Chapter 6: The Scrimshaw Incident (Part 1)
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 2 (Papa George), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 6: The Scrimshaw Incident (Part 1)
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Saturday, 16 May 1965, Big 5 Annual Meeting, The Goddard Ranch, Big Island
Michael Smith here.
The helicopter ride from Honolulu to the Big Island was, as always, a rattling reminder that military choppers are little more than spare parts flying in tight formation, held together by bolts vibrating in every direction, threatening to shake themselves loose. I focused on the view to keep my knees from knocking.
I glanced over at Papa George and Clara. She was lost in a book, completely at ease. Papa George sat beside her, eyes closed, hands folded neatly in his lap, fast asleep. He could sleep on command and do so standing, sitting, or lying down. Keller, meanwhile, was grinning like a kid on a roller coaster.
Leaving behind the bustle of Honolulu, we skirted Moloka‘i, split Lāna‘i, and made a wide detour to Kaho‘olawe. Keller wanted Papa George to see the proposed site for the nuclear power plant. Papa George was not thrilled.
“Putting aside the constitutionality of nuclear energy on Hawaiian soil,” he grumbled into his headset, “it is unsafe. A slippery slope to nuclear arms.”
“Dad, it’s safe technology,” Keller said.
“What?!” Papa George barked, tapping his ear. The noise was bad enough for normal hearing; his had been dulled by too many artillery blasts during the war.
“I’ll explain on the ground,” Keller said, giving up. Papa George shook his head and pointed again to his headset. Keller sighed and instructed the pilot to skip the flyover and head straight for the Big Island.
Overcoming Papa George’s objections was the least of Keller’s problems. With Rob poised to defy LBJ, Keller was scrambling to secure a nuclear technology transfer from the U.S. to Hawaii. He was in quiet talks with Admiral Rickover, a fellow maverick who relished tweaking the establishment. Rickover wanted to use the Kaho‘olawe site to develop advanced nuclear energy, far from Washington’s prying eyes. He believed he could convince Congress to lease nuclear technology to Hawaii—even if LBJ retaliated with tariffs.
From Kaho‘olawe, it was a straight shot. The Pacific glittered beneath us, vast and blue, until the massive flanks of Mauna Loa rose from the sea. The pilot banked sharply. My heart jammed into my throat as the view shifted: green forests, hardened lava flows, new growth stitched into the remnants of old destruction.
The helicopter circled Goddard Ranch. From above, the property looked like a well-planned outpost bridging volcanic wilderness and endless ocean. The main house stretched long, with a pitched roof and deep eaves. Ossipoff’s Hawaiian modernism was in full bloom, as if it had grown straight from the land. Nearby stood barns, stables, and staff quarters, all designed with the same blend of function and quiet elegance.
We touched down on the helipad. I helped Papa George and Clara out as the morning breeze carried the mingled scent of salt and flowers. Mario’s ranch staff moved briskly, making final preparations for the day’s events. Rob, Sally, and the kids had arrived the day before. For now, my job was to get Papa George and Clara settled.
“Let’s get you both to your suite,” I said, guiding them toward the main house.
As we walked, Papa George turned to me. “You know, Vladimir Ossipoff designed this place. Rob and Sally wanted something modern—something different from the old family estates.”
He shook his head, still impressed. I knew the story, of course. One of my duties was to give guests the full architectural tours of the Goddards’ estates.
“Ossipoff was a genius, no doubt, but a bit of a tyrant,” Papa George chuckled. “He and Rob nearly came to blows more than once.”
Clara smiled. “Thank goodness Sally had the patience to work with him.”
“They’re a good team,” I said. “They balance each other.”
“That’s the key to a lasting marriage,” Clara replied. “Balance, flexibility, give and take. Compromise. We instead of me. Do you have a special lady friend, Michael?”
“Not really. No time. I’m always working.”
“All work and no play makes Michael a dull boy,” Papa George warned.
“More important,” Clara added, “is to resist the temptation to worship your job—or Rob, for that matter. They’ll both let you down someday.”
We stepped inside, and the air cooled instantly. The open floor plan and oversized windows let the ocean breeze pour through. The great room stretched out before us, with wide lānais revealing sweeping views of volcano and sea. Polished koa wood gleamed underfoot. Lava rock was subtly woven into the design.
The flowers were stunning. In the center of the great room, a bold arrangement of bird of paradise and ti leaves exploded in orange and green. Small vases of delicate white orchids were tucked throughout the space. On a long table, low bowls of red anthuriums and pink protea echoed the lushness outside.
Papa George pointed me toward Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World. “That painting there—Wyeth at his best.”
“Now you’re also an art expert, too?” Clara teased.
“Hey—”
“Hay’s for horses,” Clara laughed. “But I like it too. There’s determination in the girl—perseverance, despite or maybe because of her situation. Something this family should always keep in mind.”
Then, turning to me, she asked, “What do you think, Michael?”
“Well, ma’am, I’m certainly no art expert. Like the one over there,” I said, pointing to Surf and Submerged Rocks by Tadashi Sato. “Until Sally taught me the picture’s name and meaning, I thought it was a flying saucer.”
“You’re not alone when it comes to modern art,” Papa George quipped. “I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Jackson Pollock and the scribble left on a piece of paper from trying to get one of those newfangled plastic—what do you call them—ball pens to write—”
“BIC ballpoint pens,” I said.
“Yes, ballpoint pens. Modern art and plastic pens are two things we don’t need in this world.”
“Dear,” said Clara, “you’re sounding like your father again, when he’d complain about cars replacing horse and buggies.”
“A big difference,” Papa George countered. “Cars can be reused or sold for scrap, but this plastic stuff will end up as litter on top of our landfills or in our waters and reefs. It’s permanent hazardous waste—like Keller’s spent fuel cells in his nuclear power plants.”
Clara gave him a disapproving look. “I’m sure Michael doesn’t have time for another Papa George lecture on how man is destroying the world.”
“I don’t mind,” I said sincerely.
“You see, Clara?” he said, pointing his thumb toward me. “I knew the minute I met this kid that he’s one smart cookie.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Enough chitchat. Time to freshen up for lunch.”
“No need,” Papa George said. “You look perfect the way you are.”
“You, old charmer,” she responded with an affectionate laugh. “Mind your own business!” she added.
“Ma’am,” I said, motioning them down the wide hallway toward their suite.
They knew the way, of course, having stayed at the ranch many times. Papa George took the lead, marching us past the old wooden church pew that sat against the wall outside the guest powder room, past the bedroom I usually stayed in, now given over to Keller, and past the sculpture Lunar Landscape by Isamu Noguchi. Rob once told me its abstract lines echoed the curves of the Big Island. We continued past the smaller guest room, where I had been relegated, and finally reached the grand suite.
A step tansu stood outside the double doors, displaying family heirlooms on its steps, including a piece of Japanese pottery that resembled the moon. It had been a gift from Jimbo Everton, and its meaning was known only to Rob and him.
Papa George nodded toward the piece of scrimshaw on the tansu’s second step. “I’m glad to see the Queen’s still here.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “I’m grateful we haven’t had to use it since statehood was defeated.”
Queen Liliʻuokalani was the last reigning monarch of the Kingdom of Hawai‘i. She had given Papa George’s father, the Reverend William James Goddard, the piece of scrimshaw for saving her life.
Her fate had been sealed long before she ascended the throne. The Reciprocity Treaty of 1875 between the U.S. and the Hawaiian Kingdom opened American markets to duty-free Hawaiian sugar, triggering an agricultural gold rush across the islands. Missionary families and other foreigners with American and European roots turned vast tracts of land into sugar plantations. Production soared to unprecedented levels. Plantation owners, along with banking and shipping interests, amassed considerable fortunes and created the economic foundation to challenge the Hawaiian monarchy.
In 1887, a group of businessmen and lawyers forced the “Bayonet Constitution” on King Kalākaua at gunpoint. It stripped the king of power, reducing his role to that of a figurehead by shifting authority to the cabinet and legislature. The new constitution imposed property and income requirements for voting that disenfranchised most Native Hawaiians and other Pacific Islanders. It also required voters and officeholders to swear loyalty to the new regime.
Three years later, the McKinley Tariff of 1890 imposed duties on Hawaiian sugar exports, ending the plantations’ privileged trade arrangement. The shockwaves were immediate. Hawaiian sugar suddenly competed on equal footing with imports from other countries, all facing steep tariffs in the American market. Profit margins that had once been guaranteed vanished overnight. Plantation owners scrambled to stay afloat. The crisis rippled beyond the plantations, plunging the entire economy into a deep recession that threatened the kingdom’s stability.
When Liliʻuokalani became queen in 1891, following the death of her brother, King Kalākaua, she was met with petitions from her people urging her to restore Hawaiian sovereignty through a new constitution. She saw the 1887 document as illegitimate and her own proposed constitution as a rightful return to native governance. But powerful forces were aligned against her. President Benjamin Harrison and his administration supported annexation, as did most of Hawai‘i’s powerful haole families.
After Grover Cleveland defeated Harrison on November 8, 1892, Queen Liliʻuokalani believed the timing was right. Cleveland had spoken out against annexation, and she hoped to restore her people’s rule. On January 14, 1893, she attempted to promulgate a new constitution.
But the Committee of Safety, a group of businessmen and lawyers, claimed she was acting unconstitutionally. That gave them the pretext they needed. Three days later, they staged their coup.
In the days that followed, Queen Liliʻuokalani turned to Reverend Goddard for help. It was he who advised her to stand down peacefully, assuring her he would appeal to Cleveland when he returned to the White House in March. But even with his influence in Hawai‘i and deep connections in Washington, Reverend Goddard underestimated one brutal political truth: possession is nine-tenths of the law. The haole elite already held the levers of power. The Queen and the Reverend were always one step behind.
When royalist supporters launched a failed counter-revolution in January 1895, the Republic of Hawai‘i imprisoned the Queen in ‘Iolani Palace and prepared to charge her with treason. Some even demanded execution. Reverend Goddard intervened quietly but forcefully. He leveraged every ounce of his credibility with the Dole government and summoned personal favors from old Washington contacts. He convinced them to spare the Queen’s life in return for her formal abdication.
She never regained the throne. Hawai‘i’s annexation moved forward in 1898, and the Organic Act of 1900 made it a U.S. territory.
But the Queen never gave up hope. In her final days, she summoned Reverend Goddard to her bedside. Her voice was weak, but her message was unmistakable. She placed the carved scrimshaw, with her portrait engraved on the front, into the Reverend’s hands. On the back, etched in careful script, were the words: I ka mea nāna e paʻa i kēia kiʻi, he hoʻohiki aliʻi kēia, he pono e uku ʻia e ka Mōʻī Wahine.
“To the one who holds this likeness,” Papa George said, carefully handing it to me, “by royal promise, a debt must be paid by the Queen.”
It was heavy in my hand. “How can a debt be paid by the Queen when she’s no longer alive?” I asked.
“The scrimshaw may look like a mere artifact to outsiders,” Papa George replied, “but in the eyes of many Pacific Islanders, it carries a sacred promise. It binds their loyalty to the one who holds it.”
“This is very valuable, then,” I remarked. “Why isn’t it locked up in some vault?”
“My boy,” Papa George said, laughing, “the ranch is a vault. So is every Goddard property. Each one is as secure as Fort Knox.”
“True,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of this place that way.”
“That’s because you’re now part of the prime minister bubble,” Clara said. “And it’s easy to lose perspective.”
We entered the suite where their luggage was waiting.
“Can I help you unpack?” I offered, just as the whoop-whoop of a helicopter reached our ears.
Papa George waved a hand as he looked out the window. “We’ve got it from here.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and tore out of the room.
The first of the other Big 5 families to arrive was the "W" in my GE-LAW mnemonic: Goddards (law), Everton (insurance), Langdon (media), Ashcroft (banking), and Worthington (shipping).
As the engine wound down and the rotors slowed, the first to emerge from the Bell 47J was Harold Worthington, a barrel-chested man in his early sixties with a shock of silver hair and a gruff, weathered face. He ducked his head and ran clear of the rotor wash, where he waited impatiently while an attendant helped his wife out of the helicopter.
Evelyn Worthington, a striking woman in her early fifties, stepped onto the grass. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair did not move in the breeze or under the thrum of the slowing rotors, and her Chanel suit spoke of old money and entitled taste. She surveyed the surroundings with a mixture of boredom and disdain.
Trailing behind them was their son, Thomas. He was thirty-five but dressed as if he were still a teenager. His rumpled appearance and slightly bloodshot eyes hinted at a late night of drinking.
I approached with a handshake. “Welcome to the Goddard Ranch, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington. Thomas. I trust your flight was comfortable.”
Harold’s grip was firm. “Damn right it was. It’s my bird. Where’s Rob? I’ve got matters to discuss.”
“The prime minister is on a call and will join us shortly,” I replied. “In the meantime, may I offer you a tour of the house?”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Well, at least there’s that. Lead on, dear.”
As we entered the great room, Harold took in the space with a critical eye. “Bit too modern for my taste,” he grumbled, eyeing the sleek curves of a Vladimir Kagan serpentine sofa.
I gestured toward a Chinese vase. “This piece is quite special. It’s from the Ming—”
“Yes, yes,” Harold cut me off. “I’m sure it’s very nice. Where’s Rob?”
“He’s in a meeting, sir.”
“He has a lot to answer for,” Harold said indignantly. “The fact that he’s not here is unsat!”
Meanwhile, Evelyn had drifted toward a Japanese kotatsu with a glass top across the latticework. “Now, this is lovely,” she murmured, tracing her manicured finger along the edge. “I must ask Sally where she found it.”
Thomas leaned against the doorframe, barely suppressing a yawn as he stared into space. “Where can a man get a drink in this place?” he asked, his words slightly slurred.
I led them to the dining room, where a large Chinese huanghuali wood table dominated the space. Harold nodded approvingly.
“Now this, this is more like it. A proper table for proper discussions.”
“Oh, Harold,” Evelyn groaned. “Must everything be about business?”
As we moved through the house, Harold kept pressing me for details about the meeting agenda, while Evelyn’s eyes flitted from one piece of furniture to the next. Thomas slouched along behind, padding through the hallways with little interest, perking up only when we passed the kitchen, where the staff was prepping huge bowls of salad.
“Now we’re talking,” he said, eyeing the Sub-Zero refrigerator. “Is there any Bloody Mary mix in this house?”
Before I could respond, Jack ran up, slightly out of breath.
“Michael, a black car is pulling up.”
I’d assigned Jack to keep an eye out for the arriving families and let me know.
“Thanks, Jack. Have you met the Worthingtons?”
“Yes, sir, once before,” he replied, shaking hands with each of them and looking them squarely in the eye.
“That’s a firm handshake, young Goddard,” Harold boomed. “Thomas, you could learn a thing or two from this young lad.”
Thomas sneered like a petulant teenager.
“Jack,” I said, “please escort the Worthingtons to the lānai overlooking the outdoor tables and ask Mario to send someone over to take drink orders.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, turning to the Worthingtons. “Madam, sirs, if you’d follow me.”
I headed out to the circular driveway just in time to see the Everton family arriving in a sleek black Cadillac Fleetwood, coming from the newly constructed Mauna Kea Beach Hotel, which wasn’t yet open to the public. The hotel manager had agreed to host the Big 5 families who weren’t just flying in for the day.
The car crunched to a stop on the seashell driveway. James “Jimbo” Everton, Rob’s old war buddy, jumped out before the chauffeur could even cut the engine. He was already around the back, opening the door for his wife, Margaret, a graceful woman who reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, with a warm, inviting smile. Jimbo had the bearing you’d expect from a former military man who now headed the Republic’s largest global company, Hawaii International Group (HIG).
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Everton. How is the Mauna Kea?”
Jimbo nodded, his handshake firm. “Good to see you again, Michael. Rockefeller’s built a promising hotel. It’s going to be a world-beater—best in class.”
As the children tumbled out of the car, I crouched slightly to greet them at eye level. “Well now, here’s a good-looking crew.”
A tall, lanky boy with his father’s eyes stepped forward and shook my hand with confidence. “I’m Lewis. I’m the oldest!”
“That’s a fine grip. How old are you, Lewis?”
“Fourteen, sir. Last March.” He beamed.
A girl with pigtails and freckles gave me a big wave. “I’m Sarah!”
“That’s a beautiful name,” I said. “And it’s Mrs. Sally Goddard’s given name.”
“I was named for Aunt Sally,” Sarah said proudly. “But Mother said I should go by Sarah so we don’t get mixed up.”
“Your mother is very wise,” I said.
“And then we have the twins, Robert and Emily,” Margaret added, nudging them forward to shake my hand.
Two identical faces grinned mischievously as they each grabbed my hand and shook it with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if my arm were a Slinky.
After the introductions, Margaret turned to the children. “Why don’t you four go play with your summer cousins?”
“Jack’s helping me greet the guests,” I said, “but you’ll find Molly and Bobby somewhere around here—maybe in the barn. Lunch is at noon. We’ll ring the cowbell when it’s time.”
As the kids scampered off, I led Mr. and Mrs. Everton toward the house.
Inside the great room, Jimbo whistled low. “East meets West,” he remarked, taking in the mix of Asian and American furnishings. “That Chinese daybed reminds me of one my parents bought when we lived in Shanghai.”
“That thing weighs a ton,” I said.
“Oh boy, it does. I remember helping my dad move ours into our Hawaii home after we left Shanghai, when Japan invaded. It’s still in my father’s place in Maui,” Jimbo added.
Margaret gravitated toward the Vladimir Kagan serpentine sofa. “This is divine,” she said, running her hand along its curved back. “So modern, yet so comfortable.”
As we moved into the dining room, Jimbo nodded at the large Chinese huanghuali wood table. “Now that’s a proper table. Reminds me of the boardroom in HIG’s old Shanghai office on the Bund.”
“Sally wanted something big for family gatherings, and this room can handle it,” I noted.
“Just like the Chinese,” he said with a grin. “Sally knows how to prioritize family.”
In one part of the room, Jimbo paused by a Chinese scholar’s chair.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if Mao hadn’t taken over, we’d probably still be expanding our operations in China. So much potential wasted.”
When we passed the kitchen, Jimbo chuckled. “I hope Rob’s not thinking about serving c-rations today.”
Margaret swatted his arm playfully. “James, save the military jokes for later. Rob will be more than happy to reminisce with you then.”
As we finished the tour, the Evertons settled comfortably into the antique New England Shaker chairs in one corner of the great room.
“I’ve always liked these chairs,” said Margaret. “American antiques pair so well with Asian furniture.”
“And they’re more comfortable than they look,” Jimbo added.
Just then, Jack came running in. “The Ashcrofts are arriving on horseback!”
I looked at the Evertons, unsure what to do.
“Go ahead, Michael,” Jimbo said. “We’ll find our way to the luncheon. Ten minutes before noon, right? If you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late. That’s one of most important things Rob and I learned in the Marines.”
I hesitated.
“Go,” Margaret added with a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine.”
Jack and I shook their hands, then sprinted out to the front veranda.
The Ashcrofts were approaching, led by Elizabeth Ashcroft, her posture impeccable as she guided her horse with effortless grace. Behind her, looking far less comfortable, was her husband, Walter Ashcroft, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew from the ride.
Trailing behind were their children: Penelope, seventeen, her face a mask of boredom and annoyance; Fred, fifteen, sulking openly; and young Amelia, ten, who barely waited for her horse to stop before dismounting and racing toward the barn without so much as a glance at her parents or me.
I stepped forward to welcome them. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Ashcroft. I hope your ride was pleasant."
Elizabeth dismounted with a flourish, her riding boots gleaming. "Oh, it was divine," she gushed. "Though the trails could use some work. Don’t you agree, Walter?"
Walter, distracted by a piece of paper he’d pulled from his jacket, looked up. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Quite."
Penelope slid off her horse dramatically. "Mother, this is barbaric. I can’t believe you made us ride here."
Fred chimed in. “This is such a drag. The waves at Sandy’s are firing right now, and I’m stuck here with a bunch of old farts.”
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps I can walk you over to the hitching post by the barn and then take you on a tour of the house before lunch starts?"
“No need to walk all the way over there,” Walter said. “We can hitch 'em here on the porch’s railing.”
“In Hawaii it’s called a lānai, Daddy,” Penelope corrected.
“It looks more like a Western porch than a lānai, baby.”
“What difference does it make?” Elizabeth sighed. “Lānai, veranda—who cares?”
“It’s important to be precise in our word choice, Mother,” Walter countered. “This looks like a porch—”
“Daddy, do you have to be such a square?” Penelope snapped, folding her arms.
I saw my chance. "I’ll tie your horses to that pump," I said, pointing to a well pump with a long handle. "I’ll ask a ranch hand to walk them over to the barn. You’ll be able to see them from the lunch tables."
“They’re not our horses,” Penelope scoffed. “They belong to the hotel. I wouldn’t be caught dead riding these broken-down nags at the Saddle Club.”
Just then, Jack reappeared.
“Jack, take two of these horses to the hitching post by the barn, and then come back for the others.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Ashcrofts had already disappeared into the great room. When I caught up, Elizabeth was inspecting the Vladimir Kagan serpentine sofa.
"Now that's a statement piece," she declared. "Though I’m not sure it fits with the rest of the décor. Don’t you think, Walter?"
Walter, half-interested, was eyeing the Japanese tansu chest. "The depreciation on these pieces must be fascinating to calculate."
Penelope flopped onto the sofa. "This is so boring…so boring. Can’t we just go back to the hotel? Or better yet, go home?"
In the dining room, Fred ran his hand roughly along the Chinese huanghuali wood table. "This looks ancient. Don’t they have any modern furniture?"
"Fred, don’t touch that!" Elizabeth snapped, before turning to me with a forced smile. "Kids. No appreciation for fine things."
“That table belongs in a bank boardroom, not a dining room,” Walter muttered.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Walter, must everything be about business?"
Fred perked up for the first time when we passed by the kitchen. "Finally, something cool," he said, eyeing the equipment. "Think they'd let me use this to make some burgers?"
Elizabeth scoffed. "Fred, darling, we're not here to cook. That’s what staff is for."
By the time we completed the tour and returned to the great room, the family dynamics were on full display. Walter was scribbling in a small ledger, barely acknowledging anyone. Elizabeth critiqued the décor, while Penelope and Fred bickered.
I gestured toward the lānai. "Perhaps you'd like to enjoy the view while we wait for the other guests?"
Elizabeth brightened. "Oh, yes. And perhaps a white Burgundy?"
As they filed onto the lānai, I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. Ten minutes until lunch, and the Langdons still hadn’t arrived.
Just then, Rob, Keller, and Sally emerged from the PM’s study.
"Everyone here?" Rob asked.
"No, sir. The Langdons have yet to arrive," I replied.
"No surprise," Keller said. "Langdon will be late for his own funeral."
"Doesn’t matter," Rob said. "I want to start on time and get this thing over with. Help me herd these cats to lunch."
The outdoor setup had been arranged family style, with one long table draped in crisp white linen beneath a perfectly pruned monkeypod tree. The backdrop was pure majesty: open fields stretching toward the base of Mauna Loa’s slopes.
Place cards had been strategically arranged in boy-girl-boy-girl fashion, with the likely holdouts positioned near Rob. Vivian Langdon was seated to his right, with Harold Worthington to her right. On Rob’s left were Evelyn Worthington and, next to her, Thurston Langdon. Both men were firmly on Rob’s watch list as opponents of the Republic’s pivot to Asia.
Sally was buffered from Thurston, her former love interest, by Jimbo Everton on her right and Vivian Ashcroft on his right, with Walter Ashcroft seated directly across from her. Her job was to make sure Walter understood which way the wind was blowing. And that it was blowing west, toward Asia. Being a banker, Walter could be expected to follow the prevailing wind. To reinforce the message, Margaret Everton was placed to his left and Clara to his right.
Papa George sat on Sally’s left, and Keller next to Clara, giving them a clear line of sight to study the faces of every principal player at the table.
The children filled in the rest of the seats, with Thomas Worthington stationed at the far end, about as far from his parents as one could be without being seated in the kitchen. I was placed next to him, charged with the delicate task of keeping him relaxed, distracted, and talkative.
As the guests took their seats, the mouthwatering scent of grilling meat wafted from the outdoor kitchen. Mario oversaw the staff as they worked the large, custom-built smoker and high-end grill. Kona Coffee–Rubbed Prime Rib, Mahi-Mahi, and golden-brown Huli Huli Chicken turned slowly on the rotisserie. Servers moved briskly, laying out appetizers and pouring drinks: Primo Beer, Rainier Beer, Château Lafite Rothschild, Château d'Yquem for the adults, and Mario’s homemade Hawaiian Punch for the kids.
The crunch of tires on the seashell driveway signaled the late arrival of the Langdons. I sprang from my seat and hurried to greet them as they stepped out of their chauffeured Bentley. Thurston Langdon, tall and distinguished in his early forties, was the first to emerge, followed by his wife, Vivian, her expression a careful mask of polite indifference. Their children tumbled out after them: Jimmy, eight, clearly thrilled to escape the back seat; Eliza, six, wide-eyed and curious; and little Annette, four, clinging tightly to her mother’s hand.
"Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, welcome," I said, guiding them toward the luncheon. "Everyone’s already gathered. Please, follow me."
As they arrived, Rob was already standing, glass in hand and wearing a smile just shy of mocking.
"Ah, Thurston! So good of you to join us. I was starting to think we’d need to send out a search party—or take out a missing persons ad in the Gazette."
A ripple of laughter passed through the group. Thurston offered a stiff smile, his eyes flicking toward Sally before settling on Rob.
"You know me, Rob. Always chasing the next big story."
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Rob said, his tone hardening. “Let’s make sure you get it right this time.”
Turning to the group, Rob raised his glass again. “Welcome, everyone, to our annual Big 5 gathering. Now that we’re all here, there are a few rules of engagement. No shop talk until after lunch. Understood, Harold?”
Rob shot him a look.
Harold returned it with a tight smile and didn’t respond.
“Let’s use this lunch to catch up, reminisce, and enjoy each other’s company," Rob said.
A polite murmur of agreement passed down the table.
Rob turned toward Thomas Worthington. “Thomas, I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve placed you and Michael at that end of the table to help keep an eye on the children. I imagine they could use some adult supervision.”
Thomas, visibly relieved, nodded. “Of course, Rob. Happy to help.”
Rob continued, “After lunch, the heads of the families will adjourn for dessert, drinks, and our traditional discussion. Sally has graciously offered to lead the ladies in a special flower-arranging ceremony. And for our younger guests, there’s a hayride around the ranch.”
At that, Harold Worthington cleared his throat. “Rob, if I may? Given that Thomas is my heir in the shipping business, I think it would be beneficial for him to join us men for the discussion.”
Rob paused; his face unreadable. Then he nodded. “Not our usual practice, but I don’t see why we can’t make an exception. Thomas, you’re welcome to join.”
Rob turned to Clara. “Mom, would you lead us in prayer?”
The adults stood holding hands. The kids fidgeted and shuffled about, trying to sit next to friends instead of where their name cards had placed them. Clara waited patiently until they settled.
She closed her eyes.
Heavenly Father, we thank you for this day, for this table, and for the hands that prepared this meal.
We thank you for the land beneath our feet, the ocean that surrounds us, and the mountains that remind us of your strength.
As we gather here—family, friends, and partners in purpose—may we be guided by wisdom, tempered by humility, and united by grace.
Help us to speak with kindness, listen with patience, and remember that our differences need not divide us.
Bless the food before us, the conversations around us, and the future we are building together.
May it be grounded in truth, nourished by aloha, and worthy of those who will come after us.
In your holy name we pray. Amen.
“Amen,” the families said in unison.
Rob raised his glass. “Now, let’s enjoy this wonderful meal prepared by Mario and his team...To the lasting prosperity of the Republic of Hawaii!”
“To Hawaii,” everyone echoed.
Mario’s team moved with military precision, serving from the left and clearing from the right. The poke arrived on hand-painted plates adorned with native Hawaiian flowers. The deep red cubes of ahi glistened against bright green limu seaweed, topped with crushed inamona.
“The ahi was caught this morning off Kona,” Mario explained. “We’ve prepared it in the traditional style, though we’ve added macadamia nuts from the ranch’s own trees.”
“For the kids and Michael,” Mario continued with a gleam in his eye directed at me, “we have pigs in a blanket and homemade macaroni and cheese.”
While I appreciated Mario’s gesture, I was in a bit of a funk. I was Rob’s private secretary, supposed to protect his blind side, but here I was sitting at the far end of a long table with the kids, whom I delighted in, but how was I supposed to do my job?
I could see that Rob had his hands full. Evelyn’s countenance, even from my distant vantage, suggested she was displeased with the appetizers, known as pupu in Hawaii. She kept turning away from Rob, who was trying to politely engage her, to dab her pursed lips with her napkin, the prissy equivalent of saying "barf”.
Oh, here is the Big 5 cheat sheet I kept in my notebook for quick reference:
Rob was having no luck engaging Vivian, who was clearly distracted. Between bites of poke, she kept scanning from her husband to Sally and back. She had good reason. Her husband Thurston was betwixt and between. One minute he was scowling at Rob, and the next, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was lusting after Sally.
As for Harold Worthington, he sat there like a lump on a log, arms folded, refusing to engage or even eat.
Then there was the love fest taking place between Papa George, Clara, Keller, Sally, Jimbo, and Margaret. I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation even over the chatter and exuberance of the kids. Phrases like "I love sushi and sashimi and everything about Japanese food," and questions like "Have you ever climbed Mount Fuji-san?" Clearly, this was for the benefit of the Ashcrofts, designed to leave no doubt in Walter’s mind that the wind had shifted to the west, meaning toward the East.
I knew all this, but still, I felt isolated from my boss and was desperate to get into the game and protect his blind side down at the other end of the table.
Then Mario rescued me. He snapped me out of my funk by introducing a new round of appetizers. Grilled pineapple and prosciutto skewers appeared, paired with a Maui onion and tomato salad. The sweet aroma of the pineapple mingled with the salty prosciutto, creating a refined fusion of Hawaiian and European flavors.
“The pineapples are from the Worthington fields in Wahiawa,” Mario mentioned quietly as he topped off my wine, “and the tomatoes were grown and canned right here on the ranch.”
“The taro rolls are from Aunty Martha’s recipe,” Mario continued, nodding toward the kitchen. “She insists on grinding the taro herself.”
But it wasn’t the salad or the taro rolls, while both delicious, that broke my spell. It was the Kalua pork sliders, the meat slow-cooked overnight in an imu, a traditional underground oven. They reminded me of training tables at Michigan. One of the many privileges of playing football at Michigan was that we ate all our meals in a special dining room for athletes. Other sports got to eat at training tables when their sport was in season, but we got training meals year-round. And the food was superb, much better than normal student cafeteria food.
Every Friday, we gorged on cheeseburgers and milkshakes. There was an ulterior motive behind this menu, of course. It loaded us up with the necessary fuel for Saturday’s big game (when we were in season) or lined our stomachs to guard against a full weekend of drinking beer (when we were out of season). But we didn’t care. The meal was my favorite, and since we had first pick in course selection, none of us football heads had Friday afternoon classes. We parlayed our full stomachs into long naps before the afternoon walkthrough and bonfire.
All this is the long way of explaining why Mario’s sliders prompted me to remember one of the many lessons I learned from Coach Oosterbaan. He was a Michigan legend, a three-sport star in the 1920s who later coached us to a national championship and three Big Ten titles.
When I arrived as a freshman, I was a spaz on the field. He said to me, “Son, you’re trying to do too much. You can’t play all eleven positions. You have a singular responsibility, and that’s to block. Focus all your attention on blocking. Trust your teammates to do their jobs.”
Seeing, smelling, and tasting Mario’s sliders reminded me of Coach Oosterbaan’s wisdom. At the Big 5 barbecue, my job wasn’t to be at Rob’s side. He had tasked me with blocking Thomas Worthington.
I looked over at Thomas. He was inhaling his slider.
“Good sliders, heh?” I said between mouthfuls.
“Yup,” he said.
“How are you doing?” I asked, attempting to do my job and engage him in conversation. I could hear Coach Oosterbaan’s mantra, Do your job, ringing in my ears.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old.”
“What do you mean?”
“Same old shit. My dad’s always riding my ass about training up to someday take over for him.”
“You don’t want to?”
“Sure, I do, but on my terms. I don’t agree with everything he does.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno.”
“Your dad seems angry,” I said, gesturing toward Harold at the other end of the table.
“You’d be too if you were on the pointy end of the stick fighting off Commie infiltrators and then all of a sudden found yourself being bombarded by friendly fire from your supposed friends.”
I was beginning to think I had underestimated Thomas. His juvenile appearance belied the wisdom of his succinct summation of his family’s predicament. I hadn’t considered the Islands of Profits plan from the perspective of the Worthington family.
Then Mario appeared suddenly at my elbow, his expression neutral.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, using my surname as code for we have a problem. “Might I have a word about the coffee service?”
I followed him through the kitchen, where his staff was plating the main courses. But instead of taking me to his office off the kitchen, he guided me toward the great room. His posture shifted from formal server to alert Navy man.
“I always check the great room between courses,” he said quietly. “Old habit from my Navy days—secure all compartments, even in friendly waters.”
He paused at the entrance.
“The scrimshaw of the Royal Hawaiian Queen is missing,” he said.
Next on the docket: The Scrimshaw Incident (Part 2)
© 2025 Kora Leadership Company LLC
All rights reserved.
This chapter is part of Hawaii Incorporated and is protected under U.S. and international copyright laws. No part of this content may be copied, reproduced, or distributed without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews or as permitted under fair use.
This is a work of historical fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For permissions or inquiries: admin@koraleadership.com
Thank you for reading! For the next chapter, stay tuned on hawaiirepublicinc.substack.com