Plantation, where locomotives already took cars full of cut cane stalks along a track of rails to the mill to be made into sugar. Uncle Kekoa was the only person in our family who had seen a train up close.

Uncle climbed down from his horse. It was packed for a trip, with lauhala mats to sleep on, bags of dried and salted mullet to eat and a gourd filled with water to drink.

Come on, Uncle urged. There’s no time to lose. It will take us a day and a half to ride to ‘Aiea. The train comes into the new station there in two days.

Kalani and I ran into the house. My mother gave us a bag of dried opelo and two papaya to carry. I put on my town clothes and got a second shirt to wear in case the first got dirty. Back outside we climbed onto the horse Uncle held out for us. Kalani was older than me, so he sat in front and held the reins.

Tonight we’ll go over the mountain trail to Kūkaniloko to honor the memory of the great chiefs born there, my father said. We’ll sleep in the green fields nearby. The next day we’ll ride back down to our cousin’s near Pearl River and stay with him for the night. We’ll get up early the next morning to see the train come.

Mr. Dillingham chose Saturday November 16, 1889, King David Kalākaua’s birthday, to carry passengers aboard his new train for free. The king, who liked modern things that could help our islands, granted Mr. Dillingham the charter for the train. Because of the king’s blessing, Mr. Dillingham was able to build his railroad.

On that first day we rode the horses as far as the new city of Wahiawā and then to Kūkaniloko where the wahine ali‘i used to come to give birth with the help of the kahuna. It was a beautiful and peaceful place surrounded by palm trees in the middle of a wide plain of grasses. Inside there were six or seven great boulders, some flat, one with a circle inside circles carved on it, still others with long ridges on the sides. My father told me the carved circles meant babies were born here. A red moon was rising when we put down our mats and blankets to sleep. Kalani said it was spooky being so close to the stones where great chiefs were born. But I wasn’t afraid. We didn’t go inside the sacred place but slept beneath the trees that surrounded it. Before the sun rose, my father and uncle got up and chanted a pule in honor of our ali‘i.

The day after we arrived at our cousin’s was very different. We got up early in the morning and before noon walked to a spot near our friend Dr. McGrew’s house at Pearl Harbor to wait for one of the two trains running from Honolulu and back every hour. Crowds of people were already standing beside the tracks where it would stop, most in their very best clothes—haole women wearing long white dresses and big hats, old Hawaiian tutu in big flowing mu‘umu‘u that looked like gardens, with so many lei on their arms you wondered how they could carry them. Cane field workers with their straw hats and small children, barefoot, stood behind the rest of the crowd. Like them, I was barefoot, and so was Kalani. We had never owned a pair of shoes.

Whoooh! Whooh! We heard the train coming before we saw it. Its whistle was very loud. It hissed, too. A cloud of steam bigger than a kūoa, the tall white cloud that brings storms, surrounded the locomotive as it growled to a stop in front of us.

Watch out. Don’t touch it, Uncle warned. The sides are hot; very hot.

I remember that I took my father’s hand because of all the noise. I was glad I did when crowds of passengers began swinging down from the train cars, talking and laughing.

A tall haole man in a white shirt and white pants came over and shook Uncle’s hand. It was Mr. August Ahrens, the manager of the plantation where Uncle worked. I see you brought the boys, he shouted over the noisy crowds. Come on board with us. Ride to Honolulu and back. The boys will love it.

My father and uncle looked at each other and then at us, and before we knew it we were in one of the cars, sitting together on a long wooden bench. We rode like that to Honolulu. The locomotive I later came to know as Ka‘ala, named for the highest mountain on O‘ahu, pushed the passenger cars backward all the way. When we got back on the train in Honolulu to come home the big locomotive pulled the train with us in it all the way back to ‘Aiea.

Four thousand people rode back and forth on Mr. Dillingham’s train for free that day, including me. I still think about that journey.

So now you can understand why I wanted a job on Mr. Dillingham’s train when tracks were finally laid past our house in Wai‘anae to the bay where the new Hale‘iwa Hotel was built. Ten years had passed before my first ride and the hotel opening. In 1899 I went to Honolulu to ask for work on the train as a fireman’s assistant. I knew about water, or at least the water in the sea, so I thought I could be a fireman’s assistant to start, learning to put in exactly enough water to keep the steam at the perfect strength to drive the train. But in the station yard I found a line of men waiting to apply for the same job.

The foreman looked surprised when he saw me standing before him. He shook his head. Fireman’s assistant? Oh, no. The job is too dangerous for a beginner. And he waved me away.

My disappointment was great, but then I got another idea. Maybe I could be a conductor on the new train to the hotel. Anyone could take tickets but I could tell the passengers about things along the way, stone platforms that were part of old heiau—our temples, where to watch for powerful spirits, what the names of villages and other places meant: Nānākuli (look deaf), Mā‘ili (pebbly), Wai‘anae (mullet water), Mākaha (fierce) and Ka‘ena Point. Ka‘ena was the goddess Pele’s brother who came with her from Tahiti to Hawai‘i. Tutu could tell me other things to share; she remembered all the old places people already were forgetting.

The ticket master at the main station in Honolulu was Uncle’s friend, so I went to see him with my idea. He listened politely and looked at me for a long time. Then he said, I’m afraid not, Joseph Iokewe. You’re too young. Mr. Dillingham likes his conductors to be at least twenty years of age. Besides, I think some of our passengers may not want to hear about things that could frighten them. They’re out for a holiday.

There were other jobs, but I didn’t try for them. I already knew I was too young. What made it harder was that my cousin Kalani got the first job he applied for at Hale‘iwa Hotel, luggage carrier and garden keeper.

I went back to fishing, but I couldn’t forget the train. I watched for it by day; at night I dreamed about it. Throwing a big net from shore one morning I was thinking about how steam works to move the train when my net fell short, got tangled in rocks and couldn’t be used again. On another day I was in a canoe with my father pulling in the kāwa‘a, the deep sea net that brings in our best catches, when I heard the train’s whistle. I dropped my side of the net to watch for the train, and a week’s gathering of fish escaped.

Stay ashore tomorrow, my father said. Help your mother and tutu mend nets. The throw net that got caught in the rocks needs a lot of work. We might not be able to use it again. My father turned away. I knew he was disappointed with me. I had let the family down.

The next morning I was alone on the beach working on our nets when Kalani came riding on his horse to see me. "Joseph, Mr. Dillingham is bringing a very important guest to the hotel tomorrow. The housekeepers are preparing a special room for her.