“I’m afraid we haven’t completed the flight plan. My husband has made inquiries to Naval authorities about the possibility of refueling in mid-air over Guam, and they’ve been quite encouraging. But a far better target might be Howland Island.”
“Where’s that?” FDR wanted to know.
Forrestal reached into his brief case and brought out a US Navy hydrographic map of the South Pacific. He laid the map out in front of the president and pointed out the spec of land in question. “It’s right here, Mr. President. Just south and east of the Marshalls.”
“There’s only one problem,” said Amelia.
“What’s that?” Roosevelt wanted to know.
“There’s no runway there.”
The president stroked his chin in thought. He took off his glasses and began cleaning them with his handkerchief. “Perhaps your friend, Mr. Vidal, might be of some help,” he suggested.
“I don’t understand,” said Amelia. “How might Eugene help?”
“Well, considering our need for intelligence in the region, I believe certain funds in DOC might be made available for such a project.”
“Mr. President, are you suggesting that Eugene Vidal build me an airstrip on Howland Island?” Amelia asked incredulously.
“Franklin only wants to ensure your success, my dear,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“The Electra will need about fifteen hundred feet,” the aviatrix postured.
“I’m sure that won’t pose any problem,” said FDR casually.
“I don’t know what to say,” Amelia blushed. “If there is something I might do...”
“Young lady, you’ve proven yourself time and again to be a credit to your country,” said FDR as he finished his coffee and dashed out his cigarette butt. “Still, there is a service you might perform for me in return for your runway,” negotiated the president.
AE sat attentively. For the President of the United States was about to ask her for a personal favor. “Of course I’ll try my best to be of whatever service...”
Forrestal moved the hydrographic map closer to the pilot. “Look here!” he addressed her. “If you were to leave Papua New Guinea around noon, you could be over the Carolines before dark, couldn’t you?”
Amelia studied the naval map with interest. “Though it’s not the most direct course to Howland, I suppose I could,” she said.
“Truk Island is the one we’re particularly concerned about,” said Forrestal, dead serious.
“I presume it’s Japanese territory,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” said Forrestal.
“And you’d like me to...”
“Photographs, Mrs. Putnam. We need rock hard evidence of ongoing military operations, but we can’t get near them. You’re another matter altogether! Thanks to your husband’s efforts at publicity, the entire world is aware of your upcoming attempt to circumnavigate the globe at the equator. A few degrees off course would be an error easily explained.”
“So I would be spying…”
“Does the idea give you nerves?” asked Forrestal.
Considering her history and accomplishments, such a notion seemed absurd. “Not particularly, sir.”
But the undersecretary, too, was unflappable. He continued presenting the Government’s proposition: “Might one also presume, Mrs. Putnam, that after turning east at Truk Island and flying all night, you would reach the Marshall Islands by daylight?”
With all the stakes on the table, Amelia was now inclined to play his game aggressively. She had always been good at gambling. “Yes, one might presume that, Mr. Forrestal,” she said. “But remember, unless flying conditions are perfect, the Electra will be critically low on fuel as we turn south from the Marshalls and head for Howland Island.”
“Of course this is speculative,” reminded FDR.
“Of course,” re-iterated the undersecretary.
“Look, Amelia,” said the president earnestly, “I’m not one to pull punches. I need information. This is one way I can get it. I realize that such a mission is not without risk, but I also know that risk is your business! Some people handle risk well. You’re one of those people. I trust you.”
The profound implications of what the president was asking of her settled conclusively upon Amelia’s consciousness. For in spite of the obvious hazard (surely she did not wish to be captured as a spy by the Japanese) this was a duty she was willing to perform.
“Yes, I believe such a detour is possible, Mr. President,” she nodded. “Of course my navigator will have to be thoroughly briefed.”
“Who will be navigating?” asked Forrestal.
“We believe Fred Noonan is the best person for the job.”
“Is Mr. Noonan likely to go along?” Forrestal wanted to know.
“I know that Freddy is intensely patriotic,” Amelia related. “And I’m sure he’ll consider it a privilege, as I do, to serve this office.”
“I knew I could count on you, Amelia,” said FDR. “Now, you must keep us informed on the progress of repairs to your plane. And if there’s anything you need—anything at all...”
“Of course we’ll have to work behind the scenes,” said Forrestal. “It just wouldn’t look right if we were out front on this.”
“I understand,” said Amelia. “I must say that I’m rather surprised. I thought I was just coming to the White House for a casual luncheon. But I’m grateful for your interest, your trust, and of course your willingness to help.”
With a self-satisfied look on his face, Roosevelt placed another cigarette in his holder. Forrestal leaned close to flick his lighter. FDR nodded first at AE, then at Undersecretary Forrestal. A pact had been made.
CHAPTER 4
Buenaventura
THE OUTRIGGER CANOE rocked gently in the placid waters of the lagoon as the crew of the Hawai’iloa prepared for departure.
Not long ago the vessel’s hulls had been tall trees. They had been felled, hollowed, and shaped with stone tools, then hand-polished with infinite care using small abrasive blocks of coral. The lashings were made from coconut fiber sennit rope, the sails from treated pandanus leaves.
Finally the navigator, Nainoa Nainoa, pulled away the prop that tethered the canoe to land, and the crew of rowers, standing waist-deep in the lagoon, vaulted joyously into the seventy-nine-foot hulls and took their positions on the moveable seats which slid back and forth within the craft’s hollowed-out section.
With spume rising all about them and the tips receding back into darkened troughs, Hawai’iloa left the Marquesas and embarked upon its rightful journey. The unfurled sails sang in the favorable easterly wind as a lone canoe with thirty-three brave and seasoned sailors aboard rode over the combers and out to sea. Without compass they headed northward over the widest expanse of ocean on earth.
“Sail to the land guarded by ‘seven little eyes’,” called Nainoa Nainoa. Then he chanted an ancient prayer:
“Gods of the boundless deep,
Gods of the mighty waves
And troughs which lead to blackness,
We place our ship in your hands,
In your hands, our hopes and our lives.”
Julian Crosby now sat each morning at the Sunrise, sipping black Kona coffee, waiting for the twenty-five thousand dollars to clear wire transfer, and hoping to catch one more glimpse of the willowy blond he’d seen at the cafe counter on his first morning in Lahaina.
The cafe’s owner, Song Cajudoy, now recognized Julian’s face, and today, for the first time, she ventured a personal question. “You here in Hawaii alone?”
“I’m flying solo these days,” he nodded.
“I noticed your wedding ring. Where is your wife?”
“We were divorced a couple of years ago.”
“But you still wear your wedding ring?”
Julian shrugged.
“I’m divorced, too,” she confided. “My husband took all our money and went back to Manila. He left me here to work day and night at this lousy café. Bu
t I’d rather be in Hawaii. In the Philippines they close all the banks and tap the phone lines. Police beat everybody up for no good reason. Where’s your wife now?”
“Living in Long Beach,” Julian said.
“So, why divorce?” Song asked.
“I guess all the magic was gone,” Julian said.
The Filipina nodded. “Magic is very, very important. Perhaps you’ve come to just the right place. What do you think?”
“Perhaps,” conceded Julian.
“Listen!” said Song. “Today I make you omelet with special herbs. Maybe put some magic back in your life...”
“Why not?” said Julian.
Song smiled her delicate, Asian smile as she deftly cracked two brown eggs into a bowl, sprinkled in the promised herbs, and began beating the mixture with a wire whip.
And where was Kamehaloha Kong? Since their scuba diving lesson three days ago Julian had not seen him. Though he was certain Kong had not left the island. Each day Julian walked down to the boat launch to have another look at the Scoundrel, taking inventory of the cruiser from prow to stern. It was a fine boat, still he could not deny the buyer’s remorse he was experiencing. In retrospect, he viewed the impulsive purchase as somewhat out of character. But perhaps he was becoming more inclined by the day to leave once rigid attitudes in his wake.
Maybe it was this place... What was the term Kevin had used? Polynesian Paralysis. That was it! Well, he was not paralyzed, that much was obvious. If anything, he was exercising self-direction for the first time in his life. Something had changed. Something important.
“Hey! Did you ever talk to Kamehaloha?”
Julian turned toward the voice. It was the blond.
“Yes, I agreed to buy his boat,” he said.
“You bought the Scoundrel?” cawed Song Cajudoy as she brought his omelet to the table.
“It’s a marvelous boat, don’t you think so?”
“If you say so...” The café owner shook her head skeptically and said with sarcasm, “Now maybe he’ll pay me what he owes me.”
Julian didn’t know about that, but he was pleased to see that this beautiful girl—tall, strong and tan—whose image he’d not been able to put out of his mind since first seeing her at the Sunrise, was for some unexplainable reason interested in him—or at least in his impending purchase of the Scoundrel.
“We’re sailing over to the Big Island on Sunday,” he told her. “That’ll give me an opportunity to get to know the boat a little better before I take it out alone. Apparently, there’s some sort of ceremony taking place in Hilo that Kamehaloha wants to see.” Julian took an anxious bite of the omelet as he stared at the girl; the eggs had a curious but compelling taste.
“Oh, the landing of Hawai’iloa, the voyaging canoe!” she exclaimed.
“What’s that?” Julian wanted to know.
“You mean you don’t know about the expedition?” Without being asked, she sat down at his table. “My name is Tamara Sly,” she said.
“Julian Crosby. Pleased to meet you.”
With full lips she sipped passion fruit nectar through a straw. Her sun-bleached hair fell capriciously over her cheeks and forehead. Her blue eyes were full of sun, too.
“I’ve only been in Hawaii a little more than a week,” Julian explained. “What is this expedition all about?”
“Hawai’iloa is a modern-day re-creation of the voyaging canoes used by the ancient Polynesians,” she explained. “For a long time it was thought that stories told by the Hawaiian priests were nothing more than myth and fantasy—that such a dangerous voyage was impossible without modern-day navigation equipment. Now, Nainoa Nainoa is attempting to make the trip navigating the old way—by the stars and other elements. They’ve been sailing for weeks, and they’re due to land at Hilo this Sunday!”
“And that’s what Kamehaloha wants to see...”
“It’s a matter of intense cultural pride for the Hawaiian people.”
“You’re not a native Hawaiian,” Julian observed.
“Hardly,” she laughed. “I came here three years ago from Alaska. I guess you could say I was following the Trades.”
“And what about Kamehaloha?”
“Hawaiian, through and through.”
“But his last name is obviously Chinese.”
She brushed her bangs aside, sat back, kicked off her sandals, and crossed her long, bare legs. “The first Chinese settlers came to Hawaii in the 1850’s, I think. Mostly men. They worked on the sugar plantations and in the pineapple fields. They were incredibly frugal, and eventually they started their own businesses and bought land. Many of the immigrants married Hawaiian girls. Kamehaloha can trace his ancestry as far back as Sun Yat Sen, the Chinese revolutionary!”
“I guess I never realized Hawaiian genealogy was so complex,” said Julian.
“Actually, there are very few full-blooded Hawaiians left. Most of them live on Ni’ihau, a tiny island off the west coast of Kauai. But haoles aren’t allowed to go there.”
“I keep hearing that word, haole,” Julian said. “What does it mean, anyway?”
Tamara laughed. “You’re haole! So am I. It’s the Hawaiian word for non-Hawaiians, specifically Whites. It’s an odd word, really. It comes from two words in their language: Ha means life; ole is death. The synthesis is something like living-dead.”
“Sounds a little insulting,” Julian ventured.
“Kamehaloha sometimes makes fun of haoles, but he’s just a local boy. It’s only talk; it doesn’t mean anything. His heart is as big and bright as Haleakala!”
“He took me diving off Molikini Island the other day,” Julian told her. “He seems like a terrific guy.”
Eavesdropping on their conversation, Song Cajudoy coughed conspicuously at Julian’s summation of Kamehaloha’s personality.
“I know you’re going to enjoy the Scoundrel,” said Tamara. “And the landing of Hawai’iloa should be quite an event. I wish I were going to be there.”
“Why not come along with us?” suggested Julian.
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Why would I?” he said.
“I’d love to come,” said Tamara. “Fill me in on all the details.”
BEFORE THE SUN ROSE above Haleakala Crater, Julian arrived at Lahaina’s small boat launch with a brand new attaché case filled with crisp one hundred dollar bills. Standing barefoot and alone on the pier where the Scoundrel was moored, he was inclined for a moment to question his sanity. Buying this boat seemed to imply some sort of unsuspected covenant.
Nevertheless, an idiosyncratic feeling of resignation overshadowed any lingering doubts, and inept as Julian might prove as a sailor, he was happy to be going to sea on his own boat. He hoped Tamara Sly would show up as planned for the trip to Hilo.
Sadly, Julian had begun to experience his own loneliness. It was not an unfounded sensation; rather it was a peculiar one which had long remained hidden and now surfaced at an unexpected time and place. He was making some rather eccentric friends here in Hawaii—not the safe sort of relationships to which he was accustomed. Kamehaloha Kong, Song Cajudoy, and Tamara Sly were colorful characters compared to his own thin-lined chiaroscuro, yet they seemed to accept him without condition.
Sleepy-eyed and fifteen minutes late, Kamehaloha appeared on the wharf wearing a T-shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. He hadn’t bothered to comb is overgrown hair, nor had he recently shaved. “Aloha, brother,” he said to Julian, and patted him on the back with his thick hand.
“Aloha,” Julian responded.
“Did the bank in San Diego send the cash?” the Hawaiian wanted to know.
Julian held up the attaché and confirmed, “Sure thing.”
“Song told me you invited Tamara Sly to go with us this morning,” he said.
“I hope it’s okay,” said Julian.
“It’s your voyage, brother.”
“How far is it to Hilo?” Julian asked as they went on board.
“About se
venty-five miles, as the crow flies. It usually takes me two and a half to three hours, depending on the sea. I know it looks calm here in the harbor, but once we reach the Na Pali coast of the Big Island, there’s no way to know.”
Immediately they began making preparations to leave. Kong instructed Julian in the particulars of how to fuel the engines and adjust the two finicky carburetors, as well as how to raise anchor and back out of the slip. Before they were ready to cast off, Tamara Sly came sauntering up the pier. Though it was not yet seven o’clock and the sun was still behind the mountains, she was wearing her bikini over-draped by a sarong, rubber-soled sandals, and a pair of Raybans. She carried only a cloth over-the-shoulder bag. “What a beautiful morning!” she said as she came on board.
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