by Rob Simpson
A woman named Elizabeth Sinclair bought Niihau and some land on Kauai from King Kamehameha I in the 1860s. Sinclair’s descendants, Bruce and Keith Robinson, still own it. They’ve apparently turned down offers of as much as a billion dollars for Niihau; their steadfast intent is to keep it pristine and intact for the native Hawaiians who live there. In 2010, the population was listed as 170.
The excursion I made was offered starting in about 1992 but was hardly publicized, nor were the private safari expeditions to hunt boar. The Robinsons wanted to find any way they could to chip away at their debt to the U.S. government, but I don’t think they were really enthused about inviting tourists. We were lucky and privileged to discover the opportunity locally.
Having been fully indoctrinated into, and appreciative of, the Aloha Spirit, “one with the aina [‘land’],” if you will, I can’t properly describe the anticipation I felt for this day trip. Truly like a small child on Christmas morning. More accurately like a man-child, full of wonder and wanderlust, taking a really cool next step in a life of travel and exploration.
My wife didn’t want to spend another $250, nor did she have the same interest in visiting Niihau. So whom would I share this adventure with?
Not that long before Roger Fredericks became the king of golf exercise and swing instruction videos, he ran the Delmar Golf School at the Sheraton Makaha on the leeward side of Oahu. He and his girlfriend/assistant had moved to the islands in the early 1990s from San Diego. He was a great instructor with a big problem: no one was really going to the Sheraton Makaha on the leeward side of Oahu. As local TV sports guys, my fellow KGMB-TV sports anchor, Scott Culbertson, and I tried to pump up his business a little bit with publicity and features about the school. Over time, we became buds with Roger and he gave us some helpful golf lessons I still utilize today.
A great guy in general, Roger is a bit quirky. Goofy. His odd sense of humour became a popular element in his golf instruction videos. He would later incorporate yoga into his exercise, stretching, and golf programs as well, although I didn’t have any idea he was into yoga until we arrived on Niihau.
Roger was game for whatever Hawaiian adventures came his way. For example, when I skydived for the first time, Roger came along and also jumped out of the airplane over the North Shore of Oahu. As he fell, he had one arm out where it was supposed to be, but his other hand was on top of his head. The footage from the videographer, falling at the same speed and shooting back at him, shows Roger plummeting to Earth while trying to hold in place whatever portion of his hair wasn’t naturally his.
Sounds odd, but the other participant in our adventure that day on Niihau was Neil Everett’s ex-wife, Mary. Neil was our backup weekend sports anchor and the dude I spent the most time hanging out with during my last two years in Hawaii. We were both sports nuts who gambled casually on a regular basis. We’d get together to drink beer and watch college football or basketball games from the east coast at two in the afternoon. (Hawaii doesn’t do the daylight savings crap, so Honolulu is five hours behind New York in winter and six hours behind in the summer.) My wife worked until five. Neil and I had a couple of regular spots including Club Sun in Honolulu, kind of a combination sports bar/Korean strip club. There was always someone to look at during the commercials.
I have forgotten the names of many an establishment over the years, but I’ll never forget the name Club Sun.
In early January 1996, my next-to-last week in Hawaii, a day after we had met with him to go over my little going-away shindig the following weekend, Club Sun’s owner, Andy, was shot dead behind the bar. The two gunmen didn’t take any money. They walked in, shot him, and walked out. Andy was either into some shady shit and pissed off the wrong guy, or, he was just a regular guy who chose the wrong business.
Neil and I went to his Buddhist funeral a few days later. The venue was packed. We walked by Andy’s body to pay our respects. Most of the people were chanting the same thing over and over the entire time. It was trippy.
Neil and I did a lot of cool stuff exploring Oahu — kayaking, cruising around town, attending sporting events — and we briefly hosted a weekly radio show together. Unfortunately, he had to miss my wedding because someone had to fill in for me on the weekend sportscast.
Neil couldn’t make Niihau. Maybe he couldn’t afford it. But he said his ex-wife, Mary, would absolutely love to go.
Roger and I met at the Honolulu airport and flew to Kauai. We met Mary at an airstrip in Hanapepe (Ha-na-pay-pay). The fourth participant on the trip was a random Englishman in his sixties. It was kind of weird — we never spoke to the guy.
Our helicopter on Niihau. At one point it had been repainted and used in the film Jurassic Park.
Not long before our excursion, Steven Spielberg had wrapped up shooting a little flick on Kauai called Jurassic Park. We’d be flying in the helicopter that had been repainted and used as the park helicopter in the movie. Spielberg apparently had also used it for his personal transportation around the island while he was in production. We felt special.
We lifted off and headed pretty much due west for the trip to Niihau, with no idea where exactly we were going or what to expect. It’s only about twenty miles from the western side of Kauai to Niihau via canoe, but almost fifty miles from where we took off to where we would touch down for the first time.
We swung past cliffs on the east side of Niihau at Pueo (Poo-eh-oh) Point and headed southwest. The cliffs gave way to pristine beaches along the coast and mostly dry, thick brush in the interior. We crossed over the island and landed near an area called Kamalino. So thrilled were we fucking haoles, we actually all got down on our hands and knees and kissed the aina. Giddy exclamations and comments followed.
“We’re here!”
“This is unreal.”
“I never thought I’d be on Niihau.”
Lying on the beach nearby was a rare Hawaiian monk seal.
Ten minutes later, we were back in the chopper and headed north. We flew right over the lone village of Puuwai (Poo-oo-why), which sits exactly halfway up the island along the west coast. No, there weren’t grass or mud huts, but they were very simple wooden dwellings. We continued north along the coastline until Niihau ended. The pilot circled us around the steep sides of Lehua (Lay-who-ah), a separate volcanic half-cone islet sitting a short distance from Niihau’s north shore. It was literally breathtaking. I dreamed we could land on it, explore, and snorkel inside the waters of the crescent-shaped bay on the north side. Instead, we circled back and landed at the very northern end of Niihau, on the beach at Keamano (Kay-ah-mon-oh) Bay.
The pilot pulled out a picnic lunch: sandwiches and juice boxes. We ate, stared out across a massive, untouched beach that stretched a mile to the next point, and marvelled. The next thing I knew, Roger had wandered off, as had Mary, in opposite directions. The English dude shot the shit with the pilot while I just kicked back for a bit and then walked to the water. I couldn’t take my eyes off Lehua, the back side of it looming just off to our left.
Mary returned with a skull. Knowing the history, familiar with the Hawaiian traditions and the taboos, I immediately got nervous.
“Um, not a great idea,” I said.
It was the skull of a human child and, based on my very limited paleontological skills, looked to be at least a hundred years old. The Hawaiians often buried their dead in the sand dunes. She set it aside with every intention of taking it home with her, like some type of tourist artifact. I wasn’t about to lecture or explain why, but I knew that wasn’t going
to happen. I walked away from what was a mini buzz-kill.
Thirty yards away on the beach was a Hawaiian war canoe, left behind in the late 1790s when King Kamehameha I came from the big island and tried to conquer Niihau and unify all the islands. It didn’t go so well. His warriors got slaughtered. Eventually the islands all came together as a Hawaiian kingdom through
marriage and more peaceful means.
The canoe was in fantastic condition, which made sense, because hardly any human beings had set foot on this beach since the vessel arrived. No one in our group ventured very far into the thick brush that surrounded the beaches for two main reasons. One, we were standing on an untouched, perfect, incredibly beautiful beach; and two, no one was carrying a gun in case we ran into a wild boar.
This was a “lie around and appreciate your surroundings and maybe take a dip or two” visit. Which brings us to Roger.
I set off to find him. Mary followed after a few minutes and gradually caught up to me. We were walking east, from Puukola (Poo-oo-cola) Point at one end of the bay towards the other end at Kikepa (Kee-kay-pa) Point. Near Kikepa we could see another ancient canoe on the beach with a little human head popping up and down on the other side of it. This head was still alive. It was Roger, doing some stretching and yoga moves in the sand — while buck-naked.
“One with the aina.”
Mary had stopped to check out some shells along the water, so I arrived on the scene first. This allowed Roger time to pull on his shorts.
“Oops, sorry,” he said, laughing when he noticed Mary nearby.
“Dude, no worries.” Like it really mattered.
Mary smiled and appreciated the fact that Roger had felt inspired and comfortable enough to let it all hang out. Seriously, it was Niihau, we were the only human beings on a mile-long stretch of beach that had probably seen ten other Caucasians in its history. Who cares and why not? But we didn’t strip down to join him au naturel. I might have made that suggestion if we hadn’t been with Neil’s ex-wife, but instead we went for a swim and took wicked-cool album-cover style photographs of ourselves doing staggered yoga positions on the beach. Shorts and bikini on, or shorts and bikini off, it didn’t matter; we were relishing what time we had left in one of the most unique places on the planet.
Quite a contrast in perspective compared to my first month on the islands in 1991. I was new at the TV station, as was a local Japanese camera guy named John. We were both sent to the leeward side of Oahu to do a story about someone wanting to construct a building on top of a heiau (hey-yow). Heiau are sacred places, temples, or Hawaiian remains of significance. While John and I were looking for the heiau, stumbling around an area of uneven ground near the beach, a dude kindly pulled up.
I go, “Hey man, do you know where the heiau is?”
And he goes, “Yeah, bruddah, you’re walking all over it.”
Oh shit.
We were in Waianea (Why-a-nye) in the heart of the leeward side, about as badass local as it gets. Fortunately, no one stopped to kick our ass or give us too much grief. Red-faced, we thanked the guy, moved along quickly, and got on with making our news story. Ever since, I have been a master of heiau respect and etiquette. It’s quite simple: don’t fuck with heiau.
By Niihau, I had a come a long way emotionally and intellectually since I had arrived in Hawaii four years earlier. My appreciation for the culture and customs, both modern and ancient, ran deep. I learned to diss the politics of life, to not sweat the bullshit, and to relax.
I had a unique opportunity to learn the customs and the culture of Hawaii, to interview people about them, to talk to remarkable people from all walks of life, and to travel extensively on seven of the eight islands. I was a broadcaster who was given extraordinary opportunities. And I was a broadcaster who wasn’t a dick.
The amazing experience that was Niihau was almost over, but not quite. We reluctantly made our way back to Spielberg’s chopper. “Leave nothing but your footprints behind and take away only memories” is a philosophy of respect in such unspoiled and spiritual places, and it kicked in beautifully with the help of our pilot. As I expected, when Mary suggested bringing the skull along as a keepsake, our guide was having nothing to do with it.
“Not a chance. You have to put that back.” Thank you, helicopter man.
Roger hopped aboard, fully clothed and absolutely delighted with the experience — spiritually touched and repetitively thankful. It was cool. I was really happy he so appreciated the opportunity.
On the trip back to Kauai, a Niihau native and his young son joined us and sat in the front seat next to the pilot. I didn’t know it then, but locals are occasionally shuttled over to Kauai to pick up supplies or visit relatives or whatever. The man didn’t speak to us; the boy never even gave us a look. The four of us haoles sat in the back of the helicopter and looked out the windows as Niihau became smaller in the distance.
I watched the man and his son for any type of reaction or communication. I found it fascinating. Had either one of them been off the island before? I doubted the kid had. Where were they going? Does the boy speak English or Hawaiian? Is he completely freaked out by the white people in the back seat? Has he ever seen a white person?
So many questions and thoughts entered my mind because having them along was so unexpected. I wasn’t going to say a word to them. To me, they were like royalty in a way. I didn’t want to tarnish their existence or experience.
Just riding in a helicopter with native Hawaiians, a rich and thriving culture in its purest form just 125 years ago, but now almost extinct — the significance of the moment will never be lost.
~
In recent years, the Robinsons have solved their whopping tax problem by allowing the U.S. military to set up various electronic equipment on Niihau. As far as I know, it’s remote, there’s no weaponry, and they’re not allowed interaction with the locals.
Neil Everett has been working at ESPN as a sports anchor since 2000, after having his talents discovered while working at our TV station in Hawaii. He’s happily remarried. He’s a brother from another mother.
And in case you’re still curious, the capital of Oregon is Salem and the five Great Lakes are Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan, and Superior.
Check out your anchor boy on YouTube: Simpson Hawaii Anchor
THE SWAMP
“What was left of his leg was attached by a flap of skin.”
Witness at a dance club explosion, November 1990
In 1979, while still only midway through our Fundamentals in Radio Broadcasting class in high school, my best friend, Ric Blackwell, and I decided to form Simpwell Productions. Simp’ would be the chairman of the board and ’Well would be the president. We established a handshake: the standard everyday grip, followed by our simultaneous re-enactment of a lunging basketball referee bringing his arm around over his head and “counting the basket.” It’s a handshake still in use almost forty years later.
We were playing make-believe business with Simpwell, but we were also very serious and determined. After redefining the quality of high-school radio with a show called Sportscan, with guests from the NBA, NHL, and local television actually visiting us in-studio, we earned some ink (thanks in part to some urgent lobbying from ’Well).
Instant Replay column, Jay Mariotti, The Detroit News, Thursday, November 5, 1981:
Yep, another talk show. I received a phone call yesterday from Ric Blackwell of radio station WBFH-FM in Bloomfield Hills.
“We’d like you to publicize our talk show,” said Blackwell.
Fine. Ric Blackwell and another fellow, Rob Simpson, host a weekly sports talk show on WBFH every Wednesday night from 6 to 8. Blackwell and Simpson are seniors at Bloomfield Hills Andover High School. The station is a 10-watt community outlet associated with Andover High and Lahser High. Sophomores at both schools can enroll in a course, Fundamentals of Radio Broadcasting. The students are then placed in a position at the radio station. Sports, it seems, is the most popular area.
“We’ve got a large staff,” Blackwell said. “Our school’s football and basketball games are handled by Rob and myself, but we have other students doing volleyball, hockey, baseball,
and junior-high sports.”
Among their guests on the talk show
have been Gordie Howe, Al Kaline, and Channel 4 sportscaster Eli Zaret.
“Personally, my two favourites in the Detroit market are Don Shane [another guest] and Eli,” Blackwell said. “They’re fresh and something new for the area. It’s not the same old routine with them.”
Blackwell and Simpson will attend Central Michigan University. Upon graduation in 1986, they should be ready to replace Anne Doyle and Jim Price on Channel 2’s weekend charade.
Actually, Doyle and Price were bad enough I think we could have replaced them right out of high school. Price was a former backup catcher for the Tigers and Doyle was the daughter of local radio sports fixture Vince Doyle. It might have been the worst example of “ex-jockism” and market nepotism in the history of sports television.
Unfortunately, Ric and I weren’t quite ready to take over in 1986. Especially considering Ric didn’t get out of CMU until December 1986, and I stayed on for the five-year plan. After that, I dicked around and travelled for a while.
By August 1990, Ric was pulling most of the weight in our young broadcasting careers. After hooking me up with a news gig in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, the year before, Ric was trying to get me a job in Florida. Instead of a friend and colleague, Ric could have been my agent. He was finding me work when I wasn’t even looking for it.
“Get down here, I’m moving to night beat reporter at WINK-TV and they’re looking for someone to fill my bureau-chief spot. Send tape,” he advised.
Simpwell Productions — Rob Simpson and Ric Blackwell — at the 1991 Gator Bowl in Jacksonville, Florida. Michigan 35, Mississippi 3.