THE ISLAND THAT TIME FORGOT : Half-Century of Isolation Ends as Navy Turns Over Midway Atoll to Anglers, Divers and Tourists

There were the giant trevallies, huge fish rising like black rocks from the cavernous depths, falling in line behind the boat, enticed by bits of tuna tossed their way by the captain.

Charlie Stuve had counted on this.

But then there was the giant tiger shark, charging up out of the blue like a demon from hell, apparently intent on sinking its teeth into something substantial.

Stuve hadn’t figured on this.

“Geeez!!” he bellowed, leaping back, trying to distance himself from the jaws of the attacker, which slid up onto the boat’s transom, shaking its head and snapping at air, looking through blank, black eyes.

The shark eventually slipped back down and out of sight--momentarily. It resurfaced and mounted another quick, boat-jolting attack.

“I have never . . . in my life, seen a shark act like that!” the veteran skipper exclaimed.

But then, Stuve, 39, hired to help run the newly established sportfishing fleet here, had never been to Midway, where everything seems larger than life.

“Everything that’s out here has been big,” he said, after things had calmed down. “Everything I’ve seen has been bigger than anywhere else, the marlin, the trevallies. . . . I think because it’s not picked over like other places.”

Picked over? Midway’s waters have hardly been fished. Commercial fishermen, with their devastating nets, have not been here, and even anglers fishing with hook and line have, until recently, been almost nonexistent. As a result, the fish are larger and more plentiful, not as wary as they might otherwise be.

Midway’s sandy, shrubby shores turn into a virtual sea of albatross from October through June. The sea birds, also having been spared the pressures of civilization, show little fear of man.

“Basically they’ve been kept away from the abuses of man so they don’t really have any fear of us, which unfortunately makes them very vulnerable,” said Nick Palaia, a biological science technician for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

They were certainly vulnerable that fateful morning of June 4, 1942, when the Japanese bombarded Midway during an ill-fated attempt to occupy the atoll, which led to the two-day Battle of Midway, one of the fiercest of World War II. It resulted in the first decisive naval victory for the United States and crippled Japan’s naval air power.

But that is history. And now, after more than half a century, so is Midway’s isolation.

Midway is going public. The atoll, made up of Sand and Eastern islands at the northern end of the Hawaiian Islands chain, is 1,300 miles northwest of Honolulu and halfway between the mainland and Japan. Its importance from a military standpoint has diminished. The Navy is pulling out.

The exodus, which began as part of the U.S. Department of Defense base realignment and closure process in 1993, isn’t expected to be completed until June, but “jurisdiction and control” already has been transferred to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The service, through a partnership with the Phoenix Air Group of Cartersville, Ga., has since late August been allowing limited numbers of tourists to what is now Midway Atoll National Wildlife Refuge.

Suddenly, up from the same waters that swallowed crippled aircraft carriers and burning fighter planes--and claimed thousands of lives--are coming giant blue marlin, trevallies and jacks that have never felt the sting of an angler’s hook.

Those so inclined can plunge wide-eyed--really wide-eyed after hearing stories such as Stuve’s--into a magnificent lagoon teeming with dolphins, turtles and oversized lobsters.

Suddenly, hundreds of thousands of albatross, engaged in the biggest, loudest, funniest gooney bird festival on earth, are on display for anyone with the means to get here.

So are bombed-out buildings, rusted antiaircraft guns, seaplane hangars and other war reminders for those who might want to step back in time and put themselves in the combat boots of those who were on duty here when Midway was set afire by Japanese planes.

Harry Stuart, 78, of Orlando, Fla., was among the few thousand stationed here then. He returned recently to reminisce, “because the battle was the highlight of my time here,” and to show his son where he almost bought the farm while answering a call of nature.

“I . . . was outside my dugout, finishing my errand, when I looked up and actually saw the first [enemy] aircraft get hit and peel off in flames,” he said.

“I stood there fascinated by what was going on until I realized that the planes were very nearly overhead, and when I realized it I said, ‘Man, this is not a good time for me to be out here.’ I started to the dugout and just before I got there a 500-pound bomb dropped near me and knocked me [head over heels], and then I got under cover.”

Today, finally, Midway is beginning to generate memories of a happier sort, even if this is not an ideal situation for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

If agency biologists had their way, the two-square-mile atoll, what’s left of an ancient volcano, would be inhabited only by the birds and the beasts, including endangered Hawaiian monk seals.

But tourists are being allowed because, without them, the service would have to abandon Midway. The financially strapped agency cannot afford, on its own, to maintain the airport facility necessary to man and supply one of the most remote places on earth.

So, the agency two years ago published a request for proposals from the private sector for a partner that “would provide operations and logistic support as well as a public-use program that would allow the co-operator to recoup some of its costs.”

Phoenix Air Group, a major defense aviation contractor specializing in electronic warfare training, responded and eventually a deal was struck: The newly created Midway Phoenix Corp. would assume the cost of maintaining and operating the airfield and the island in return for profits realized through tourism.

Because only 30 visitors at a time are being allowed until the Navy and environmental cleanup crews leave in June, and because only 100 at a time will be allowed thereafter, profits figure to be paltry, compared to the cost of running the islands.

Mark Thompson, 45, president of Phoenix Air, said Phoenix Air board members advised against the venture but he overruled them, citing a desire to keep open an airfield his company--which also owns of one of the world’s largest fleets of Lear jets--has long used as a refueling stop on flights between Anchorage or Hawaii and the Far East.

“I am the president,” Thompson said. “Besides, I’ve always done things nobody else was willing to do, and I’ve done all right.”

And so the nonmilitary buildup has begun. Thompson immediately spent $500,000 on a cellular phone system. Military barracks are being remodeled to accommodate tourists. Thompson is building a waterfront restaurant and flying in a chef from Belgium.

Midway Sportfishing has been established, with renowned skippers--Charlie Stuve being one of them--recruited to run a fleet of top-of-the-line cruisers and custom-built, 22-foot, outboard-powered catamarans.

Midway Dive-N-Snorkel is in business, with a 45-foot custom dive boat, and divers can explore the vast lagoon not only for fish but for shipwrecks and airplanes.

“We’ve got a bottle of champagne just waiting for the day we find our first fighter plane,” said Michael Jackson, 39, partner of dive master Larry Millwood.

Oceanic Society Expeditions of San Francisco was called upon to lead natural history and ecology tours, and to conduct research projects with the help of paying tourists who, according to naturalist Barbara Bilgre, “really get a kick out of it because they get to be involved in actual research.”

Other than that, Midway is not expected to experience dramatic changes. There will be no high-rises, no swimming pools. The historic buildings still standing will remain standing. The bowling alley, tennis courts and gymnasium used by the military will remain operational.

“We want to keep Midway the way it is,” Thompson said. “If you were a writer and you wanted to go on a sabbatical to write the great American novel, this would be an excellent place to do it.”

*

A trip to Midway begins on a Kauai runway for an afternoon flight aboard a 19-seat, turbo-prop Gulfstream. Four hours later, the plane lands in the darkness on Sand Island, the only one still inhabited.

Strange sounds fill the night air, albatross wailing in a high-pitched cacophony so overwhelming that Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” immediately comes to mind. The scene outside the hangar is as surreal as any in that movie. The birds, similar in appearance to but twice as large as sea gulls, have settled for the night, covering nearly every square foot of ground.

Guests are driven slowly by van to their quarters, where they are given bicycles with which to get around.

Some, after unpacking, take a walk among the gooney birds, which don’t budge. If you get too close, they cock their heads and look at you funny.

Others in the group peddle down paved streets to the only night life, the All Hands Club, a Navy pub where, at least for as long as the Navy is here, drinks are served at surprisingly low prices--50 cents for a domestic brew, 80 cents for a cocktail. Pizza and burgers are served as well.

Breakfast can be had in the mess hall, where customers dine with the remaining sailors and cleanup crews. Afterward, guests attend an orientation meeting at the main hangar, where they are told about the birds they will encounter. They are asked to tread carefully.

Those who have nothing scheduled spend the morning exploring, alone or with a naturalist whose first order of business is to shed a little light on Midway’s most prominent citizen, the gooney bird.

The atoll is the seasonal home to the world’s largest colony of Laysan albatross--about 430,000 nesting pairs, or 70% of the world’s population--and the second-largest colony of black-footed albatross. The Japanese didn’t call this place Otori Shima, or Big Bird Island, for nothing.

Young albatross spend seven to nine years at sea, soaring gracefully in the air currents, foraging for squid and fish. When they are mature enough, they return to find a mate on Midway, their home for the next seven months.

And Midway wouldn’t be the same without them.

Used to gliding to a halt on water, the birds--with six- to eight-foot wingspans--hit the beaches, fields and runways with a thud, often tumbling to a stop. They seem to lose their bearings over land, perhaps because they are trying to spot their mates among a million other gooney birds. Bike riders often have to duck to avoid being picked off by landing gooneys.

Once on the ground, albatross have only one thing in mind, the result of which is an egg so big it looks as though it belongs in a “Flintstones” cartoon and, eventually, a gooney bird chick that stumbles around until it is strong enough to fly. Some make it off the islands, others flounder in the lagoon and are gobbled up by tiger sharks.

*

In all, more than two million birds--from great frigates to red-footed boobies to burrowing Bonin petrels to wedge-tailed shearwaters--visit Midway in the course of a year.

Fluffy white terns flutter about in pairs or threes, sometimes flying right up to the faces of guests as they walk or ride. One such bird, named Spot, is the island pet. An orphan raised by workers, Spot will land on your hand or even your head. Then he’ll look at you with his beady black eyes and bend your ear for hours, if you have the time.

“To me, this is better than the Galapagos,” said Cherry Harrison, a tourist from Maui, visiting with her husband, Joe. “Because here you have the freedom to roam around. At the Galapagos, you can’t go anywhere without an escort.”

While roaming, it is easy to imagine being here during World War II. Many of the buildings are still in place, some with significant damage. Midway was first shelled on the night of Dec. 7, 1941, by Japanese destroyers returning from the attack on Pearl Harbor.

One shell penetrated an air duct of an otherwise “bomb-proof” command post on Sand Island, mortally injuring 1st Lt. George H. Cannon, who remained conscious long enough to get the post back in operation. Cannon was the first marine in World War II given the Medal of Honor. He was one of four killed that night.

Sixth months later, during the Battle of Midway, Japanese ships attempting to seize Midway as a base from which to again strike Hawaii, were caught off guard by U.S. forces, which knew of the impending attack after breaking the Japanese code. The Japanese lost four aircraft carriers, a heavy cruiser, 253 planes and 3,500 lives, and never regained the offensive. The United States lost one carrier, a destroyer, 150 planes and 307 lives.

Midway, however, was making history long before World War II. The frame of the building that housed employees of the Commercial Pacific Cable Company just after the turn of the century still stands, in remarkably good shape, as evidence of that.

And ships have been running aground on the shallow, circular reef protecting the islands since ships have been sailing the Pacific.

The Midway Mirror, a twice-a-year newsletter published by survivors of the United States Marine Corps’ Sixth Defense Battalion, researched shipwrecks for one issue and provided details of intriguing events that followed the wreck of a ship 110 years ago:

“The General Siegel, with Captain Jacobsen in charge, was wrecked at Midway during a storm on Nov. 16, 1886. Immediately, many weird things began to happen. First, one of the sailors, named Latkin, had his hand blown off while fishing with dynamite, and a few days later died complaining of great pain in his stomach.

“Another sailor, named Brown, and Captain Jacobsen went over to Eastern Island, but the captain returned to Sand Island alone, stating that Brown had accidentally killed himself. Jorgensen, another sailor, then went with the captain and a German boy to Eastern Island, and the captain showed them where he had buried Brown. The captain stood by indifferently while they dug up Brown’s body--and found a bullet hole in the back of his head!

“Several days later, the captain and Jorgensen went again to Eastern Island, and Jorgensen returned alone to Sand Island, saying the captain had disappeared. The captain was never seen again. Jorgensen’s shipmates outfitted a boat which had drifted from the wreck of the Dunnottar Castle on Kure or Ocean Island, 60 miles northwest of Midway, and sailed for the Marshall Islands, leaving Jorgensen marooned and alone on Midway. They had accused him of killing the captain and were afraid to take him with them.”

Midway was discovered in 1859 by Nick Brooks of the Hawaiian ship, Gambia. Brooks named the atoll Middlebrooks Islands and when the United States annexed the atoll in 1867 it became known simply as Midway.

In 1903, because of recurring complaints of squatters and poachers--mostly Japanese after albatross for plumage--President Theodore Roosevelt put Midway under the jurisdiction of the Navy. That same year, the first contingent of the Commercial Pacific Cable Company arrived, the final segment of cable was laid, and on July 4, 1903, the first around-the-world cable was sent via Midway by Roosevelt.

In 1935, Pan Am World Airways set up an air base for its Trans-Pacific Clipper Seaplane service between the mainland and Far East. A hotel was built on Sand Island. In 1941, things began heating up in the Pacific and the U.S. Naval Air Station Midway was commissioned.

What happened after that is in fourth-grade history books--and the memories of those who recall the war in the Pacific.

What happens from now on is anyone’s guess.

On the recent fishing trip, Stuve told of marlin averaging 500-850 pounds that were caught just outside the lagoon in the first weeks of operation.

“We’ve only had one peewee, a 150-pounder,” he said, adding that the offshore fishery probably will turn out to be a seasonal one, as the winds blow hard and steady for days on end during winter months, when the water temperature drops below 70 and the air into the low 60s.

Inside the lagoon, the oval giant trevallies, or GTs, generate the most excitement among the angling crowd. Like everything else, they are bigger and bolder than trevallies, or ulua, farther down the chain in Hawaii proper.

“There aren’t divers down there spearing them and there are no people throwing hooks after them,” reasoned Frank Parrish, a Honolulu biologist with the National Marine Fisheries Service. “So this whole system is pretty much, if not pristine, relatively unexploited. And as a result, these high-level predators have not been gleaned or made wary of man, so they swim right up to people.”

They certainly swam right up to Stuve’s boat, enticed by chunks of tuna caught on a previous trip. This is a catch-and-release fishery, but offshore species, such as tuna and wahoo, are allowed for consumption on the island, and possible world records can be killed for verification.

A line-class world-record GT was caught earlier this fall--a 105-pounder on 30-pound-test monofilament--and Stuve said he has seen much larger fish. But so far, he has not been able to catch any of those because of their tremendous strength and an uncanny ability to make it back to the safety of the sharp, coral reef.

“Every now and then you get one to turn offshore and you’ve got ‘im,” Stuve said.

Cindy Stuve, Charlie’s wife, was hoping to get one but was having no luck. She started with eight-pound-test and, as each fish broke her line she went to heavier equipment. Finally, she grabbed the stoutest rod with a reel spooled with 130-pound-test, strapped a harness around her waist, clipped the harness to her reel, buttoned down the drag as tight as it would go, flipped a chunk of tuna and waited for a taker.

One hit immediately, a 60-pound GT that sped down toward the reef, only to be stopped cold about 10 feet short. She began pumping and reeling, thinking she had the upper hand, when suddenly there was a tug on the line so sharp she was pulled off balance.

A large shark had dashed out from the reef and sunk its teeth into the trevally, twisting and tearing at the fish with such ferocity it nearly yanked Cindy Stuve overboard. She braced herself against the rail and cried out for help, but Charlie just stood there, staring down in amazement at the cloud of blood and bubbles below.

Suddenly, Cindy fell back. The shark had bitten through the fish, missing the hook. She reeled in what was left of the trevally, and then let her husband have it.

“I felt like I was down there with that fish, being chased,” she complained. “I was starting to question your love for me, Charlie.”

He shrugged, tossed the trevally overboard and resumed his chumming, when up charged the 15-foot tiger that nearly startled him out of his shoes.

The next day, on the dive boat with a group of snorkelers, dive master Millwood was saying that although he hadn’t even “cracked the tip of the iceberg” in terms of exploring the huge lagoon, he has great expectations, even considering the abundance of sharks. He said they had yet to bother him or any of his customers.

But when he stopped at one of his favorite spots, about 200 yards off the beach, and someone remarked that this was about where Stuve said he had been fishing the day before, nobody felt much like jumping in.