Remember Kalapana

By Robert G. Roosen

Memoirs of life in Hawaii from an astronomer turned anthropologist and astrologer.... Doctor Robert Roosen served as a systems engineer for the International Business Machines Corporation, an observatory director for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, a problem solver for the Atomic Energy Commission and a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency before he finally learned how to mind his own business. His career has contained a series of new beginnings.... When Kilauea Volcano began the longest series of eruptions in recorded history, he was sitting in his easy chair watching the hillside from his home in the Royal Gardens Subdivision near the town of Kalapana on Hawaii's Big Island.... He was the first person on the scene to be interviewed by news crews from CBS and ABC television, and convinced them to change the emphasis of their reporting from "people frightened by the catastrophe" to "a celebration of the manifestation of Madame Pele'."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257198122

Book preview

Chapter 1: Learning How to Cook

Who and what that is now part of my life can I count on having around ten years from now?

That’s the question I asked myself when I got divorced in the Summer of 1976.

The answer: myself. No one and nothing else.

My life and career were no longer advancing. Now I was into surviving.

I raised this question when I visited my brother John in Minnesota. He flew two hundred missions over Viet Nam as a naval aviator.

I figured he should know how to survive.

He showed me his collection of guns, reloading equipment, stores of powder and lead for casting bullets.

I’ve got half a year’s supply of food and a secure source of water, he told me. We can hold out here forever.

Mike has a rifle in his room at the top of the stairs. He can pick them off before they even get to my women.

At first I was impressed. Then I started to wonder:

This guy flies planes for a living, I thought. He spends more than half his time away from home. In case of a disaster, he’s ust as likely to find himself defending a motel room.

John also had a problem with carpal tunnel syndrome. Both hands were so numb and paralyzed that he could barely pick up the bullets to load his gun. His pain level was high, and he was snapping at his family.

I had a doctor friend line him up with the best available surgeon. Then I went home to Albuquerque.

That kind of survivalism was not for me.

For the next few years, I raised my question with dozens of people. Most of them told me about karate, ju jitsu, kung fu and so on. That did not impress me.

I learned how to do that kind of stuff in the streets and alleys of Chicago before I was six years old. I knew that even the best hand-to-hand fighter can be taken by surprise or betrayal.

I finally got my answer while standing in line at Jimbo’s Health Food Store in North Park.

I was talking with the man next to me in line. I mentioned my concern with survival.

Oh, yes, he replied. I’m really interested in that. So, I’m improving my poker game — and I’m learning how to cook.

He was right. Survival is a group experience.

Chapter 2: The Seven Rays

What we study here is, the Seven Rays.

John Raifsnider was explaining the basis of the Infinity School of Astrology.

He and his colleague, James Davis, were students and teachers of Esoteric astrology and cosmology.

To be more precise, they were working with a set of books written by Alice Bailey.

These books were dictated to her telepathically.

There were almost two dozen books, written over a period of thirty years.

Only one of them dealt directly with astrology.

The rest covered other aspects of Esoteric psychology and philosophy.

These writings were considered esoteric because the basic definitions of concepts like force, energy, life and form were not the same as those used in everyday life.

The books were meant to guide students into an understanding of the subtle world, which lies beneath the world of phenomena, glamour and illusions that most people perceive as the real world.

The entire universe is made up of Seven Rays, John continued.

In our solar system, planets provide bodies for their manifestation.

Already my head was swimming.

This was not going to be as easy as I had hoped.

While I was living in Albuquerque, I had my horoscope cast. Then I learned a few things about the four elements, planets and signs. I was still trying to comprehend the meanings of cardinal, fixed and mutable.

Now I was being told that was all trivial stuff.

These men had a fundamentally different view of our cosmos.

I reached for a cigarette.

Do you mind if I smoke? I asked automatically.

They looked at me strangely.

Yes, they said in unison.

I put the pack back in my pocket. This WAS going to be difficult.

Look, I told them. I came to see you because of the experiment you did out at San Diego State University.

That didn’t work out very well, John admitted.

I know that, I replied.

As I understand it, you made up personality descriptions for each student in one of the classes. Then you asked them to identify themselves.

Yes, that’s right, said James.

The problem with that approach is it required self-awareness on the part of the subjects, I told them.

If you want to be successful, you’ll have to use more objective criteria.

Like what? James inquired.

I don’t know. I thought for awhile.

Something to do with physical appearance, I suggested. Like height or weight or hair color — or body type.

They looked skeptical.

I didn’t come to see you because your experiment was successful or unsuccessful, I told them. I came because you were willing to TRY. That means you have something you think works.

Oh, we do, they assured me smilingly.

Suddenly I noticed the calm, peaceful atmosphere surrounding me. It was a relief from the hectic environment I was used to.

Perhaps we could demonstrate how the Rays manifest differently in different physical vehicles, James suggested tentatively.

You mean bodies? I asked.

Yes, said James.

Each ray manifests through a triangle of three astrological signs, he explained.

In principle, there should be a correlation between the signs and the energies they are channeling onto the physical plane.

I was getting lost again.

Also, I badly needed to smoke a cigarette.

Why don’t you give me some basic reading material, and I’ll come see you again next Saturday.

They gave me a couple of reprints and sold me some books.

As I went to leave, my curiosity expressed itself.

What about me? What rays do you think I have?

They looked at me for a bit.

Five, James announced. You’re very scientific.

Three, also, John added. The three gives a lift to the five.

James agreed.

I took my books and headed out the door.

I had a lot of homework ahead of me.

Chapter 3: I Can Hear People’s Thoughts

I’m a poet.

Tom the maintenance man from across the street was telling me about his life.

The problem is, I’m always getting distracted.

Why is that? I asked him.

I think I can hear people’s thoughts.

Really? Telepathy was only a theory to me.

Can you hear everybody? All the time?

No. He seemed relieved. Just some people. Occasionally.

My offer came out without thinking:

I have just what you need.

What’s that?

An isolation tank.

I told him about floating in darkness in skin temperature water. He liked the idea. He came by next day to try it out.

Stay in as long as you want, I told him.

He was in the tank for about an hour.

He did not say much about his experience that time. He did come back again a week later. Once more I told him to take all the time he needed.

Fifty minutes later, I remembered an appointment at San Diego State U. I decided to tell him to get out. Just before I reached the door, I thought, Not yet. Let him stay in a little longer.

I fooled around in the kitchen for another five minutes. Then I decided I would have to tell him. As I opened the door to the bedroom, I saw the hatch to the tank opening.

Oops, excuse me, I muttered and closed the door.

After he showered and dressed, he came out into the living room.

Tell me something, he asked. About five minutes before you came in, were you thinking that I should get out of the tank?

Yes, I was, I replied. I was going to tell you I had to leave. Then, just as I got to the door, I changed my mind."

Oh, said Tom. "Here’s what happened: I was floating in there and was pretty well relaxed. Then I started to get the feeling that I should get out. I sat up and went to open the hatch. Then the feeling went away. So I lay back down and floated some more.

About five minutes later I got the feeling again. It was very strong. Just as I was coming out, you opened the door.

I was in a hurry to leave, so I was not paying much attention to him. Then he said:

I guess it’s true. I can pick up thoughts.

I said goodbye, showed him out and hurried off to the University.

I never saw Tom again.

Chapter 4: Getting Quiet

Dan was a Professor of Mathematics at San Diego State University. He lived down the hall from me. I would never have met him, except that John Schopp, an Astronomy Professor at State, introduced us.

I really like living here, Dan told me.

Nobody knocks on the door.

Indeed, in two years of living there, I did not have more than two unannounced visitors.

So Dan was pretty much of an unknown to me when he said,

Don’t be offended if you see me and I don’t talk to you. I’ve decided to spend my Summer vacation getting quiet.

What do you mean? I asked.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to talk to people, listen to them and get involved in what they’re doing. Now for the first time I have three months to myself. I don’t have to do anything for anybody else. So I’m going to use the time to see what it’s like being really quiet.

I saw Dan again two and a half months later. He came by my apartment and knocked on my door.

I have something I want to tell you about, he announced.

I invited him in. He stood just inside the door.

You know I told you I was working on being quiet.

I nodded.

I mainly just stay around the building here. Twice a day I stand by that big pine tree behind the swimming pool. Last week I thought it said something to me. I wasn’t really sure.

He looked down.

What did it say?

It said, ‘Hello’.

"That makes sense. So what did you say to it?"

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure it was really talking to me.

How do you feel about that now?

It talked to me again this morning.

What did it say?

It said, ‘Stand up straight’.

That made sense to me, too.

I guess that’s the sort of thing I’d expect a tree to be interested in, I remarked.

Dan opened the door and started to leave.

I just wanted to tell you about this. Please don’t tell anybody else. I don’t want to have any trouble at work.

I assured him that I would respect his confidence.

Let me know how this turns out, I told him.

He looked sad. The semester is starting soon. I’m going to have to terminate my experiment.

That made the most sense of all.

Chapter 5: Everything Else

"Here’s how one culture looks at it:

"There’s the tonal and the nagual.

"The tonal is everything.

"Everything you see, everything you hear, everything you touch, everything you taste, everything you smell, everything there is, everything there was, everything there will be.

"And the nagual is...everything else.

The idea is that the nagual keeps seeping through into the tonal.

Dr. Philip Staniford, Professor of Anthropology at San Diego State University, was explaining cosmologies to me.

As an astronomer, I had been taught that cosmology was the study of the nature of the universe. Now I was learning that each culture had its own viewpoint. There were thousands of separate cosmologies on planet Earth — maybe millions. These cosmologies are often referred to as myths, legends and superstitions.

My astrologer friends had brought Philip to my attention. John Raifsnider showed me an advertisement for a book about psychic archaeology. The author used psychometry and clairvoyance to predict what he would find when he excavated a site. The ad quoted high praise for the book from Philip.

I called him on the telephone.

Do you really believe in that stuff? I asked him.

Of course, he affirmed. It’s a very important part of life.

I’ve got to come see you, I decided.

Okay, he agreed. I’m going to be busy for the next six weeks. Give me a call around the middle of August. We’ll get together then.

I did as he told me. When I arrived at his house, he and his wife, Jenice were in the living room. They were wearing short robes. They both greeted me with hugs.

Jenice had just completed her Master’s thesis. The subject was her overwhelming love for Philip. They made a good team. He was sort of flaky. She was down-to-Earth.

It was not long before we adjourned to their back yard and slipped into the hot tub. Although we were all naked, there was not any hanky panky. Just good companionship.

I’m really excited about this Esoteric Astrology, I told them. It explains a lot of things. It’s a system that really works.

Philip looked at me shrewdly.

I’m going to teach you what really works, he told me.

I was taken by surprise.

What’s that? I asked.

Different systems.

Then he explained to me about the tonal and the nagual.

Philip was a rifleman in the Korean War. He had lived in Japan and Brazil and Hawaii. He had traveled extensively. He spoke several languages fluently. He was a founder of PHOENIX, a journal that discussed various sets of beliefs — some of which had existed for thousands of years.

He was a man of the world. He was also used to being around people who were not playing with a full deck. Just as desert tribes gather around oases, people gather around dogmas.

John Lilly called such groupings consensus realities.

Southern Californians called them cults.

Philosophers called them civilizations.

Philip Staniford called them different systems.

In their own limited circumstances, places and times, each of them worked — until it failed.

Some worked by enslaving other races, sexes or age groups. Some enshrined certain plants or animals. Some destroyed certain plants or animals. Some relied on telepathy and clairvoyance. Some denied such powers existed.

Philip’s approach was adding new meaning to an old word:

Shamanism.

To Philip, a shaman was not just a medicine man or priest who communed with good and evil spirits. His shamanism gathered all knowledge from all cultures and used it to advance humanity.

My first lesson was not long in coming. When we got into the hot tub, he had carefully taken my glasses and set them down on the railing behind him. When he got out of the tub, he sat on them by accident.

Years later, in Hawaii, I would learn that wearing glasses blocks off quite a bit of sensory input. In fact, since the invention of telescopes and microscopes, the cult called Western Civilization has developed a consensus reality called modern science, based mainly on what can be viewed with lenses and mirrors, and denying what we see with our own eyes.

Up to now, I had followed the teachings of that cult. I believed that basic truth was already known. Further knowledge could only be added by following the rules of discovery.

In the United States, this approach to reality had produced what we called The Military/Industrial Complex. American Indians knew it as The Great American Death Complex.

By breaking my glasses, Philip was forcing me away from my limited, isolated reality, and toward something based on more direct, universal perception.

At the time, all I felt was irritation. How could he be so stupid and clumsy? It took a while to realize that Philip was not really an ignorant bumbler. His mistakes were part of his teaching method.

I had a lot to learn.

Chapter 6: Hilf Mir

Hilf mir, bitte. Hilf mir.

A voice came from a third floor window.

It came again: Hilf mir. Someone was having a bad dream.

Isn’t that a shame, said E. He was such a brave man. He was in the Resistance.

I started to wake up and look around. I had not really been sleeping. Just not paying attention.

E and her husband B were my fellow tenants. I would sit with them by the swimming pool. They called me Doc. I liked that.

B liked to tell jokes and stories. One of his favorites was about a man walking down a street in Miami, Florida. Widows and divorcees were gathered around the bar on the second floor of the hotel across from him.

A woman comes out on the balcony and yells at him: ‘Mister. Yoo hoo, mister.’

He says, ‘Who? Me?’ B would point to his chest.

‘Yes, you,’ she yells back. ‘Tell me, are you married?’ He shook his head." B shook his head.

"‘He yells back, ‘No. I’m not married.’

‘"Wait there. I’ll be right down,’ she tells him.

"Pretty soon the woman comes running across the street — right in the middle of the block. She comes up to him and right away starts talking.

‘"Wait a minute. Wait a minute,’ the guy tells her. ‘Can I see your bankbook?

"My bankbook,’ says the woman. ‘Why do you want to see my bankbook?’

So the guy tells her: ‘You ask me, am I married? I ask you, can I see your bankbook?’

B would end his story then, while it was still a joke. In South Florida, old women outnumbered old men by about ten to one. A healthy single man was in a seller’s market.

After hearing this story half a dozen times, I finally realized B was trying to tell me something. I should enjoy my freedom. Freedom has value.

The voice cried out again: Hilf mir. Oh. Hilf mir.

They finally captured him, E told me. They tortured him badly.

I looked down. E’s small toes were bent up over the tops of her feet. Did somebody do that to your feet? I asked her.

No. I had no shoes. So I had to wrap my feet in rags while I was hiding. They never caught me.

She looked pensive. They caught the rest of my family. They killed them all. Father, mother, sisters, brother.

She looked away. My brother was such a beautiful person. So sweet....

I looked at other people around the apartment swimming pool. I thought about neighbors I had seen in halls; waiting for mail; going to their cars. I remembered that nobody knocked on anyone else’s door. I asked an obvious question.

Yes, E replied. Many of them were in the prison camps during the Holocaust. Now they are getting old. Their minds are full of pain.

The crying man was silent now. B put down his cigar.

She’s done some real good paintings, Doc. They’re on display at the Jewish Community Center. You should go see them. They’ll help you to understand.

I took B’s advice. I saw the paintings. I felt the suffering they portrayed. I understood — a little — about inhumanity.

It did not make me feel any better.

It did help me appreciate my freedom.

Chapter 7: Schizophrenia

In September, 1980, I spent a week on Big Island, looking for a house to rent. I found a place in Kalapana and flew back to San Diego to pack my belongings.

A man was waiting for me in the airport reception lounge. It was Al Swain, a top human factors psychologist. I had not seen him in three years — since I left Sandia Laboratories.

There you are, he announced.

Come over here. I have something to tell you.

We walked to an empty departure lounge and sat in two plastic chairs.

To me, Swain’s best piece of work was his improvement on the Yerkes-Dodson law. That law states that the ability to do a job increases with increasing stress — up to a point. After that, performance quality decreases as stress gets to be too much.

Swain’s contribution was to show that the curve had a tail at the high stress end. Even in the toughest conditions, most people could still keep going.

Today he had something else on his mind.

Remember the flight crew data? He asked.

Swain had studied incidents involving people who flew in airplanes. These incidents produced a wide range of stress.

At the low end of the scale was, Loss of visual contact with the ground — a common occurrence.

At the high end was, Loss of three engines on takeoff. He didn’t have much data in this range, since his work was based on interviews of survivors.

He didn’t wait for my answer.

"The conclusion was, ‘If an emergency situation arises, and an operator takes an incorrect action while trying to improve that situation, then.... if he has time to take another action, the odds are doubled that the second action will also be incorrect."’

He was talking about people who were frightened. Most people have a point at which they curl up in a ball and cry for their mothers. Swain had shown that, even if they kept working, their performance was suffering.

Now we’ve got some more, he announced. "We’ve been studying people in low stress situations.

"A shade tree mechanic is working on his car, say, tuning up the engine. He enjoys what he’s doing and there’s no pressure on him to finish the job. This is what we’ve found:

"If he makes an adjustment, and that adjustment is incorrect, then...when he gets around to making another adjustment, the odds are doubled that the second action will be correct!"

Swain looked at me and beamed proudly.

I was impressed.

That’s great, I told him. Lower stress leads to higher accuracy and a better chance of a successful conclusion to a project.

He nodded. Then he lost interest in me.

Well, see you later, he said, and he was gone

I got so involved in thinking about what Swain had told me that I forgot to ask myself the obvious question: Why was the H bomb factory’s top psychologist waiting to meet my plane? I had sworn off secret work when I resigned from that place. It would take me a while to realize that, even if I was through with them, they were not through with me.

As I drove back to my apartment, I thought about Sandia’s human factors psychology group. They had taught me a lot of practical things about humanity.

My mind drifted back to the day I asked Hank, one of Swain’s co-workers, the question that disturbed me the most.

How can so many of the people who work here claim to be good Christians, and then spend all their time figuring out better ways to kill other humans?

The answer came right back.

It’s easy. There’s a word for it.

I really wanted to know. So, I asked.

What word is that?

Schizophrenia.

I was shocked.

Then I remembered that this guy had a wild sense of humor.

I decided to tell him a joke.

I was looking at results of a recent mental health survey, I told him.

They found that one out of ten Americans is seriously disturbed.

He did not say anything.

This seemed like a high number. So, they did a follow-up survey.

I paused. He looked at me.

They found out, the reason that one out of ten Americans is seriously disturbed is...nine out of ten Americans are crazy.

I smiled.

He did not. He just kept looking at me.

Finally, he said, Well, see you later, and he left.

After he was gone, I thought it out. This man was an old timer. He had worked with people who developed bombs, gas and germs for most of his career.

The basis of American National Defense was a doctrine called MAD. Mutual Assured Destruction. Even though we knew we could not prevent an enemy from destroying us, we also knew that we could retaliate by destroying the enemy. I finally realized the truth. He was not joking.

Kalapana Diary Part 1

Chapter 1: Can You Help Me?

I was in a hurry. The Sun had set. Twilight was fading fast. I turned my rented car off Government Road. The rutted track next to Painted Church led me to the beach by the old Canoe Landing.

I had come to meet some people in a van. It was not there. I looked at some tire tracks running along the black sand. They disappeared around a curve in the beach — heading toward the Cave of Refuge.

Maybe they drove over there, I thought.

I pulled my car onto the beach and started along the sand. Within thirty feet I knew I was in trouble. My wheels were sinking into the sand. I stopped the car. Then I overcame the urge to blame myself for making a dumb move. I was looking for adventure. Here was a chance.

I got out of the car and looked around. Several groups of people were using the beach. All of them were ignoring me.

Only one of the groups contained Hawaiians. Three of them were sitting at a table under a stately ironwood tree. A gasoline lantern illuminated a meal of freshly cooked fish laid out on ti leaves. A half case of Budweiser beer in cans completed their dinner.

I walked over to their table. They stopped talking and looked at me. It was obvious that they did not appreciate the interruption.

Excuse me, I told them. I just made a mistake and got my car stuck in the sand. Can you help me?

They looked at my car and me for a few seconds. Then they glanced at each other. Okay, one of them responded. They got up from the table. I hurried ahead of them toward the car.

The spokesman was looking at the other groups on the beach. Most of them were haoles, like myself. Why did you ask us? he inquired.

My response came without thinking:

It felt like the thing to do.

When we got to the car, they told me to get in, start the engine, put the gearshift into reverse and wait for them to give the word. Then back out slowly.

I followed instructions. They began to rock my car. It felt like a boat on the ocean.

Okay. Now!

I took my foot off the brake and stepped lightly on the gas pedal. My car rolled smoothly, back onto the hard packed road.

Thank you, I called out happily. They did not say anything more. They walked back to their table, sat down, and continued with their meal.

Chapter 2: I Know You Know!

On October first, 1980, I came to live in a rented house in Kalapana. My household goods arrived from the Mainland a month later. I unpacked my bicycle and rode down the coast to Puu Loa. Then I started back. I stopped off at Kamoamoa. There I found a small altar with a poem about the coconut tree.

This is a good chance to start spreading my energy, I thought. I sat down on the altar and began to meditate.

My next thought was, Get off of there. I did. Then I knelt down in front of it and apologized.

My next stop was Wahaula Heiau. There I found some ladies who were also members of the local community. Helen Lee Hong and Lei Pavao were regular Park Service employees. Minnie Kaawaloa and Faye were temporary cultural interpreters.

"What happened to the people here? I asked Faye.

In 1868 there was a big earthquake and tidal wave here, she told me. Everything was destroyed. Some people were killed. The rest left.

I found out later that the earthquake had raised ground waves two feet high at Kohala in the northern part of the island. The epicenter was in the ocean just off the Puna coast. Thus the tidal wave arrived soon after the earthquake. It came in above the tops of the palm trees, giving it a minimum height of sixty to eighty feet. One of the last refuges for the old Hawaiian ways of life was destroyed.

How did they live here? I asked.

They did fishing.... and farming.... and trading.

I stood there for awhile and thought about a community that did not use money. How would they transfer power between themselves? Without money, knowledge would become a major source of power. Perhaps the entity I talked to at Puu Loa was connected with such a power source. The psychic component of their reality system may have been the source of their power.

I looked at Faye and asked, What else did they have here?

She glanced at me. Then she gave a bright, sparkling, Hawaiian laugh. I know you know!

Just then the tourists started to get quiet. Helen Lee Hong was getting ready to tell them a story.

It was the story of Kehele — the traveler.

Kehele was the son of the high priest of the district of Ka’u. He was a bright, friendly young man. His father made sure he got the best possible education. He studied boxing, wrestling, spear throwing and other arts of war. He learned poetry, courtship and amorous arts. He took lessons in consideration and respect. He was very popular.

One day Kehele and his father were wrestling. For the first time, Kehele scored a victory. I’m better than the top Kahuna! he exulted. Kehele, said his father, It’s time for you to take a trip around the island. You need to learn the things that I can’t teach you.

Kehele traveled north through the Kona District. When he got to Waipio Valley, home of many ancient kings, he stayed for a long time. Years passed. Then he started dreaming that he should return to Ka’u and visit his parents before they died. He continued along the Hamakua coast and down through the Hilo District.

He entered the Puna District and headed for the coast. As he came over the hill, he saw the ocean. He also saw smoke rising from Wahaula Heiau. Being a young man, new to the area and unfamiliar with the local customs, Kehele went to investigate. As he approached the Heiau, the smoke dipped down and touched him. According to the local rules, this meant that he was kapu (unclean). Seeing this, the Mo’o (thought police) killed him.

The flesh was stripped from his bones. Then his bones were wrapped in Kapa cloth and placed in the southwest corner of the Heiau.

Kehele’s spirit traveled to Ka’u to talk to his father. The message was, Dad, come and get my bones. I don’t want them to be used for evil purposes.

It took three days for his father to reach the Heiau. He arrived early in the morning. All the Kahunas were still asleep. He sneaked into the heiau, recovered his son’s bones and in the next instant was headed back down the trail to Ka’u.

I don’t know what the tourists thought of that story. As for me, being a young man, new to the area and unfamiliar with the local customs, it was a good lesson. Right then I chose the word which would be the central guidepost for my life in Kalapana — caution.

Chapter 3: They’ll Kill Us

If they find out what we’re doing, they’ll kill us.

Pete Kelley was talking story. In two months as my next door neighbor, he had already told me more stories than I could count. Whenever I went over to see him, he would start talking. He wouldn’t stop until I left. No matter what I said, he just kept talking.

Finally, my landlord figured him out.

Pete doesn’t pay any attention to what you say. He responds to what you’re thinking. All you have to do is think about a subject, and he will start telling stories that express his point of view.

I tried it. It worked. In fact, it worked so well that I seldom tried to talk to Pete anymore. I just thought and listened.

Today I was thinking about the voice at Puu Loa. I was keen to start solving its problem. Pete started talking about 1946.

"When World War Two ended, there was no more work for me in the shipyards. I opened a garage in a small town in Maine. I didn’t know anyone in town except for one old man. He used to sit by my stove and talk to me.

"One day this feller came in with a beat-up old car. He wanted me to replace the generator. I told him, ‘Mister, this car really isn’t worth fixing.’

‘It’s got to be fixed,’ came the reply. ‘My wife is sickly, and I’ve got to have transportation for her and the kids. I can’t afford another car.’

Pete agreed to do the work. When he walked back into his garage, the old man was laughing. Pete asked him what was so funny.

That man and his friends have ruined every mechanic within twenty miles. They take a junky old car and get a bunch of new parts installed on it. That comes out of the repairman’s pocket. Then they come around and tell him that they don’t have any money to pay for the repairs. They offer five dollars down and five dollars a week. Then they take the car, sell the new parts and never pay another dime.

Sure enough, Pete’s customer came back in a few days and was so pleased with the generator that he asked for a new battery and a new set of tires.

Pete told him, Okay.

The old man kept on laughing.

The next day the man arrived at Pete’s garage and got into his car.

Then he got out and came into the office.

Where are my car keys? he demanded.

They’re in the safe, Pete replied.

Why is that?

You owe me money for fixing your car.

Right away the man started a long story about his poor, sick wife and his poor, sick kids.

Then he said, I’ll give you five dollars down and five dollars a week."

No, Pete told him.

The keys stay in the safe until the bill is paid in full. We agreed on cash, and that’s what I want.

The man grumbled for awhile. Then he left. Next day, another man came to see Pete. He started telling Pete that, since he was new in town, he probably didn’t realize what an important citizen his customer was. If Pete wanted to be welcome in town, he should show more respect and consideration to such customers.

Mister, Pete told him, I never saw you before, and I never want to see you again. Now get out of my shop before I take a swing at you with this wrench.

That afternoon the car’s owner came by and paid the bill — in cash. The old man had another good laugh.

Within a year, Pete gave up his business.

Boy, that was a rough town, he reminisced...

On a trip to Maine in 1971, I had noticed that some of the locals were determined to make the landscape as ugly as possible. They seemed to be continually throwing litter out of their cars, aiming to mess up the most scenic spots. Now I was being warned that some of the Kalapana locals were the same sort of people.

When I first met him, Pete had lived in Kalapana for sixteen years.

Why do you stay here? I thought.

He started another story.

You see these coconut trees?

The border of his yard was lined with beautiful forty-foot palms.

"The Hawaiians planted them.

"When I first came here, I used to walk past Helen and Peter Lee Hong’s house by Kaimu Black Sand Beach. One evening, I noticed that their generator wasn’t running. I went in and offered to fix it. The fuel filter was clogged with rust. I cleaned it, started the generator and left.

"A few days later I noticed that their generator was not running. I stopped in and offered to fix it again. The fuel filter was clogged with rust. I cleaned it. Then I looked at their gas can. It was old and rusty.

"‘You need a new gas can,’ I told them. ‘Otherwise you’ll keep on having this problem.’ They told me that they couldn’t afford a new gas can. They would have to make do with the old one.

"I must have cleaned that generator half a dozen times. Finally, Helen asked me, ‘Pete, why do you keep coming over to fix this thing? You can see that it doesn’t do any good.’

"I looked at her and said, ‘I just want to help.’ She thought for a while. Then she said, ‘We’re going to adopt you. You’re a Hawaiian now.’

Up to then the locals had ignored me. After that, they all waved and said, ‘Hello.’ From the very next day. All over the island.

Pete’s father left before Pete was born, and his mother hadn’t been much use to him. I could see that he took his adoption seriously. He urged me to work with him and put our hearts together to help the Hawaiians.

Then he told me another story. From his days in the army in the 1920s. He was stationed on Oahu and served as the Diamond Head Lookout.

"One of the fellows in our outfit was a crackerjack gambler. Every Saturday night he’d go downtown Honolulu and play poker. He always wore civilian clothes. Nobody that he played with knew he was a soldier. Each time he took a different man from our barracks. He guaranteed a minimum profit of one hundred dollars.

"‘This system works every time,’ he would tell each man.

"‘But there’s one thing you must never forget.’

‘If they find out what we’re doing, they’ll kill us.’

I shook Pete’s hand.

Then I gave him a hug.

Sounds like fun to me, I told him.

You can count me in.

Chapter 4: The Heiau

[This chapter contains my early speculations about the heiau. Some of them do not agree with other people’s stories.]

Wahaula. Bloody Red Mouth.

That’s what the United States National Park Service calls it.

They own it now.

They have the power to use that name.

They emphasize the time of Kehele, when humans were killed there.

I prefer its original name. Ahu La. Temple of the Sun.

That’s what Pa’ao called it.

Pa’ao was a kahuna who lived in Upolu, Samoa, some time in the eleventh century. One day, his elder brother accused Pa’ao’s eldest son of stealing and eating a mango from the brother’s orchard. To settle the question, Pa’ao surgically opened the boy’s stomach. No mango was found. The accusation was proven false. The boy died.

Pa’ao won the argument — at the cost of his son’s life.

Typical of family disputes, the lie was told about Pa’ao’s favorite person. He decided that he did not want to live around the people who caused his grief.

He made his plans. Then he got his double-hulled canoe ready. One evening, his brother’s son came down to the shore to watch the preparations. Pa’ao grabbed him, killed him and buried the body under the prow of his canoe, so that it would be revealed upon his departure.

Early the next morning, he left. Some of the kahunas who wanted to go with him were gathered on a nearby cliff. If you want to come with me, you will have to fly to the ship! he called to them. A few flew to the ship. Some tried, fell into the ocean and drowned. The rest were left to the mercy of his brother.

Pa’ao came to Big Island. He landed on the Puna coast and established himself near Kalapana. He helped overthrow the existing king and brought in a prince from Samoa to be ruler.

Pa’ao caused Wah Ahu La Heiau to be built. It was more than just a place for worshiping spirits. It was a center for healing arts.

Some of his strength came from the idols he brought along. Most of it came from the kapus he observed. In psychic terms, Puna is one of the cleanest places in the world. By carefully avoiding contamination and steadily eliminating unhealthy energies, Pa’ao was able to cleanse Pa’aos environment. Just as birds fly to a sanctuary, Pa’aos school became a refuge and place of strength for Hawaii’s most sensitive entities.

He developed methods of approach and contact with the menehunes and with other intelligent species living on, in, and near the Earth. Some of his ceremonies required absolute purity of mind, heart and body as well as absolute silence from ocean, wind, plants, animals and people — for hours at a time. He took full advantage of his opportunity and carried out some wonderful works.

Then he went back to Samoa. He settled his family dispute and lived there for the rest of his life.

Since then, Pa’ao’s heiau has been totally destroyed and rebuilt seven times. The last time it was rebuilt, it was used as a trap for people like Kehele. Another valuable and respected institution had become a base of operation for murderers and thieves.

Or, to be more correct, Pa’ao’s creation had fallen into the hands of people who lacked his skill. Thus surgery became butchery.

During my last stay on the Mainland, I had a part time clinic nurse who stabbed me in both arms with a rather large needle, then said, I never was good at drawing blood, and turned the job over to one of the clinic’s regular workers, who did the job in less than one minute.

Ahu La was a very famous place. Even with Pa’ao gone, people went there for healing. At some point, the kahunas who were left lost the ability to do their jobs. They could do some other marketable rituals.

For instance, rapid healing includes a ritual that dissolves the part of the body to be healed down to the level of its etheric double. The etheric template is copied, and a healthy body part is rebuilt in material substance. If dissolving is done without healing and rebuilding, the body malfunctions. For instance, a small part of the wall in an artery of the patient’s brain can be dissolved, resulting in a cerebral hemorrhage, or stroke.

Since this work can be done telepathically, the kahuna can kill at a distance.

If his client wants the patient dead, healing becomes murder.

I had come to one of the holiest places in Hawaii.

I had not come at one of its holiest times.

Chapter 5: A Tough Problem

One day I woke up feeling lonely and horny.

Why don’t you go down to the beach and look for a friendly tourist lady? I asked myself.

You’ve got a nice house here. You can invite her home, and who knows what might happen? I fantasized.

I drove to the Kalapana Store and bought a large bottle of beer. Then I walked over to Canoe Landing and sat on the black sand.

The beach was almost empty. A few local ladies were watching their children play in the keiki pond. I would later discover that tourists seldom visited this beach.

I sat for a while, drinking my beer and watching waves wash over the rock formation at the base of the old canoe landing site.

It looked to me like a man lying on his back with his head out to sea. This was Kalapana, after whom the town was named.

The legend was that he angered Madame Pele one day. So, she chased him into the ocean and turned him to stone.

After awhile, a little dog came walking along the beach from the direction of Painted Church. A much larger dog was following close behind her.

She came on until she was about twenty feet away, directly between me and Kalapana. Then she stopped and looked over at me.

The big dog climbed up on her hind quarters and tried to hump her.

Just as he was about to succeed, she started walking again — heading along the beach toward the cliff that contained the local Cave of Refuge.

She couldn’t actually go that far. A small body of water blocked the way.

That was all dry when you came here in 1973, I told myself.

The 1978 earthquake really lowered the coastline along here. Look at all those palm trees that died when their roots were flooded.

The little dog walked about a hundred yards. Then she stopped and stood at the water’s edge.

Again, the big dig climbed on her and started to hump. After two or three strokes, she turned and started slowly back along the beach.

The big dog patiently followed.

When she got opposite me, she stopped. As the big dog went at her again, she turned her head and looked directly at me.

Suddenly, I remembered Iben Browning telling me about a classic problem in espionage:

"You’re waiting at the border for an agent who is coming across with some valuable information. Suddenly, he comes into sight — running across no-man’s land. Then you see a pack of dogs chasing him.

It is certain that, if you don’t do something, the dogs will kill him before he can get across.

Shoot the dogs, I suggested.

That’s not allowed, Iben told me.

"Also, you are not allowed to go across and help him."

Sounds like a tough problem, I concluded.

How would you solve it?

Iben paused. I started to realize that this was not just a theoretical exercise.

"One possibility is to get a female dog in heat and run her across the agent’s path. That might distract the other dogs long enough for him to escape."

The little dog started walking along the beach again. She passed out of sight behind Painted Church, with the big dog right behind her.

That was enough for me. I finished my beer and threw the bottle in the trash can. Then I went back to my car and drove home — alone.

Later, I would learn that Madame Pele usually appeared in one of three ways — an old woman — a young women — or a dog.

Although I know what the big dog was after, I often wonder what was guiding the little one.

Chapter 6: The Changes Don’t Stop Coming

When the bomb exploded, I was killed instantly.

Dennis Stout was telling me about Viet Nam. Rockets attacked his base. When it was over, Dennis went out with his camera to photograph damage. Then the base was attacked again. Dennis jumped into a small bunker. After a few minutes, the ammunition dump blew up. There was a loud thud outside the door of the bunker. Looking out through a slit, Dennis saw a one thousand pound bomb.

It was smoking.

He crawled to the back of the bunker and covered himself with sandbags.

Then he waited to die. It took about five minutes.

"When the bomb exploded, I was killed instantly by the shock. Two luminous beings came to me and talked to me. They told me that I was dead and that I had a choice. I could stay dead and pass on to my next set of realities, or I could continue my life on Earth. Then they reviewed my life file for me and pointed out some mistakes I had made. They told me what I could do in the future to correct those mistakes. I decided to keep on living, and they brought me back to life.

I came out of that bunker with two ruptured ear drums.

When Dennis got out of the army, he went to Washington, DC and started showing pictures to congressmen. The pictures were photographs of Vietnamese civilians killed by American troops.

Dennis had photographic evidence of ten massacres, each with more dead bodies than the My Lai event.

"People in public office didn’t want to hear about it. One congressman said he might look into it. Then people who claimed to be agents of the United States Government warned me. They said I had better stop what I was doing or my life would be in danger.

"There may have been an attempt on my life.

"I decided to leave the country.

"I flew to Hawaii and applied for a passport.

Then I started thinking. My experience with Tiger Force in Viet Nam and Operation Phoenix on the Mainland had taught me that it’s easier to assassinate an American outside of the United States. A lot of countries go along with that approach. So I had my family join me and settled down on a farm up behind Pahoa.

He didn’t hear anything more for nearly a decade. Then one day Dr. Rene’ Racine, Director of the Canada, France, Hawaii telescope, came to see him. He told Dennis that he was representing the CIA. They wanted to know his intentions.

I told him that I wanted to live peacefully in Hawaii with my family and mind my own business.

It was Racine who started teaching Dennis about psychic phenomena. By the time I met Dennis in November, 1980, he was tuning in with some kahunas. He knew some pretty good tricks. When I told people that I wanted to develop my psychic skills, they told me to go see Dennis (If they said anything at all.)

Dennis suggested that I get in touch with my previous incarnations. His method involves sitting in a darkened room with a mirror about one foot in front of your face. Lighted candles are placed on either side of the mirror. A glass of water is left standing somewhere in the room.

Stare directly into the reflection of your eyes. Within fifteen to twenty seconds, your eyes will start to get tired and your vision will blur. Keep staring. You’ll start to see other faces in the mirror. They are the faces that you had during previous lives.

I tried it that night. I saw several different faces. Then I saw a group portrait of about thirty people in three rows. The king and queen were at the center of the group. The costumes were dark and severe, reminding me of the Knights Templar. I was standing second from the king, in the same row. Between the king and me stood a man that I did not recognize.

I didn’t recognize him because I hadn’t met him — yet. More than a year later we would come face to face for the first time in this life.

Dennis told me that, in the past decade or two, some of the Hawaiian Kahunas had opened their teaching to people of all races. It took ten years to become a kahuna. He was halfway through the course when I met him.

Dennis was great at meeting people fresh from the Mainland and helping them get settled. He ran a repair shop called Pahoa Appliance. It was a good front, giving him the opportunity to meet plenty of people

One day when I was feeling distressed about the direction my life seemed to be taking, Dennis summed up his view of the situation:

"There are a lot of good teachers here.

"They will help you out.

"The changes don’t stop coming.

But they get easier to take.

Chapter 7: Enjoy Your Fate

It was another beautiful day.

For the tenth time in a month, I had ridden my bicycle out Government Road, stripped to shorts and sandals, and walked the trail to Puu Loa.

I had gotten my usual chuckle from my favorite petroglyph. As one approached Puu Loa, it appeared to be a man with a very small head and a very large penis. Upon leaving, one saw a man with a very large head and a very small penis. I loved this place for such symbolic realities.

I sat down, relaxed and listened to the wind.

After a while, my eyes were drawn to the western side of the depression. The remains of a broken bottle were insulting my sense of beauty.

This glass has got to go! I told myself. I walked over and began to pick up pieces.

In a few minutes my left hand was full. I was determined to get it all. I juggled the fragments and kept picking up more.

Finally, I stood up.

My hands were cupped in front of me, filled with shards of glass. The Sun made them sparkle like diamonds.

I started back toward the trail to Government Road.

A balding, middle-aged man was coming the other way. He wore shoes and carried a camera. I nodded politely and started past him. He turned and spoke to me.

What have you got?

I stopped, turned around and held out my hands.

Glass, I told him.

Someone broke a bottle. I picked it up.

He looked at the glass. I listened to the silence.

This is a very special place, I said.

I can’t believe that some people don’t appreciate it.

There was another pause.

I know what you mean, he responded. The Russians don’t respect the Earth, either.

I had noticed his accent. Here was another clue.

Are you from Russia?

I am from New York City.

He paused.

I used to live in the Soviet Union.

He was