grandson to give up this foolish idea of leaving Hawai‘i. They loved him and were frightened that if he did leave, he would never live to return. ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia assured her that he likewise loved them, but he needed liberation. There was an aching in his heart. He had wanted to move on for a long time and this was his opportunity. He must travel on this journey, he insisted. Maybe he didn’t truly comprehend all the reasons why he had to go, but he simply did. He assured her that he would return in a matter of months. She left the hut with tears in her eyes, knowing he would never come back. He was a very foolish boy.62
Pahua would hear none of this pleading. There would be no discussion of deserting the island, his family, or his training. ‘Opūkaha‘ia would be confined to the house, a captive once again, until the Triumph left the harbor. The repeated injustices welled within him. He was incessant, more determined than ever. Defiantly, he would become a luina kelemania e and find the new life he was searching for among the American haole. Nothing would stop him.
While inspecting his latest prison, he noticed a weak spot in the back of the grass hut and crawled through it as he had when confined with his aunt. Unnoticed, he worked his way downhill to the waterfront, hiding until darkness, then silently waded into Kealakekua Bay, swimming out once again to the anchored Triumph. This time he climbed aboard secretly, careful not to be seen by the sailors, and concealed himself below deck among the cargo crates. With luck they would not find him until the ship was well underway, a stowaway. But his plan was foiled when he was discovered the next morning about the time Pahua’s canoe appeared alongside the large sailing vessel.
With the inherent dignity of a proud and influential kahuna, Pahua came onboard the Triumph, declaring to Brintnall that ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia had run away, was hiding on the ship, and must be found. The captain, impressed with the presence of the kahuna, ordered a search for ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia, who was readily brought forth. Straightening himself and fighting back tears, the young man pleaded again for his release to follow the Americans, to go on his journey, appealing to his uncle that a force in his soul cried out for him to leave. He must go, and he would go.
Resigned, Pahua realized that one way or the other ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia was going to abandon the island, either on the Triumph or another sailing vessel. Pahua respected Capt. Brintnall, whom he knew to be honest and trustworthy. If ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia must go, this was the haole that would surely care for him. Nonetheless, the gods would be angry and must be appeased. Pahua would grant ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia his request, but first Brintnall must purchase a pig to be sacrificed to ensure the boy’s protection and consent of the deities. Their parting was disagreeable, but ‘Opūkaha‘ia was willing to “leave all my relations, friends and acquaintances; (and) expected to see them no more in this world.”63
2 | “I Have Neither A Father Nor A Mother… But, He”
She awoke with a start, rising up in bed while the room was still draped in eerie nightly darkness. As she later explained to me, something strange was happening to her that she did not understand. A sudden rush emerged overwhelmingly from the depths of her inner being like a swelling impulse needing to be forced out. Her heart raced, short of breath. “What is this?” she thought, unsure if health was failing her young adult body. Rather than asleep, now, at two in the morning, she was wide-awake and anxious.
Debbie Li‘ikapeka Lee, thirty-two years old, a seventh generation cousin of Henry ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia, rose from her bed and took hold of the Bible on the nightstand, seeking comfort and reassurance. She recognized the need to let go of this feeling though she remained puzzled, “What am I to do?”
It was Sunday, Oct. 11, 1992, in Seattle, Washington, a thousand miles of ocean separating her from her devoted Hawaiian family in Hilo. Alone in the dark, she sought an explanation for this feeling that was mounting inside her. The Bible brought solace but no immediate clarification. Then from within her heart and soul, five words emerged in a voice as clear as if being spoken, “He wants to come home.”1
The surfing waves of Kealakekua Bay began to fade from sight. Onboard the Triumph, setting sail eastward toward the Baja coast, ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia and Thomas Hopu occupied themselves by learning the work of a luina kelemania e: preparing sails, climbing yardarms, pulling and tying ropes, and doing their best to stay out of the way of experienced sailors. They were unwittingly components of a diaspora that would diffuse hundreds of Hawaiian men to ports around the globe. ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia loved his uncle and grandmother and he would surely miss them, but the urgency he felt was overwhelming, driving him forward on his journey. Challenged by the uncertainty, he was in pursuit of a new life, an existence rid of the violence and despondency that took its unrelenting toll on his youth. The physical journey over the vast oceans would be outward, his personal quest rooted within the depths of his psyche inward.
The sailors began calling ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia, Henry, a name Capt. Caleb Brintnall entered into the ship’s log and, in an attempt to pronounce and spell his Hawaiian name, they contrived the phonetically sounding, “Obookiah.” Accordingly, “Henry Obookiah” would become his common name onboard ship and for the rest of his life in New England.
The crew of the Triumph reunited with more than twenty sailors decamped off the Baja coast to procure seal furs for the China trade. One of the crewmembers culled was Russell Hubbard, a Yale College divinity student who embarked on this sea voyage to improve his health. Hubbard took a shine to the bright and engaging Hawaiian and took it upon himself to tutor “Obookiah” in the fundamentals of the English language, using the Bible as a primer to learn reading and writing. Henry felt the friendship and protection of at least two men onboard the Triumph, Capt. Brintnall and Hubbard, sensing himself a fortunate young man at the start of his journey.
From Baja, loaded with about 50,000 sealskins,2 the Triumph sailed back to Hawaii for further provisions, providing the youths with a chance to return home, though both Hopu and ‘Ōpūkaha‘ia were determined to proceed on the voyage to China and America. In Macao, a well-established trading post for Europeans, Brintnall exchanged sealskins for tea, silk, cinnamon, and other commodities. The Chinese valued the under-fur of the seals to line winter clothes and were willing to exchange items of high value to New Englanders.3 The China trade brought extraordinary profits for all parties, even to the sealers who had the bloody and rancid work of killing and curing furs. After a six-month stay and the fulfillment of all regulations and protocol, including taxes and bribes, the Triumph left China in March, 1809, embarking on the last leg of the voyage through the Indian Ocean, around the Cape of Good Hope, into the southern Atlantic Ocean, and finally northward toward New York City, their home destination.
The Triumph’s arrival in New York City completed a 157-day voyage from China and two years from its New Haven departure. Formerly the budding nation’s capital, New York City in 1809 was a growing metropolis, second in population only to Philadelphia, the municipality that took its place to become the temporary home of the incipient United States government. Only the southern tip of 14-mile-long Manhattan was occupied. The rest of the island was made up of scattered farms and forests. However, residential buildings were quickly advancing northward, driven by population increase and fear of yellow fever; the most desirable locations were now located beyond Canal Street. Ferry boats crossing the Hudson River between Manhattan and Staten Island were stiffs or rowboats—one of the operators, a young Cornelius Vanderbilt. The new City Hall was in various phases of construction at the cost of an astounding half a million dollars. Two years earlier, Robert Fulton and Chancellor Livingston successfully ran their steam-powered Clermont up the Hudson River to Albany, marking the beginning of regular ferry service between the cities without the worry of tides, currents, and winds. Mayor Clinton DeWitt established the first public school with forty students in attendance, and the city had recently christened its second playhouse, the Bowery, to accompany the venerable Park
