Chapter 2: Papa George
Hawaii Incorporated
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Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 2: Papa George
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Saturday Evening, 8 May 1965, Papa George’s Study, Mānoa Valley, Oahu
Michael Smith here.
The evening LBJ threatened to slap a 200 percent tariff on the Republic, I stood on the lower level lānai at No. 1 Black Point Road, gazing out at our little section of the vast Pacific. The sun sank beyond Diamond Head, casting a golden glow over the water. Growing up on a farm outside Midland, Michigan, I could never have imagined a view like this. The ocean stretched endlessly before me, its rhythmic waves offering a calm that the Michigan flatlands never quite could. Yet, I couldn’t help but think this calm was deceiving. From the house, if I drifted south on a raft, I’d find nothing but open water, no land through Polynesia, only an endless expanse of restless waves, many moments of loneliness and abject terror when the weather shifted, until finally hitting ice in the Ross Sea of Antarctica.
Rob and Sally’s house itself was an architectural marvel, a fortress of glass and stone perched on a cliff. Its clean lines and bold, organic features seemed to grow out of the cliffside, with three, count them, three lānais jutting out toward the sea as if daring the Pacific to come closer. But the real beauty wasn’t the house. It was the natural setting. The green slopes of Diamond Head, the wild valleys and ridges shaping the leeward side of Oahu, and the endless stretch of blue water were what made the place special.
Rob bellowed from the open-air living room, “Let’s go see family, kid.”
He was being generous. “Family” in the sense that I was distantly related, a cousin many times removed. My Smith ancestors were humble farmers, nothing compared to the esteemed Goddard lineage.
As we pulled away from the driveway, the car’s tires crunched over the seashell driveway, and the Lincoln Continental eased onto Black Point Road. A secluded stretch lay ahead before we passed the next house—No. 2, then No. 3—each newer, each more concealed behind private gates. We wound our way down the road until the numbered houses disappeared, merging onto Kāhala Avenue, where sleek homes stood behind immaculate lawns and towering palms.
Rob stayed silent, his brow furrowed as we left the coast behind and drove inland. The wide, manicured avenues of Kāhala gave way to the dense, tree-lined streets of Mānoa Valley.
“We’ll talk it through with him,” Rob said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but I knew the weight of the upcoming conversation hung heavy on him. It was always complicated when his father was involved.
The farther we drove, the lusher and more untamed the scenery became. Towering monkeypod and koa trees lined the road, their thick canopies casting deep shadows over the pavement. The scent of plumeria mingled with the earthy aroma of damp soil and fresh rain, filling the air. Mānoa always felt cooler, its greenery so dense it seemed to swallow sound, wrapping you in its quiet.
As we approached Papa George and Clara’s home, the grand estate slowly came into view, its white colonial façade nearly hidden behind a thicket of ancient banyans and swaying palms. Bougainvillea spilled over the stone walls, vibrant blooms splashing red and pink against the deep green. The house was stately yet modest in its own way, with a wide lānai and dark wood accents that spoke of British restraint rather than American ambition.
As we pulled into the driveway, I glanced at Rob. He sat composed as always, but his eyes had shifted to a mix of determination and unease. He could navigate the corridors of power with ease, but seeking his father’s advice was an altogether different battlefield.
The moment we stepped out of the car, the shift in atmosphere was palpable. Mānoa Valley’s quiet wrapped around us like a cool embrace, and the scent of jasmine drifted on the breeze.
Clara met us at the door, her calm presence a familiar comfort. “Rob, Michael,” she said softly, her smile warm but restrained. “Come in. Papa George asked me to send you to his study. He’s changing for dinner.”
We followed her through the grand hallway, past family portraits spanning generations. The study was at the far end of the house. She opened the door and gestured to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter of Scotch and three glasses waited. “Papa George wants you to help yourselves. He’ll join you shortly.”
Leaning against the door, she rested her hands on the doorknob and said, “Try to behave, gentlemen. I’ll be upstairs, on the other side of the house, soaking in my tub, listening to Mozart. I don’t want to be disturbed!”
It had become an unspoken rule. Clara left Papa George and Rob alone for their tête-à-têtes. She disliked the way they debated issues. There was a long history of their conversations turning into verbal duels. Since Rob had become prime minister, she had encouraged Papa George to be more deferential, or at least less dictatorial, and give Rob his due. While he tried, there was no guarantee things wouldn’t blow up at any moment, leaving her to patch up the bloodied or revive the dead. So, she stuck to her practice of staying far away.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rob said. “Have a well-deserved bath, and I promise we’ll keep things peaceable.”
“Thank you, dear,” she replied before quietly excusing herself.
I always enjoyed visiting Papa George’s study. It was a large, dimly lit room lined with bookshelves filled with legal tomes, historical volumes, and mementos from his years playing rugby at Cambridge and serving in the British Army during World War I. Above the fireplace hung the most famous relic of all: the faded rugby ball he’d kicked across no-man’s-land at the Somme, now encased in a glass display.
“PM, the usual two fingers?” I asked, sniffing the Scotch in the decanter.
Rob stood by the open window, staring into Clara’s Garden. “Better make it three.”
“What Scotch is this?” I asked, also pouring three fingers for myself.
“I don’t know. Taste it.”
I took a sip and told him, “Smoothest I’ve ever tasted.”
“Probably a 25-year-old Glenlivet. That’s what he had last time I was here.”
I made myself at home and settled into one of the two well-worn leather sofas facing each other across the coffee table. The table wasn’t just furniture; it was made from the timbers of an old Nantucket whaling ship, its dark, rich grain gleaming under the dim light. A piece of maritime history, a nod to the Goddards’ New England roots, though Papa George cared more for British history than American maritime lore.
The books on the table bore this out. A leather-bound copy of The Houses of Parliament: An Architectural History lay beneath a coffee table book of vintage London Underground sports posters: cricket at Lord’s, rugby at Wembley, tennis at Wimbledon. On top, an open copy of The History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Volume Two, bookmarked with scrimshaw. The worn pages suggested this wasn’t his first reading.
At one end of the table sat the crackling fireplace. At the other, Papa George’s favorite wingback chair—a dark green leather piece with brass nailhead trim, the kind you’d find in a British gentleman’s club. I once sat in it by mistake, and I can tell you, I never made that error again.
“How many times did Papa George make you read Churchill’s histories when you were a kid?” I asked Rob.
“Every year in high school,” he replied.
“No way! Every year?”
“Yes. Papa George has this theory that to truly understand an important book, you have to read it at least three times,” Rob said, shaking his head slightly, as if remembering the endless lectures on the subject.
Then, he added, “I reread it when I was at Cambridge, while researching our family history—another one of Papa George’s requirements.”
I pointed to the shelves filled with books tracing the family’s journey across centuries and continents. “Why’d you have to go all the way to England? Couldn’t you have researched it here?”
“I made the same argument, but Papa George insisted that unless I physically traced our roots, I wouldn’t fully appreciate our family history. So, during breaks at Cambridge, I followed the Goddards back to the Norman Conquest of 1066. Goddard means ‘God-brave.’ Over generations, we became landowners, clergy, and eventually merchants. That’s what brought us to Boston in the early 1700s: shipping and trade. Papa George’s great-grandfather joined the fifth company of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and came to Hawaii in 1832 to save souls and, in his words, ‘civilize’ the islands.”
“And since then,” I interjected, “the Goddards have risen to the top of Hawaii’s elite!”
Rob raised his eyebrows. “While that may be true, it comes with tremendous responsibilities.”
I took another sip of whisky and gestured toward the rows of legal books. “Funny,” I said. “For a pacifist, he sure is a fighter.”
Rob raised his other eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“I’m looking at Commentaries on the Laws of England on his shelf, and I’m thinking it took him, what, over thirty years or so to go and drag Hawaii into the British legal system? When everyone else was practicing U.S. law, he was espousing Blackstone’s Commentaries and pushing for a British-style common law system on them.”
Rob smiled, half-amused, half-proud. “You’re right. He was a radical, warrior pacifist Anglophile. A mouthful—just like him.”
“I still don’t know how,” I said, “he got the territorial government to buy into a British-style court system with barristers and solicitors.”
“He wore them down until they cried uncle. It was his way of asserting sovereignty against the pro-statehood crowd. He was good at that.”
“What was I good at?” Papa George’s booming voice startled me, and I nearly spilled my Scotch.
Unfazed, Rob quipped, “The list is too long to recount.”
“True, true indeed,” Papa George said, pouring himself a hefty measure of Scotch without concern for moderation.
He sank into his favorite chair, his powerful rugby frame still imposing despite his age. “Sorry to keep you boys waiting,” he said, settling in. “What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until Monday?”
Rob got straight to the point, recounting his conversation with LBJ. Papa George listened carefully, then asked, “Which way are you leaning?”
“I’m still gathering facts,” Rob replied. “Dinner with Keller tomorrow, a meeting with the Tripartite later this week, and gauging the families on Saturday.”
“You must have a preference,” Papa George pressed, trying to take Rob’s measure.
Rob held firm. “I’m keeping an open mind—like you taught me.”
Papa George’s expression remained unreadable, but I could almost see the gears turning. Watching these two square off was educational as well as entertaining. Their verbal sparring had the intensity of gladiators sizing each other up before the first strike. Their battles were always philosophical. Faith versus pragmatism. Love versus strength. Two war heroes, two opposing conclusions drawn from the chaos of battle.
“And the decision point?” Papa George finally asked, nudging Rob toward a stance.
“Simple,” Rob said. “Do we defy our great protector or go it alone.”
“That’s the practical question,” Papa George said, before tossing a jab. “But what about the moral decision point?”
Rob, now on the defensive, dodged. “Dad, I don’t have the luxury of being anything but practical. I’m the prime minister.”
“That’s true but there’s a right and wrong way to do things,” Papa George said. “The means don’t justify the end.”
“Obviously, Dad,” Rob snapped. “Give me some credit. I’m not a child.”
“Of course not, son. I’m just saying that every decision you make as prime minister should be guided by our values—without regard to practicality. Once the decision is made, then you figure out how to implement it morally. When I was in Europe—”
“But Dad—,” Rob started to protest, knowing what was coming, but Papa George cut him off, launching into his well-worn account of trench warfare. It was always a bit unfair, this emotional leverage, but Papa George knew how to wield his seniority. War stories were his favorite tactic for commanding a room. They weren’t just memories, but lessons, crafted to sway, to make his point. And in sparring matches with Rob, they were his most effective weapon. His son, the prime minister, had no choice but to listen.
“I will never forget that yellow-green haze creeping over no-man’s-land,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Chlorine gas. It hit like a punch to the chest—eyes burning, throat closing, then the coughing. Your lungs felt like they were filling with water. Some died quickly; others endured slow, asphyxiating agony.”
He paused, his silence commanding more attention than words. Rob listened, respectfully enduring the story he’d heard countless times.
“Phosgene was worse,” Papa George continued. “At first, just a scratch in the throat. Then it ate away at your lungs. Men coughed blood, gasping like fish out of water. By the time they reached the medics, it was too late. War is a crime against humanity.”
He fell silent, his gaze distant. Rob sat quietly, biting his tongue.
“The gases reacted with moisture in the body—eyes, mouth, lungs—forming acids that ate away at tissue. Men choked, their bodies fighting for air while the gas tore them apart from the inside.”
Another pause, his voice soft but firm. “And the survivors weren’t much better off. Many lived with chronic lung conditions, coughing their lives away. Some succumbed to tuberculosis, too weak to fight back. These men were chewed up by war, by faulty equipment, by decisions made far from the trenches. But I never gave up on humanity.”
“No, you didn’t, Dad,” Rob replied, his tone pleading. “And neither am I. But as prime minister, I have to be practical. That’s why the Constitution grants me certain powers.”
“But you’re facing a grave decision, as serious as war. What you decide will change people’s lives forever. It will change Hawaii forever. There’s a right and wrong way to fight. We chose the wrong way in the war to end all wars. We chose practicality over love.”
Rob broke in, “Love for your enemies as impractical as it gets—in war or politics.”
Oh boy, I thought. Had Rob just crossed the line?
Papa George had written Hawaii’s Declaration of Independence, improving on the American version by replacing “pursuit of happiness” with “pursuit of love.” The other missionary families had ridiculed the change, but he had stood firm, invoking Saint Paul:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
“If we live by love,” Papa George had argued, “it’s impossible for the Republic to commit evil.”
I glanced at Papa George. He looked ready to erupt like Mauna Loa but caught himself.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “The Declaration of Independence is pure. It cannot be violated.”
Rob kept his composure. “It’s something to aspire to,” he said, “but when drafting the Constitution, we agreed that ideals aren’t absolute if they threaten national security. And a 200 percent tariff, Dad, is a direct threat to national security.”
Papa George face fell. He turned to the bar, refilling his glass with slow, deliberate movements. “Anyone else?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of resignation.
Rob hadn’t touched his Scotch. He shook his head in a way I read as petulant defiance. Feeling sorry for Papa George, I accepted another drink.
LBJ’s ultimatum had laid bare the fault lines in our Constitution, forcing a collision between security and the ideals enshrined in the Declaration of Independence.
The Republic of Hawaii’s Constitution was modeled after Japan’s postwar framework—particularly Article 9, the so-called Peace Clause. Drafted in 1947 under U.S. occupation, it was a radical declaration of pacifism:
Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes. To accomplish this aim, land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained. The right of belligerency of the state will not be recognized.
In Japan, this clause forbade the maintenance of an offensive military, allowing only a limited Self-Defense Force. When Papa George championed a similar provision in Hawaii’s Constitution, he went further. Hawaii’s Article 9 not only prohibited offensive military operations but also enshrined the Three Non-Nuclear Principles:
1. No possession of nuclear weapons.
2. No production of nuclear weapons.
3. No permitting nuclear weapons in Hawaiian territories.
Yet at the Hawaii Constitutional Convention, Rob—leader of the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) and prime minister-designate—had serious reservations about the restrictiveness of the Peace Clause. The price of LDP support for ratification was a crucial concession:
All liberties extended to the people, as well as the Three Non-Nuclear Principles, were subject to one caveat—"save in accordance with the law."
A loophole so vast you could drive a Mack truck through it.
Hawaii, like Japan, Singapore, and California, was effectively a one-party state. The LDP made the law. And that meant Rob could invoke national security to justify virtually anything. If a legal obstacle emerged, Parliament, firmly under his party’s control, could simply pass the necessary legislation.
Papa George’s dream of a pacifist, nuclear-free Hawaii hung by a thread.
And as LBJ’s call had just made clear, we weren’t the only ones who understood this.
Silence settled over the study, as Papa George returned to his chair. He sat there, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, lost in thought. Rob sat rigid, his expression unreadable, but I could sense the weight pressing down on both of them.
This wasn’t just about LBJ’s demands—it was about two men shaped by two different wars.
Papa George had returned from World War I a hero, but he never glorified the experience. He spoke of the trenches, the gas attacks, the slaughter, and the sheer futility of it all. War had convinced him that peace was not just an aspiration but a necessity. He carried that conviction back to Hawaii, pouring it into the foundation of the Republic’s Declaration of Independence and Constitution.
Rob’s war had been different.
Like his father, he was a decorated hero, and like his father, he had seen combat firsthand. But where Papa George saw war as senseless destruction, Rob saw it as brutal but necessary, a tool that, when wielded strategically, could win not just battles but entire futures.
The Navy Cross he earned at Okinawa was real, though the story had grown richer in the retelling. It was May 1945, and the island was a killing field. Rob, a Marine sergeant then, led his men through the chaos of the Shuri Line. Rain turned the ground to mud, machine-gun fire raked the valleys, and artillery smoke choked the air. The Japanese, dug in deep, fought for every inch.
As Rob signaled the advance, a mortar whistled through the air and exploded nearby, sending him sprawling. Shrapnel tore into his leg. A young corporal rushed to his side, but Rob waved him off. "The position’s not secure," he growled.
Through sheer force of will, he ordered up a mortar strike, calling in coordinates while bleeding into the mud. When the rounds hit, the enemy position disintegrated, and his men surged forward. Only then did Rob allow himself to be carried off the field.
The leg wound never fully healed, leaving him with a limp for life, a permanent reminder of the price of victory, but one he always said was a small price to pay for winning and more than worth it.
To Papa George, war had been a horror that proved peace must always come first. To Rob, war had been a necessary evil that had secured peace on America’s terms. He wasn’t reckless, but he was pragmatic.
Where Papa George saw peace through love, Rob saw peace through strength.
Papa George finally broke the silence. “It sounds like you’re leaning toward giving in to LBJ’s demands, no?”
Rob still hadn’t touched his Scotch-until now. He took a deliberate sip, using the moment to diffuse the tension. “Dad, do you have any Cubans in your humidor?”
Papa George shook his head, chuckling softly. “No, but I’ve got something better.” He walked to his humidor, pulled out a small cedar box, and handed it to Rob, who opened it with a familiar grin. Inside were a few Tabacaleras—rare Filipino cigars, nearly impossible to find in Hawaii.
“You’re still getting these?” Rob asked, rolling one between his fingers.
Papa George shrugged. “An old friend in Manila keeps me stocked. Hard to come by, but worth it.”
Rob lit one, savoring the rich, earthy aroma as he leaned back in his chair. “Definitely worth it,” he muttered, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. It was his turn to set a trap.
“As I said, I’m not leaning either way. Two hundred percent is a stiff tariff. It’ll kill our sugar cane, pineapple, and beef exports to the States.”
Most of Papa George’s clients were in agribusiness, and the missionary families thrived on U.S. exports. For Papa George, agribusiness wasn’t just commerce—it was God’s work, a living embodiment of his peace-through-love philosophy. Hawaiian exports had been organic long before it was trendy. No pesticides, no price gouging, no genetic tampering beyond Gregor Mendel’s principles. Free-range, grass-fed, and premium-priced. American consumers paid for the Hawaiian brand, and the profits funded Papa George’s ideals.
Rob was testing his father’s willingness to throw it all away.
Papa George sensed the trap and sidestepped smoothly. “Your assumption is that the U.S. market is our only option.”
“But Asia can’t afford Hawaiian brands,” Rob countered a little too quickly. “Sure, MacArthur did a great job with Japan, and maybe South Korea will recover someday. Taiwan? Sure, there’s hope. But the Malay Peninsula’s a mess, and China’s a disaster. What are we going to do—export island weed?”
Rob’s sarcasm landed flat. It always did with Papa George, who saw it as a weakness, but he ignored it this time. He countered calmly, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Remember your rugby tactics.”
Rob’s poker face was flawless, but I could tell he wanted to throw up his hands. Not this metaphor again.
Whenever Papa George wanted someone to persist in doing the hard thing, he reached for rugby. “You can’t change the rules,” he’d say. “You can’t control the other team. All you can do is pass, ruck, and keep at it until you find an opening to exploit.”
Hard to argue with that, I thought. Especially when it came from a man who had received the Victoria Cross at Buckingham Palace for his heroics at the Somme. Rob had heard it all before, how Papa George had kicked a rugby ball into no-man’s-land to inspire his men under heavy German fire. Rugby balls bounce unpredictably, but Papa George could keep it true, just high enough to catch and kick again. It gave his men something to focus on, cutting through the fear and chaos.
“Dad, I can change the rules,” Rob said, his voice firm.
Papa George grimaced but couldn’t deny that Rob was right. If Parliament deemed it a matter of national security, Rob had the authority to override Article 9 of the Constitution.
In his earlier days, Papa George would have issued an ultimatum: Rob, you may not break the Peace Clause. But age and Clara’s influence had softened him. Instead, he calmly asked, “What are the pros and cons of breaking Article 9?”
Had the question come from Sally, it might have sparked a reasonable debate. But this was a father and son, two war heroes, two strong men.
“I know exactly what it means to break Article 9,” Rob snapped, his temper barely in check. “And I knew before I walked in here that you’d give me your holier-than-thou lecture about how we can’t make an exception, even if it kills Hawaii.”
Clara’s warning not to disturb her echoed in my mind as I braced myself. If this escalated, I’d have to step between the author of the Declaration of Independence and the prime minister.
They were scarier than any defensive end I’d faced at Michigan—even the Buckeye Bruiser, an unstoppable force with elbows like spears.
But just like on the field, it was my job to protect the quarterback—or in this case, both of them. So, I dropped into a metaphorical three-point stance, muttered a quick Hail Mary, and threw caution to the wind.
“Wait!” I blurted, cutting through the tension. “If we break the Peace Clause, Hawaii will be nothing more than a lapdog, scrounging for America’s scraps under the table.”
The two warriors stared at me, stunned for a moment, then broke into laughter. Neither had any appetite for Hawaii playing the role of America’s poodle. The tension dissipated, and both men softened, easing into a civil, respectful discussion about the pros and cons of breaking with the United States.
Papa George, ever the idealist, said, “Breaking with the United States would preserve our sovereignty and the values we fought so hard for. Do we really want to be dragged into a war that isn’t ours, on terms that compromise our principles? Hawaii should be a beacon of peace, not a pawn in someone else’s power game.”
Rob countered with his pragmatism. “Dad, sovereignty is meaningless if it leaves us isolated and vulnerable. The U.S. has kept us economically stable and protected us militarily. If we cut ties, we lose a guaranteed market for our exports and risk alienating our biggest ally.”
Papa George nodded but pressed on. “And what happens when they start dictating more? Allowing nuclear weapons into our waters is just the beginning. Once you open that door, it’s hard to close. You know this isn’t just about tariffs or trade—it’s about control. They’ll expect us to roll over for everything after this.”
Rob leaned back, his face firm. “And what happens if we refuse? A 200 percent tariff will cripple our agribusiness, and our economy could collapse before we find new markets. Are you willing to gamble with people’s livelihoods on principle alone?”
They volleyed back and forth, the conversation moving from trade to defense.
Papa George argued that Hawaii could turn to Asia for partnerships, citing the rebuilding of Japan and the potential in Taiwan. Rob dismissed it as wishful thinking. “Asia isn’t ready to be a reliable market yet, Dad. The infrastructure isn’t there, and even if it were, Hawaiian goods are too expensive for most of Asia to afford.”
Papa George shot back, “Then we adapt. Diversify our economy. Agriculture isn’t our only strength. We could develop industries that don’t rely on exporting pineapples and sugar to the U.S.”
Rob wasn’t convinced. “You think we can pivot overnight? Economic transitions take years, and Hawaii doesn’t have that kind of time. One wrong move, and we’re done.”
By the time Clara called Papa George to dinner, nothing had been resolved. But at least the blows had been verbal, not physical. We left on good terms.
Rob promised he wouldn’t make his final decision without circling back to his father.
Next on the docket: Sunday dinner with Keller at the Royal Hawaiian.
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