In the months following the death of my mother, Helen Yonge Lind, in early 2013, just months before her 99th birthday, I found lots of interesting items in her jumbled collection of papers, including correspondence, typed or handwritten notes, photos, and miscellaneous newspaper clippings.

This is a slightly-edited version of an entry originally posted in November 2013. It describes time she spent living in Haleiwa as a girl.

She moved to Haleiwa with her father in 1922 after he took a job as a collector for Mutual Telephone Company, the predecessor of Hawaiian Telephone. My mother’s version of the story was that she was assigned to do housekeeping for her father.

Her older sister, Marguerite, stayed in Waipahu with their mother and their newborn brother.

They lived in Haleiwa for three years before her father was able to transfer back to a position in Waipahu, according to her notes.

Sometime after her 90th birthday in 2004, my mother sat down and typed out notes of what she recalled of that time.

For three years of my childhood in the 1920s, I lived in Haleiwa in the makai section close to the grand old Haleiwa Hotel and the Anahulu Bridge. Even at the tender age of 10, there was no mystery about the names. I understood perfectly that I lived in Haleiwa in the district of Waialua. The town that bore the name of the district Waialua was several miles distant surrounding the sugar mill and plantation housing. I doubt if that particular area was actually called Waialua before the advent of the plantation. When the plantations of Waialua, Waianae and Ewa were established, each was given the name of its district, not the Hawaiian place-name of the location.

Although located in Haleiwa, the Waialua District Court House and the Waialua Elementary School were so named because they served the entire district. That was the Waialua District court and the Waialua District school. Some of my school friends came every day from the banana farms of Kawaihapai and from Puuiki out beyond the Waialua mill. Next to the school, out on Kaiaka Point, was the Waialua Fresh Air Camp, now a state recreational area.

On the 1841 Wilkes map prepared by the U.S. Exploring expedition of 1838-1841, the various districts of Oahu are shown with Waialua extending across the entire North Shore.

Over the years some names of places have changed or new ones have been adopted. I don’t know when it happened, but Paumalu, the “beach of the sneaky waters,” disappeared and Sunset Beach entered the scene. Other place names well known years ago have been forgotten. Puuiki and Kawaihapi don’t even appear on current road maps.

It was many years ago, but I still recall a few of the names of people I knew in Haleiwa. My best friend and constant companion was Jenny Woodd, who became an entertainer and the grandmother of currently popular singer, Amy Hanaialii Gilliom. Jenny’s brother, Johnny Woodd, was a well known local swimmer in his day. There was John Kukea who chose the career of a fire fighter and a water sports enthusiast. One of his sons is connected with the Kamehameha Schools. Tommy Cleghorn sat behind me in the 5th grade and delighted in poking my back with sharpened pencils. He went on to Punahou and became an anthropologist with the Bishop Museum.

The Mahoe family lived on a rise beyond the Anahulu river. A granddaughter is Marie Adams McDonald, an artist and the author of the beautiful definitive book about the Hawaiian lei. Across the street from us was the Takahashi family. I don’t remember if they had a store, but I believe they were the owners of the community furo which I remember well. On a number of occasions, my sister and I donned our kimono, placed a bar of soap in our little bamboo baskets, grabbed a towel and trekked across the street to bathe and bask in the warm, soothing waters of the furo amongst people of all ages. The Laird family lived on the banks of the Anahulu near the old missionary Emerson house. Years later we met again when one of the daughters and I worked together in the same department at UH.

I wonder if many residents today are aware there was once a thriving glass bottom boat business owned and operated by a man named Jenkins. His boats that took paying customers out into the bay to view reef life were moored next to the bridge on the lowest slope of the hotel grounds. As far as I know, he was not married and left no descendants.

I have two outstanding memories of the area. One was a tidal wave around 1922-25. A couple ran up the street shouting, “the kai, the kai” (the sea, the sea) and people flocked to the beach. We stood on a high area above the sandy beach to watch. I have a mental picture of the water in the bay receding and then suddenly rising into a high wall of water pushing toward the shore. There weren’t any curling waves as portrayed in surfing films. The ocean seemed to just swell up and then move forward. Then someone hustled us inland so I did not see what happened next. Nor do I remember if there was any property damage.

Another vivid memory is one of ethereal beauty, the spectacular and captivating sight of the lotus ponds in full bloom. The scene was so impressive, it has remained with me through all the years.

Helen Y. Lind

Kahala

While doing some vacation browsing, I was reminded that September 23 was my favorite uncle’s birthday.

James Peterson Yonge was born on this date in 1921. He was the youngest of three children. The other two were my mother, Helen Yonge Lind, and her older sister, Marguerite Yonge Shipp. The family lived in Waipahu.

Jimmy (which in the family morphed into Jimi) was still living at home when Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941, and drove the short distance to the shore in West Loch to find bullets flying, sending him racing home to report that this was not a drill.

He registered for the draft in February 1942. He was working for Mutual Telephone Company in a building on 9th Avenue in Kaimuki and living with my parents in their rented home at 1018 Kealaolu Avenue in Kahala, according to his draft card. He enlisted for a 4-year stint in the Navy in June 1942. When he was discharged, he joined the merchant marine, working his way up from doing books on freighters to eventually becoming the chief purser on the Matson cruise ship, the Mariposa, one of the well-known “white ships” that cruised the Pacific.

He married Ida Ruth Saylor in 1953, but I don’t believe they spent much time together over the years, as he spent most of his time at sea. The cruise ships eventually became part of Pacific Far East Lines, and Jimi was chief purser on the final voyage of the Monterey, which was the last of the white ships taken out of service at the beginning of 1978. He retired to Portola, California, in the mountains near the border with Nevada, although Ida maintained her residence in San Francisco. His sister, Marguerite, also took up residence in Portola after her husband died in 1984.

Jimi told us he always felt uncomfortable when he found himself on land, and couldn’t wait to get back to sea to escape all the politics and bickering. We never sought details of his unconventional marriage, as both he and Ida seemed comfortable with their arrangement.

When I was a kid, a visit from Uncle Jimi was a big treat. My mother’s dog, Kiki, would go crazy when we came into the house, remembering when he had lived with my parents briefly at the beginning of 1942. And Jimi would arrive with friends, usually Kent Bowman (known for his pigeon-english comedy as “K.K. Kaumanua”) and another friend from freighter days, Billy Bruns. These guys were world-class story tellers as well as world-class drinkers, and my sister and I would stay to hear their stories for as long as we were allowed.

Later, when Meda and I were in graduate school at the University of Hawaii, we spent a number of long nights drinking at the Queen’s Surf or other venues with Jimi when his ship was in port.

I last saw him was in late 1989. My late sister, Bonnie, her husband, Ray Stevens, and I drove up from Reno for a day visiting with our aunt and uncle. Meda was busy at a criminology conference back in Reno, so the three of us drove north from Reno about 25 miles, then through the Beckwourth Pass into California, then another 20 miles to Portola.

It should have been no surprise to find Jimi was a familiar and popular figure in the local tavern, where his story-telling continued to entertain his friends.

He died in 1994 at 73, far too young in my view. A year or so later, my dad took Bonnie, Ray, and I out on his boat, and we scattered Jimi’s ashes off the Diamond Head buoy. Later, the cremains of Ray, Bonnie, and my mother all joined him in that spot.