Winston Conrad
Chapter 12
From: Chapter Twelve
CASTAWAYS AND SHIPWRECKS
“Amongst the articles which they brought to barter … we could not help taking notice of a particular sort of cloak … nearly the size and the shape of the short cloaks worn by the women in England, and by the men in Spain.”
––Captain James Cook, The Voyages of Captain Cook, 1778
. . . The following Thanksgiving, my Hawaiian history education continued when my father and I hiked through paths in the lava fields to where the sailors of the FairAmerican are buried. A metal gate barred the entrance to the mouth of the cave and I stared at the lock on the latch of the bars. “You wouldn’t want to go in there, believe me,” he said. “I know. I went in there once, back in 1978.” Then he told me his story:
“There I was on all fours, bathed in perspiration, ten feet below the ground, spelunking thirty feet into that black lava tunnel.” He jabbed a finger in the air pointing in the direction of the mouth of the cave. I couldn’t imagine my father, a novelist and a painter, spelunking.
“It was so narrow my shoulders brushed both sides, my knees were raw from the sharp stones, and I had to duck my head from the stalactites,” he said. My father walked with a limp from a bullfight goring in Spain, where he had learned the art of tauromachy after working for the State department during World War II. “I’d liked to have quit. No space to turn, I quite literally would have had to back out of the deal, but, then the others would have regarded me with scorn.” Leaning on his cane, he looked up at the milky blue sky and continued, “So I kept crawling along after the beam of light in front of me. Just when I thought my claustrophobia couldn’t stand a moment more, I saw the light raise up––my guide was standing up! A tiny cavern, about 12 feet by 10––a cave––yes, but less frightening than that tunnel. We could see: four skeletons. Their wrists and ankles had been bound, their bodies trussed, slung from wooden poles like pigs to the market. Fragments of red neckerchiefs, powdery with age, were around their necks. I picked up a slipper-like shoe and could make out a few letters. The hairs on my neck rose. I hadn’t quite believed the story of the skeletons until I read the shoemaker’s trademark: Boston.”
“So that shoe would have been made about a dozen years after the Boston tea party,” I said.
“That’s right,” my father said, not missing a beat with his story. “Also, there was a pipe, a tarnished silver watch and two ancient lanterns in the back. That ‘s all. And enough. I took some photos and then we left.”
“Do you think we can get permission to go inside?” I asked.
“I heard that vandals stole the pipe, the watch and other articles some years back… Besides…” he shuddered, wiping the sweat off his brow with a red bandana, “Quite frankly I don’t advise it––I still have nightmares about that awful tunnel and its spooky inhabitants.”
Intrigued, I wanted to find out more of Hawaii’s past.
. . . Robby continued his family story for Paulette and me one evening over Chianti on the veranda of his house. “There was another interesting relative on my father’s side from the time of the Fair American, Robert Boyd: My great, great, great grandfather. A ship builder and carpenter, whom Captain Vancouver once met. When Kamehameha ordered Boyd to make a loom, Isaac Davis said, ‘Don’t teach the Hawaiians the haole technology. They are very clever and then we––meaning him and Boyd––would be out of a job.’ ” He reached over to a stack of books and pulled out a copy of A Voyage Round The World from 1806 to 1812.
“It ‘s by this Scottish sail maker, Archibald Campbell, who recuperated here after both his feet were badly amputated.” Robby thumbed through the book. “Davis said, ‘they will soon know more than ourselves.’ They, meaning the Hawaiians. Campbell eventually did construct a loom––material for Kamehameha’s ships but the other castaways were not pleased and a Hawaiian assistant worked the pedals as the poor buggah had no feet.”
Sitting on a chair in the living room I skimmed through the book while Robby cooked roast lamb on the barbecue amidst a few other guests, and Paulette “talked story” with the women who were making Poke in the kitchen. I read that the crippled sail maker spent the end of his life pushing himself about the streets of Edinburgh with a barrel organ, telling tales of the South Seas, and selling copies of his incredible book.
“Who were the most important voyagers besides Cook?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Well, Cook was definitely the most amazing explorer and thorough documenter.” Robby paused for a moment and said, “Hawaiian scholars don’t think Captain Cook was the first European to happen upon our islands; we know he wasn’t.”
“What? Our good Captain Cook?”