Latitude 20.04°N Longitude 155.71°W: The Dilemma of Being Hawaiian American

By R.K. Lindsey Jr.

Latitude 20.04N, Longitude 155.71W is a Hawaiian story told through snapshots and snippets of the lives of fabled and fictionalized family members named Lindsey, Beckley, and others. Through them, I recall bits and pieces of Hawaiis rich and glorious past, everyday folks living ordinary lives doing extraordinary things. I hope you, as the reader, will be able to relate to and find the tie that binds us as Gods childrenone planet, one people, one purpose.
A wide swath of time is covered in this book of short chapters from the creation of the Hawaiian Islands (eighty million years ago), to the landing of our people at Waiahukini (AD 300), to the arrival of James Cook (1778) and the first New England Missionary Company (1820), to the establishment of sugar and pineapple plantations and cattle empires (1800s), and to the political trade winds that blew across the archipelago; and from chiefdoms to unified kingdom (1819), to provisional government (1893), to republic (1895), to territory (1900), and to statehood (1959). Holly Birch and Mister John are focal characters. Latitude 20.04N, Longitude 155.71W is history written in shorthand in a fun, interesting, and dynamic way. I started this journey with that intent. I hope I have achieved my intention. You be the judge. Always with aloha . . . Bob Lindsey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483663302

R.K. Lindsey Jr.

R.K. Lindsey, Jr. writes about his deep love for Hawai’i and things Hawaiian. Waimea I ka La’I is his seventh book. A book about his memories growing up as a Keiki o ka ‘Aina (child of the land).to Waimea. It is specially written for his grandsons. Lindsey was born and raised in Hawai’i. He retired from his position as a Trustee with the Office of Hawaiian Affairs after thirteen years in November 2020. His wife Kathy is a preschool teacher. They have three sons and four grandsons.

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LATITUDE 20.04°N,

LONGITUDE 155.71°W

The Dilemma of Being

Hawaiian American

R. K. Lindsey Jr.

Copyright © 2013 by R. K. Lindsey Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The characters and events in this book, unless otherwise indicated, are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®.

© 1973, 1978, and 1984 by International Bible Society.

Used by permission of International Bible Society.

NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by the International Bible Society.

Rev. date: 08/16/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

NOTES

With much love to Kathy

and our sons,

Maluhia, Lono, and Imiola

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Latitude 20.04°N, Longitude 155.71°W is a Hawaiian history as told through the lives of fictionalized characters with the surnames Lindsey, Beckley, and others. Through them, I recall some of Hawai‘i’s rich and glorious past. They are everyday folks living ordinary lives who at times do extraordinary things. My hope is that you can relate to them and find that link that binds us all, I believe, as God’s children and as one planet, people, and universe.

Following this note is a fictionalized map of an imaginary estate (‘Āina Momona aka Lindsey Heaven) that occupies a true-to-life and prominent landform known as Hoku‘ula Hill located in Waimea on Hawai‘i Island. Following the epilogue is a fictionalized mo‘okū‘auhau (genealogy) of the characters within this work, which I include as a reference for readers who desire one. I also include this to stress the importance of mo‘okū‘auhau to Hawaiians. Because we are Hawai‘i’s first people, we will forever have a strong attachment to the Hawaiian Islands. In mo‘okū‘auhau, we preserve our past, relish the present, and prepare for the future.

A wide swath of time is covered in this book: the creation of the Hawaiian Islands (eighty million years ago) to the first landing of our people at Wai‘ahukini (AD 300), the arrival of James Cook (1778) and the first New England Missionary Company (1820) to the establishment of sugar and pineapple plantations and cattle empires (1800s), and the political trade winds that engulfed our archipelago and chiefdoms to unification (1819) to the illegal overthrow of our Sovereign Nation and the establishment of the following in its place: provisional government (1893), republic (1895), annexation to the United States (1898), territory (1900), and fiftieth state (1959). Holly Birch and Mister John are the book end characters to Latitude 20.04°N, Longitude 155.71°W.

In my studies of philosophy and religion, I remember someone saying that when as a people we change our tools, we will change our religion—the suggestion here being that we will see and experience the world differently. These words for me are profound and prophetic because as Kanaka Maoli, we have done exactly that. We have exchanged the taro patch for the supermarket, the canoe and paddle for a fiberglass radon powered by a mercury engine, the horse for horseless carriages, bartering for cash and credit cards, subsistence living for capitalist greed, the Aloha spirit—sharing without expecting anything in return—for I am all that matters, and collaboration for competition.

We have lost much in two hundred years, but we cannot rewind the clock. Our world is here and now, and we must press on. We must hold on to and merge with the best of the present and that which lies ahead with what’s left of our past. Change waits for no one. We must grab it, mold it. Our future is in our hands.

Mahalo piha (thanks a bundle) to Kathy D. K. K. Banggo for editing assistance; Kayle Quinn for the cover art and map; Cathey Tarleton, Amy Pratt Fernandez, John Fischer, and Kara Britt for cheering me on; John Tanaka for sending me inspiration from his mansion in the sky; my wife, Kathy, for giving me the needed space and necessary solitude to put this book into your hands; and my brother, Ben, for saying, Of course, you can.

Always with Aloha,

R. K. Lindsey Jr.

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‘Āina Momona

PROLOGUE

Ka puka ‘ana o ka lā (Sunrise)

January 7, 1960

Waimea, Hawai‘i, Hawaiian Islands

It’s a see forever day across the Hawaiian Islands: winds are gentle, clouds are scattered, and the temperature is a comfortable seventy-four degrees. There’s sunshine everywhere. It’s a perfect morning to rise and shine, to greet the day with unending joy. I’ve been in a state of revelry since yesterday—yodeled at the moon last night as it hovered over Hilo, toasted the sun at dawn as it straddled the eastern horizon, and took a call before I left home from my cousin Beka, who invited me out tonight for martinis and dinner at Solimene’s.

It’s my birthday. I’m thirty years old, a Kanaka Maoli (Hawaiian) in the spring of life. Today, I will tell everyone I meet that when Ke Akua (God) created the heavens and the earth, He made Hawai‘i extra special from the rest of the world. I have seen the world, and I know that Hawai‘i is an extraordinary place. There is a kind of spirit, energy, and beauty embedded here that I’ve found nowhere else.

Hawai‘i will forever be my home. I was born in Waimea in the lee of the Kohala foothills—right here, right on this very spot—at latitude 20.04°N, longitude 155.71°W.

Hawai‘i is the alpha and omega of my walk on Earth, the point from which I will leap into the hereafter. This is where I signed my compact of friendship with God in preparation for the day when He calls the roll, puts a checkmark next to my name, and commands St. Peter when I come out of the tunnel of white light to give me the key to room 96743A of the Waimea Tower of his mansion in the sky.

For centuries, my family has been guardians of our ‘āina (land and nearshore waters). We are caretakers of the sacred lands of North Hawai‘i from ma uka (the uplands) to ma kai (the lowlands); from the snowcapped summit of Mauna Kea (White Mountain), where Hawai‘i touches the heavens and kisses Makali‘i (the Pleiades), to the emerald green slopes of the Kohala mountains; from the affluent Waimea plains to the sweet clear waters of ‘Ōuli to the windswept savannah of Waikoloa and the sandy shores of Kauna‘oa Bay, where the sky, earth, and sea meet and the vast Pacific Ocean caresses our archipelago. We are protectors of the water we drink, the lands we farm, the forests we steward, the air we breathe, the ocean we fish, and the people we serve.

Like our indigenous brethren around the world, we believe all of planet Earth is holy ground; by consensus, we concur there are many levels of sacredness. We agree and accept the principle that certain places are more sacred than others.

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One such place is here at ‘Āina Momona (Land of Great Bounty), the estate of one of my ancestors that was built in the nineteenth century around a preexisting burial site. The graves were left untouched, and the site was designated as our family cemetery. The number of graves has grown over the years, while the dwellings that were erected have been, for the most part, deserted by the living and occupied by ghosts.

Renamed Lindsey Heaven, though by who and exactly when remains a family mystery, it is my pu‘uhonua (safe haven), where I retreat to escape the busyness of the world and reboot my inner spirit, ponder thoughts both big and small, and seek the hushed wisdom of my kūpuna (ancestors) who are buried here.

Situated in the shadow of Pu‘u Hōkū‘ula (Red Star Hill), three miles south of Junction 250 off Route 19 at the end of a private dead-end road christened Canterbury Lane, Lindsey Heaven encompasses two hundred acres, hidden from the world by a thick wall of ironwoods, loblollies, Norfolk Island pines, cypresses, and creeping ivy.

It’s a place where for millennia, in the months from October to April, hundreds of golden plovers have been coming to escape the bitter cold of Siberia and western Alaska, and where a countless number of mynah birds, after a day of scrounging for bugs and gathering seeds, return to roost at dusk.

It’s our crow’s nest, where each November we gather to watch convoys of Humpbacks dance their way along the west coast through the ‘Alenuihāhā Channel. Their destination is the warm waters of west Maui, where they will bear their young and convalesce from the birthing process before returning to their Arctic homeland in the spring, annual rituals these cetaceans have been performing for eons.

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Canterbury Lane is the only way in and the only way out of Lindsey Heaven. The decision for this strategic design was made a century ago by its architect and builder, our family benefactor, James Kingston Lindsey.

James Kingston was my great-uncle, an innovative, creative, and wealthy man I’ve come to respect and admire by reading through the many letters, journals, and diaries he left behind, volume upon volume of personal and insightful history kept by a man gifted with a brilliant mind and a good heart. He lived a full life. He cared for future generations by paying it forward when he left to us his enduring legacy, Lindsey Heaven.

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At the end of Canterbury Lane, a weathered sign dangles from four rusty chains fastened to an eight-by-eight-by-twenty-foot mesquite log mounted over a locked gate. It lets the curious know they’ve unwittingly stumbled upon the portal to Lindsey Heaven. Three smaller signs painted metallic red with bright yellow lettering, bolted onto the top plank of that sturdy gate, clearly and politely warn, Please Keep Out.

Most would-be trespassers take heed and drive away. But there is always the handful of risk takers who, like cats egged on by curiosity and the subtle challenge the signs inspire, choose to get out of their cars and hop the gate. For these, the temptation to see what’s on the other side is too powerful to resist. And though I know snooping and venturing into places where one is not welcome is a universal phenomenon—something that happens every day somewhere in the world—I’m bothered that there is always the minority who can be so damned disrespectful, nosey, and thoughtless, who have a need to break rules, live outside the box, and do things their own way.

I’ve confronted this sort of interloper many times in the past. On a few occasions, some have rudely said, What sign? I didn’t see a sign. What are you talking about?

With disgust, I’ve pointed out how not just one, but three signs, were blatantly snubbed and ignored on a padlocked gate. I’ve asked the invaders to turn around and leave, Now! Warned that they do not look back or risk being turned into a column of lava—my Hawaiian iteration of the Holy Bible’s Sodom and Gomorrah story. Most have turned about sheepishly and left the premises embarrassed, like dogs with their tails tucked tightly between their legs.

The other extreme are those who cuss and scream or moan and whine about being violated, who pull their rights card and the U.S. Constitution on me in defense of their inexcusable actions. It takes all kinds to make the world turn.

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Today, a deafening stillness hovers over Lindsey Heaven. It’s a blessing I revel in for it lets me know that no intruders have scaled the gate.

If there are any who have quietly done so, I imagine that once over, they take the sunny and meticulously laid-out, well-kept cobblestone pathway up a gentle incline; enter a dark tunnel carved through a thick web of tangled branches held up by a frame of mesquite logs and hog wire lashed together with yards and yards of ie‘ie vines; stand under a roof thatched with petrified pine needles, bird-droppings, and decaying leaves; use the dim light at the opposite end to guide on; and find themselves back under the sun in the lee of a massive bamboo patch.

In its shadow, they find a bronze statue of the matriarch of our family that was installed in 1949. With outstretched arms and open hands, she greets all who come with a warm smile. New York City has Lady Liberty to welcome the huddled masses to America’s eastern shore; we have Lady Emma Malia Lancaster Lindsey to welcome graciously all who enter Lindsey Heaven with or without invitation.

Encouraged by her, they follow a path of round, flat, muted-gray river stones hedged on either side by rosemary bushes to an overbuilt, eight-by-twenty-foot redwood bridge. Beneath it runs a stream named the Thames, in honor of the original, whose clear, cold waters begin at a higher elevation and, towed by gravity, eventually merge with the Pacific ten miles westward.

On they go through a grove of walnut, olive, lime, and orange trees, through the kiss me quick shrubs with their flowers that at night smell like jasmine, moving past where I recline in the shade of four towering magnolias. They move on into our family cemetery, where they find row upon row of perfectly aligned headstones, concrete tombs, crypts, and Hale Pule (House of Prayer), the chapel which was renamed St. James Cathedral by our family foundation. At its south wall, they pause as most all do, in front of the four-by-twelve-foot bronze scroll bolted there. They move on to where the Thames flows by the chapel and find the rock platform we call the Tomb of the Unknowns. They drink from the stream or from one of four meticulously crafted, twenty-foot deep water wells located in the four corners of the property. At the very core of the cemetery, they see five large, mushroom-shaped earthen mounds carpeted with a silky green, spongy mat of Bermuda grass, each with a white cross planted at their epicenters.

No matter the direction in which they turn to look, the views are strikingly beautiful, stunning, breathtaking.

But the truly nīele (inquisitive), who perhaps like to think of themselves as adventurous, move on to the other constructs that grace our land: Hale Aloha (House of Warm Feelings), my great-uncle’s Victorian cottage; a semi-circular amphitheater carved into the ground; eight identical gazebos set in various places around the property; and four sheep paddocks.

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Yes, today is indeed a beautiful January day.

On days such as this, those who dare to enter Lindsey Heaven walk into a time space where nature’s power, majesty, and beauty come together as one, fondling the human spirit in a way that is dynamic and soothing. In it, one can find that special peace that transcends all understanding.¹

CHAPTER ONE

John Ikaika Jr., how many souls reside in Lindsey Heaven? The question always comes—one I’ve been asked so many times. The answer, two thousand two hundred, flashes through my mind and quickly rolls from my tongue like rainwater spilling off a rooftop on a stormy day.

When the epidemics of the late 1700s and 1800s swept across the Hawaiian archipelago, murdering thousands upon thousands of our people, the maka‘āinana (commoners) of our region, I’ve been told, were buried in circular-shaped pits on the south slope of Hōkū‘ula Hill. These pits were the remnants of several small craters that came into existence when the largest and youngest of the Hawaiian Islands, Hawai‘i Island, was being formed.

We were governed by a strict caste system in that bygone time. The ali‘i (rulers, chiefs) were buried in secret spaces or special places under protocols and practices reserved for them, the elite of our society. The commoners of our village were interred with great care here at Lindsey Heaven, which was then known as ‘Āina Momona.

They were wrapped in tapa (mulberry) cloth and stacked three or five high, depending on the breadth and depth of the craters. A mixture of dirt and cinder, which was passed hand to hand in baskets by men and boys forming a human chain, was spread over the remains the way one frosts a cake. The result was perfectly shaped earthen mounds, the tops of which resembled the canopies of flying saucers from a distant galaxy, or the crowns of toadstools growing along a country road. This burial practice was the most efficient way to bury our dead en masse as we sent them into pō, our version of the afterlife.

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Our tradition was still an oral one.

We were transitioning from a culture of fiber, stone, and rule by man to a culture of iron, guns, and rule by law. The pen, pencil, paper, printing press, and abacus as technologies were as foreign to us as the diseases that were killing us.

What remained of our population after the angel of death swept through our islands and villages, pouring syphilis, measles, typhus, cholera, small pox, and leprosy from his pitcher of mass destruction upon the land and its people, is equivalent to a Shakespearean tragedy, a tearjerker of a story I will save for telling another time.

No one kept an exact census of the number of Hawaiians who died; that was not important. What mattered was that the dead were buried timely and with the utmost dignity and that they found their way readily to pō, the underworld of eternal darkness.

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The traditional prayers and ancient remedies used for centuries by our kahuna (priests) to heal the afflicted did not work on these modern maladies. Having no immunity to the infectious germs brought by haole (foreigners), starting with syphilis in 1778 with explorer Captain James Cook and the crews of the ships HMS Resolution and Discovery, many Hawaiians died believing they were cursed for angering the gods in ways they were not sure about. The number of those who perished is staggering. It’s a miracle that we of the Hawaiian race were not scrubbed off the face of this earth, let alone from these islands, our homeland for centuries.

The minister of health’s rule-of-thumb formula for measuring the decline wrought by these epidemics was ninety-ten; that is, 90 percent of our people died across time and only 10 percent survived—10 percent, mind you. Our village census was two thousand, more or less. Based on this formula, only two hundred—just two hundred—survived the pestilence that came through our neck of the Hawaiian Kingdom.

The one thousand eight hundred who succumbed were buried in these mounds, in the quiet and calm of ‘Āina Momona. The dead were interred at five different times in the years that