Spirit of Aloha | Features | July/August 2007

The Soul of Waikiki
By Benton Sen


That fundamental, spiritual sense of place

My parents once told me that for a man to know who he is, he must find out where he comes from. So here I am, in the Hawaiian section of the library, quite literally, turning back the pages of my past. In one of the books, there is a drawing of an old Hawaiian house, cir­ca 1900. As I look at the chimney, the bed­room shutters, the trees that tower overhead, I realize it is a drawing of our family home. An adviser to King Kamehameha had a granddaughter, and this was her house. In the drawing, the peri­meter of the front yard is the same as ours, the upstairs bedrooms identical. But, behind those bedroom windows, beneath the sketches of memory, I re­member what the artist forgot: a winding hallway and a flight of stairs that leads to an old attic.

Growing up in that house, I remember climbing those attic steps, rummaging around for snorkels and boogie­boards and opening cardboard boxes where childish thoughts had been pack­ed away. Then I came across a large pho­tograph my father had stored many years before. It was an old picture of Waikīkī Beach in a moment of solitude, barren and beautiful, before the arrival of hotels, ABC Stores and Starbuck’s lattes. I rolled up the picture, brought it back down to my bedroom, and taped it to my wall. I wanted to remind myself of how things were, beneath the sepia tone, in the majestic days of the world’s most beloved beach.

Waikīkī means spouting water, be­cause, at one time, rivers and springs flowed in and out of the area. Hawaiian history also coursed through this en­chant­ed place. In the 16th century, Kāku­hi­hewa, an ancient Hawaiian chief, lived at Ulukou, a royal expanse located on the grounds of what is now the Moana Surfrider Hotel. He was said to have planted the first coconuts that grew into the 10,000 trees of Helu­moa Grove, on the grounds of the Royal Ha­waiian Hotel.

In 1795, Kamehameha, the future king of Hawai‘i, intent on defeating Kā­ku­hihewa, landed on the shores of Wai­kīkī with thousands of men. The battle for O‘ahu began at Kūhiō Beach and continued at Punchbowl Crater. Finally, Kamehameha succeeded in driving the chief and his army off the Pali cliffs at Nu‘uanu. Later, Waikīkī served as a va­cation retreat for Hawaiian royalty. Ka­mehemeha, Kalākaua and Lili‘uoka­lani all had residences here, enjoying moon­lit horseback riding and canoe races.

That leisurely lifestyle can still be found today. Oswald Stender, a trustee of the Office of Hawaiian Affairs, says his family lived in Kapahulu in the 1930s and Waikīkī was a playground.

“We carried our surfboards to Kūhiō Beach and surfed all day long. At the end of the day, we dug a hole in the sand, buried our boards, left them there. The next day we dug them up and went surfing again.” He says that in the days before bowling alleys had automatic pin­setters, he’d stand in the back of a bowling alley and manually set up the pins. After a couple of hours, he had enough lunch money for a hot dog or hamburger.

Ramsay Taum of the University of Ha­wai‘i calls ha, or atmosphere, the spir­i­tual essence of a place. He says the fundamental value in Hawai‘i is aloha, demonstrated through ‘ohana, or family, how we treat and welcome one an­other. In the old days, he says he used to go to the Hau Tree Lānai in the original Hale­kūlani Hotel. “My grandparents, uncles, aunts were there, and we were surrounded by palm trees, the ocean, the hau trees.” According to Taum, we need to revive our cultural sense of place. “We have to return the soul to Waikīkī.”

As with most things, to locate the soul, you must look within. As a resident of Waikīkī, I live in a community that balances the present with a never-ending past. Some days, when this native is restless, and the pace of life is too fast to maneuver, I head for Waikīkī for an af­ternoon of slow motion. I walk along the beach, along the perimeter of the hotels, waiting for the sun to brighten my inner countenance. In the distance, catamarans sail out, serving endless mai tais over two-hour tours. Simultaneously, the tide brings in a procession of surfers who ride the crest of opportunity all the way to the Waikīkī shore.

I spot two racks of surfboards and a sign that advertises surfing lessons. I look for my friend Ted, because he said if I come by and he is working, he will teach me how to surf. A perpetual hippie, Ted has sun-bleached hair and skin as tough as leather. He is not there and, in a way, I am relieved. The last time I tried to surf I was in high school, and right after my cousin said, “Follow me,” he dived into the reef.

Charles Ka‘upu, a cultural specialist, says that sense of place is the knowledge of who you are, where you come from, and those treasures that have been passed from one generation to the next.

To find such a place, look near those racks of surfboards, next to the rows of beach chairs, and the police substation on Waikīkī Beach. There, you will see the stones of life.

These four ancient pōhaku, or stones, recall the history of ka po‘e kahiko, the people of old. In the 1400s, four Tahi­tian healers from the island of Raiatea came to the Hawaiian Islands. Accord­ing to a legend recorded by Queen Lili­‘uokalani, these priests—Kapaemahu, Kahaloa, Kapuni and Kinohi—lived at Ulukou for many years, teaching med­i­cine to the natives and administer­ing their miraculous cures. After traveling throughout Hawai‘i, they settled in Waikīkī at Ulukou, near the current Moana Surfrider Hotel.

Before they returned to Tahiti, they wanted Hawaiians to know they would be taken care of. On the night of Pō Kane—the legendary appearance of the night marcher spirits—thousands help­ed move four stones, each weighing more than seven tons, from a Kaimukī quarry to Ulukou. Two stones were placed where the Tahitians’ house stood and the other two were put in their bathing place in the sea.

Incan­ta­tions, fasting and prayers lasted a full cycle of the moon. According to mele, songs of the time, the healers placed their hands on the stones, leaving be­hind their mana, their divine power. Soon after, the healers vanished and were never seen again.

In 1997, the healers reappeared: four stones were un­earthed at the Princess Ka‘iulani Hotel. They were raised onto a paepae, a stone platform, and an altar. As part of the ceremony, Tahitians from Raiatea presented a stone from the healers’ homeland that they named Ta‘a­hu Ea— the life.

When I think of the stones of life, I think of their healing powers, their miraculous place in Hawai‘i, next to two surfboard racks, a police substation, located in that place of hope, within all of us.

A collection of grass houses that once made up the Outrigger Canoe Club has now made way for the present site of the Outrigger Hotel. Back in 1908, the club was started to revive ancient sports like canoeing and surfing. The Hui Nalu o Honolulu—the Surf Club of Honolulu—was a surfing association with beachboys who taught visitors the art of surfing. One day, a member of the Hui Nalu was spotted “swimming like a fish” by an Ama­teur Athletics Union official in Wai­kīkī. The year was 1911, and the beach­boy’s name was Duke Kahanamoku.

When the AAU representative asked Duke to be timed for the 100-meter free­style swim, the entire town came to watch. The results were sent to New York City, but AAU officials there re­fused to accept the new world record, saying, “Hawaiian judges are advised to use stopwatches, not alarm clocks.” The next year, Duke joined the U.S. Olym­pic swimming team, won two gold medals and became Hawai‘i’s first Olympic med­alist and the fastest swimmer in the world. He was also known as a world-class surfer, Hollywood actor and Ho­no­lulu sheriff. When he passed away, in 1969, thousands gathered on Waikīkī Beach as his ashes were scattered into the sea.

“In Hawai‘i, we greet friends, loved ones, or strangers with aloha, which means with love. I believe it and it is my creed.” These are the words written on a plaque beneath a bronze statue that stands next to the healing stones on Waikīkī Beach. These are the words of Duke Kahanamoku. One newspaper said that when he died, it was the last royal funeral to take place in the Islands.

For those who reminisce about teen angst, milk shakes, and a modicum of high drama, there’s no better tribute to testosterone than the movie Gidget Goes Hawaiian. In the film, Gidget loves surf, sand and boys, but not necessarily in that order. Once again, she and Moon­doggie wax their boards, this time on the shores of Waikīkī Beach. And, of course, as background scenery, there is the wonder of Diamond Head. If the mere thought of seeing this movie and the world-famous crater makes you a bit nostalgic, try backtracking several millenniums.

According to ancient legend, the fire goddess Pele had a sister, Hi‘iaka, who gave the volcano the name Lē‘ahi, or brow of the fish, because it resembled the head of the tuna. In ancient times, Hawaiians lit the rim of the crater with fires to assist canoes traveling along the south shore of O‘ahu. A heiau, or temple, was built on the summit and dedicated to Lono, the God of Wind, so that strong updrafts would not extinguish navigational fires.

In the 1800s, when British sailors saw the crater from a distance, the calcite crystals in the lava rocks glimmered in the sunlight. The sailors thought there were diamonds in the soil, and ever since, it has been known as Diamond Head.

After my blood pressure hit 200, after I entered and exited Intensive Care, after oatmeal, salt-free foods and other vagaries of life, I decided to hike Dia­mond Head with a few friends. With back­pack, sunscreen and determination in tow, we began the one-hour hike up the crater.

While following the graveled path, I held onto the steel guardrails. Ahead, there were two sets of stairs, a 225-foot-long darkened tunnel, and an abandoned military bunker near the top. After Hawai‘i was annexed in 1898, Dia­mond Head’s strategic location was used for military defense. Cannons lo­cated within the crater protected the harbor from enemy attack. An observation deck, now abandoned, was built as a target lookout and a four-level underground complex served as a command post.

Halfway up the first staircase, I felt gravity and the weight of my heart pull­ing me back to the parking lot. I turned around and decided to hike back down. As I rested on a large rock, I contemplated where I was, and where I wanted to be. I lifted myself, and my determination, off the rock and journeyed on to join the rest of my group. When I reached the summit, I was surrounded by an uninterrupted view of Honolulu from all four compass points, from the Ko‘olau mountains to a stretch of blue ocean that redefined my place in the sun. After half-an-hour of silence, we began the hike back down. I knew that one day soon, I would come back to Diamond Head, and return to myself.

The grand dame of Waikīkī has held court along Ka­lākaua Avenue for nearly a century. The Royal Ha­wai­ian Hotel, also known as the “Pink Palace” be­cause of its coral color, opened in 1927, and has played an integral part in Ha­waiian history ever since. King Kameha­meha used the area as a playground after he conquered O‘ahu. Queen Ka‘a­hu­manu had her sum­mer palace in what is now the hotel’s Coconut Grove garden.

Before air travel across the Pacific be­came reality, a five-day sea voyage was the only way to reach the Islands. The Royal Hawaiian was originally conceived as a luxury hotel for Matson passengers. When the ships arrived, guests were greeted by The Royal Hawaiian Band, hula dancers and flower lei fill­ed with the sweet fragrance of aloha. After visiting the hotel, silent film stars Mary Pickford and Douglas Fair­banks said, “Honolulu was the most beau­tiful place in the world.” Over the years, the hotel has played host to fi­nanciers, politicians and heads of state, including Franklin D. Roosevelt, the Rockefellers and the Shah of Iran. The Shirley Temple cocktail was invented at the hotel, after the child star visited .

Joan Didion, one of the finest writers of her generation, wrote a famous essay about the Pink Palace. In it, she relates that in its Hawaiian heyday, the hotel’s guests brought steamer trunks, valets, nurses, servants, Rolls Royces and ul­tra­marine-blue Packard roadsters, and resided at the hotel for months at a time. They came after hunting in South Africa or by way of Banff and Lake Louise.

Tea was served on rattaan tables, maids wove lei for every guest and the United States Capitol Building was constructed in Hawaiian sugar as a decoration. She calls the hotel a social idea, a flawless mirror to the society it serves. Didion writes that what the hotel reflected in the 1930s it reflects still: a kind of life lived always on the streets where the oldest trees grow. Although this view of the hotel is nearly 80 years old, Didion’s perspective is timeless. She depicts the hotel as a dowager in an era gone by, but the ideals she sets forth, about The Royal Hawaiian, society and life in general, still hold. Today, Old World luxury still emanates. Crystal chandeliers, Queen Anne writing desks, a 75-year tra­dition of afternoon tea—the royal treatment continues.

Sometimes, I think of my father’s pho­tograph, the glamorous days of Wai­kīkī Beach and the notion that beauty is also found within. I think that the ideals Didion described, about who we were, who we are and what we aspire to be, still exist at The Royal Hawaiian, in Waikīkī, and inevitably, deep within ourselves.

BENTON SEN, a frequent contributor to SPIRIT OF ALOHA, was the recipient of a Walker Foundation scholarship from the Fine Arts Work Center in Province­town, Mass., and a writing fellowship from the Vermont Studio Cen­ter—both for a memoir in progress. He lives in Waikīkī.