by Chip Hughes
Ransom received threats. The one act of violence against him came at the hands of SPC radical Ikaika “Sonny Boy” Chang who dragged the CEO from his car into the red mud road Ransom’s crew had cut into the forest. Sonny Boy was arrested and denounced by the SPC, since it advocated nonviolence. He did time for the attack, was released, and then arrested again for violating parole. Over the last two decades he’d been in and out jail. Currently it appears he’s out. That could be trouble.
Ransom’s geothermal operation ultimately failed to produce enough electricity to be commercially viable. He bailed out and the disputed land was ultimately returned to a trust for the benefit of Hawaiians, after years of continued protests and legal wrangling. When the CEO walked away, his former partner Mick London went bankrupt, sued Ransom, but did not prevail in court. London apparently lost everything, including his home. After the court battle, it appears the two men never reconciled. If London still lives on the Big Island, which seems to be the case, he might attend the funeral of a former Ransom company officer. That could also be trouble.
At the same time Ransom pulled out of Puna and was being sued by his former partner, the CEO was going through an ugly divorce from his first wife, Kathryn Bates Ransom—while former beauty queen Donnie Lam waited in the wings. During their bitter divorce, Kathryn, who apparently still resides in the family home in Kona, was questioned by Big Island police about a knife wound to her husband’s hand that was treated at Hilo Medical Center. Ransom claimed the wound came from a cooking accident. Those who knew the couple thought otherwise. Kathryn had finally snapped, one neighbor said, and given her cheating husband what he deserved.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Rex’s ex showed up at the funeral too. Kathryn no doubt knew the family of the deceased and might want to pay her respects. More trouble?
I close my laptop. Three potential threats to my charge over breakfast are three too many. And they only confirm my suspicion that Pele should be the least of Donnie Ransom’s worries.
six
Monday morning I show up at the interisland terminal more than the required hour before the nine-forty flight to Hilo. When I check in, there’s no sign of Donnie Ransom and her husband. I’m a seasoned island hopper, so I know enough not to check a bag. Especially if I have to pay for the privilege.
I get my carry-on and myself through security, go to the gate, and take an inconspicuous seat in the waiting area. It’s early. Only half a dozen passengers have beat me here. I glance at my boarding pass. Seat 26E, at the back of the Boeing 717, as far from first class as you can go. Donnie wasn’t kidding. She’s put a lot of seats between her husband and me. The Ransoms are probably in row one. I know her type. First class isn’t enough. She must be in the first row of first class.
Minutes pass and the boarding area fills. Still no Ransoms. Then I hear the preliminary boarding announcement. The usual stuff. First, families with small children and those who need assistance. Then, first class and elite high-mileage fliers board. And finally the likes of me and everyone else. Steerage class.
Where are Donnie and Rex Ransom? Their cabin is about to board.
Then comes another announcement: Ladies and Gentlemen, at this time we welcome aboard our first class passengers.
Still no sign of the Ransoms. Then it dawns on me. They’re probably in the elite fliers’ lounge with other well-heeled passengers. They should emerge now that their cabin has been called.
Sure enough. First Donnie appears. Then, behind her, an old man. He bears faint resemblance to the robust Rex Ransom in the media two decades earlier. The contrast between those images and his present self couldn’t be more pronounced. Or the contrast between his bent profile and the erect form of his younger wife.
Rex Ransom in his heyday—ice-blue eyes, raven hair, prominent jaw, barrel chest, massive arms, and aggressive, in-your-face posture—is all but gone. In his place is a pale-eyed, silver haired, bent and frail septuagenarian who walks with a cane and looks not ahead, but down at his unsure footsteps. A lifelong smoker who recently suffered a heart attack, has he finally kicked the habit? Whatevahs. The damage has obviously been done.
Time has ravaged the once powerful CEO more than his foes ever did. I can see no reason why anyone, even his worst enemy, even Pele herself, would want to punish him further. The years have taken their toll. The transformation would sadden me more if I hadn’t just been refreshing my memory about what he did at Wao Kele O Puna.
I watch Donnie Ransom take her husband’s arm, the one not holding the cane, and lead him down the jetway. The age difference between them glares. To the casual onlooker Donnie must appear to be a faithful daughter assisting her aged father. The fact that Donnie looks local and Rex is obviously a mainlander doesn’t alter the impression. I wonder about their relationship as husband and wife. Twenty years ago when they met, he was a CEO in his mid-fifties accustomed to calling the shots. She was barely thirty and a beauty. He had money; she had youth. Now he’s so clearly dependent on her that their roles have obviously changed.
They disappear down the jetway. Minutes later, after most passengers have boarded, my turn finally comes. I lug my carry-on down the jetway and onto the airplane.
I was right. The Ransoms are sitting in row one in plush royal purple lounge chairs. I try not to make eye contact with them, but I’m stopped by traffic in the first class cabin. Rex Ransom turns toward me and before I can avert my glance we make eye contract. He smiles. His smile is warm and disarming. I’m surprised. I find myself being drawn to him and smile back.
Then I walk on slowly down the aisle, kicking myself for this slip. I’m off to a bad start being incognito. Donnie, who’s buried in an airline magazine, has fortunately missed the encounter.
I pass between the purple curtains that separate the first class and coach cabins and work my way to the back of the airplane. 26E is not only in the very last row, but also in the middle of three seats. I wedge in.
The airplane finally gets pushed back from the gate, taxies to the runway, and takes off over Ke‘ehi Lagoon. The engines howl. I look straight ahead at the purple seatback in front of me. It says: “Life vest under your seat.” That’s probably more reassuring to passengers who are in the ocean less than I am.
The Boeing soars by the skyline of Waikīkī and I glance out the window. Vog. The brown haze is still drifting up to O‘ahu from the ongoing eruption. Hilo Airport and the roads to and within Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park will be choked with onlookers. I wonder how the potential crowds may affect my keeping tabs on Ransom.
Time slips by. Moloka‘i, Lāna‘i, and Maui pass under our wings. No sooner do I down the passion-guava nectar a flight attendant offers me than the Big Island comes into view.
Snow-capped Mauna Kea towers above the clouds. This tallest mountain in Hawai‘i—tallest in the world measured from the sea floor—evokes memories for me no doubt different from those of most who fly by this looming giant.
My parents died here. I was eight. After their plane crash I was hanaied by my auntie’s ohana on O‘ahu’s North Shore and then sent to an uncle in California to attend prep school. Later I toted my surfboard to college at Point Loma. How I ended up in the army after my freshman year and eventually made it back to the islands is a story longer than this Honolulu to Hilo flight. Laydahs.
The airplane descends along the emerald-green Hamakua coast and lapping waves that shimmer in the morning sun. The liner banks steeply and then touches down in Hilo—delivering me to my strange gig.
The cabin door opens and I see the Ransoms stepping off the airplane. Five minutes later I finally wrench myself from my seat and navigate the narrow aisle. I’m almost the last passenger off. No Ransoms in sight.
I catch up with them as they’re leaving Baggage Claim, follow them from the terminal to the curb, and watch them climb into a black Lincoln. He gets in first. Before she follows him, she turns, sees me, and nods—discreetly, of course. Then the door closes and they’re gone.
I step to the agency whose contract I hold and take my place in a line of a half dozen customers. I wait a minute or two. Nobody’s moving and nobody’s driving away in a car.
Finally the first customer in line waves his contract angrily and stalks away muttering. The next screams that he and his wife have flown from Canada for a Hawai‘i vacation planned for years. But where’s their rental car? More customers walk away, instead of driving away.
By the time I reach the desk I know the score. There’s been a run on rental cars because of the eruption. A contract means nothing.
“I’m not just going holoholo.” I tell the agent, which means something like to go on holiday. “I’ve got a job to do. I need some wheels.”
“See those three cars over there?” She points across the lot to a red Ferrari, a black Maserati, and a bright yellow Porsche Boxster. “Those are our exotics—the only cars available.”
My contract is for a subcompact, not an exotic. So I ask: “How much?”
She explains that I can rent the Ferrari for five bills a day, the Maserati for four and a quarter, or the Boxster for three and a half. I have no idea if Donnie will pay, but I hear myself saying, “I’ll take the Porsche.”
I sign the papers, grab the key, and slip into the yellow roadster. Twenty-three miles on the clock. Brand new. I put down the top and head for Volcano. This is hardly the kind of car to tail someone. I hope she pays.
I take the airport service road from the rental lot and turn left onto the Māmalahoa Highway, more familiarly known as Hawai‘i Belt Road. Then I cruise the outskirts of Hilo town, savoring the whine of the flat six motor behind me. How the other half lives. Or is it the 1%? There’s little chance I can catch the Ransoms’ limo, but I can have fun trying. Too bad the Porsche is an automatic. Sports cars are for shifting.
Not too long ago this part of Hilo was sparsely populated, but now I find myself passing Toyota and Honda dealers, Walgreens, Macy’s, Pizza Hut, and Jack in the Box. The national chains are sprouting like poisonous mushrooms in the lush soil of this island. Inspired by the lure of tropical paradise, tourists come from thousands of miles to eat fast food and shop in big-box stores, just like at home. Go figgah.
The road begins to climb. The scent of ginger fills the air.
I leave Hilo and its strip malls behind. The Hawai‘i Belt Road circles the entire island, but I’m only taking the thirty-mile portion that rises four thousand feet to Volcano. My quibble about the Boxster’s automatic transmission disappears when I feel how quickly and seamlessly it shifts. The Porsche purrs into the greener and cooler stretch of highway.
By the village of Kea‘au I pass the turnoff for Kalapana, once famous for its black sand beach. That beach, a victim of flows from the East Rift Zone, is now buried under tons of lava. Pele at work.
Moving into the goddess’s domain, where the evidence of seemingly supernatural power shows all around in the very earth, sea, and sky, sparks a weird thought: What if Donnie’s right—I still can’t wrap my head around it—and Pele actually is out to get her husband? I remind myself that I agreed to this madness for one reason—and one reason only. I owe Tommy.
I concentrate on the road ahead and try to catch the Ransoms. It’s a short road. And things could be worse. I could be driving a subcompact instead of this rocket.
So I push the pedal and the Porsche instantly responds. The roadside becomes a blur of farms and forests and macadamia orchards. Ginger and lavender grow wild on the shoulder. The hamlets of Kurtistown, Mountain View, and Glenwood barely interrupt the countryside. Altitude markers count the climb: 2,500 feet . . . 3,000 feet . . . 3,500 feet. The air streaming through the roadster grows cooler.
When the scenery changes from lush green to the greybitten of higher altitude, I catch the black Lincoln and hang back. We pass the village of Volcano. And just beyond it comes the entrance to Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park.
The limo turns left and stops at the ranger station. I pull off to the side of the highway and put up the top. I don’t want to sit directly behind the Lincoln while the driver pays admission. When the limo moves on, I pull up, pay, and swing into the Volcano House, barely a stone’s throw away. The Lincoln parks under the portico and the Ransoms climb out.
I keep my distance.
Beside the limo sits a white Ford Expedition with emergency lights on top and PARK RANGER emblazoned on the side. Did Ransom have an official escort? The Ranger himself is nowhere in sight.
After the old man crawls from the limo he steadies himself with his cane and his wife takes his free arm. Once they disappear inside the hotel and the limo drives away, I park at the far end of the nearly full lot, as much out of sight as I can get the yellow Porsche.
When I climb from the car, the odor of sulfur hanging in the cool air hits me like a wall. Fumes from the volcanoes can be hazardous, especially for the elderly.
Bad idea to bring him. But his own, according to his wife.
seven
If you’ve never been here, the barn-red clapboard façade of the Volcano House resembles, well, a barn. Don’t let the hotel’s plain and unadorned exterior fool you into thinking that inside, by contrast, is a luxury resort. What you see is pretty much what you get. But you don’t come here for luxury. You come for the view. This is the only hotel I know of, at least in this part of the world, that’s perched on the rim of an active volcano.
I step into the Volcano House and recall from previous visits that a hotel by this name dates back to an 1846 grass hut and a later wooden structure containing the famous fireplace whose enduring flames are immortalized in Ripley’s Believe it or Not. The hotel expanded in 1891 and remained in operation well into the twentieth century, until it burned to the ground in 1940. Legend has it that the fireplace’s celebrated flame kept going even after the hotel burned. Embers were rescued from the ruin and returned to the hearth when the hotel reopened. That’s why the management says, “Volcano House, where the fire and aloha spirit never go out!”
I navigate a huddle of guests in the lobby admiring those perpetual flames, and head to the registration desk. A Park Service sign there confirms my fears about the poisonous air around the volcanoes.
CAUTION
VOLCANIC FUMES ARE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH AND CAN ALSO BE LIFE-THREATENING. VISITORS WITH BREATHING AND HEART PROBLEMS, PREGNANT WOMEN AND YOUNG CHILDREN SHOULD AVOID THIS AREA.
The Kīlauea Caldera is bulging. The Halema‘uma‘-u Crater, Pele’s traditional home, is a lake of fire. Steam vents along the Crater Rim Trail are spewing noxious gas. And, of course, the East Rift Zone continues to erupt. But nobody seems concerned. Because that’s why they’re here. To experience it all.
There’s a line at the registration desk. I take my place at the end and look around. Things haven’t changed much here since my last visit. Behind the veneer desk are cubbyholes for room keys and guests’ mail, an ancient phone with three dozen buttons for the various rooms, an adding machine with a paper roll, and a yellowed keyboard and monitor that look like they’ve been around since the dawn of the personal computer. Plaques on a nearby wall, dating back a few years, attest to the hotel restaurant’s culinary excellence.
The guest at the front of the line rings the bell—one of those old-fashioned chrome thingies with a clapper on top. A mu‘umu‘u-clad woman appears and begins to assist. She’s the essence of Hawaiian hospitality. Warm smile. Soft voice. Genuine aloha. How a people whose land, government, and culture were stolen from them can be so pleasant to the heirs of the thieves is a miracle to me. I guess that tourist cliché about warm-hearted, generous Hawaiians has a nugget of truth.
The receptionist’s job isn’t easy. Apparently some in line don’t hav
e reservations. She has the unenviable task of informing them that the hotel is full. I’m glad my room has been booked in advance by my client. That’s what she tells me, anyway. And I hope the hotel doesn’t give away my room like the rental agency gave away my car. The desk clerk calmly and courteously explains the situation to those without reservations. One by one they step away, crestfallen.
“So sorry,” she says. “Mahalo for understanding.” Her gentle voice sounds vaguely familiar.
When my turn comes she looks me up and down, smiles warmly, and says, “Kai, long time no see!”
“Shoots,” I respond, recalling her face now. But not her name.
“You remembah me, yeah? Pualani.” She shifts to Pidgin. “I wuz working hea when you come ‘bout your parents.”
“I remembah,” I say. More than a decade ago I came to the Big Island to investigate their airplane crash. I was a keiki when it happened. So by the time I returned in my late twenties the trail was cold. But it was something I had to do. I didn’t find much, but afterwards I spent a few nights at the Volcano House to unwind. That’s when I met Pualani. She was sympathetic to the tale of my orphaning, which her warm friendliness coaxed from me. One evening after her shift we strolled the Crater Rim Trail under the stars. We talked-story. I liked her but never saw her again. Until now.