American History Tellers - Hawaiʻi's Journey to Statehood | The Pineapple King | 2

Episode Date: March 29, 2023

In the early 1900s, an enterprising young American named James Dole introduced pineapples to a windy plateau in Central Oahu. He’d been warned that the crop was perishable and unprofitable and that his venture was sure to fail. But within a decade, his plantation – and the immigrant workers brought in to farm it – reshaped the landscape and economy of the Hawaiian Islands. Dole’s savvy marketing helped build the mystique that made Hawai’i a tourist destination. But his reign as Hawai’i’s “Pineapple King” would be cut short.Listen ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App. https://wondery.app.link/historytellersSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's a cool afternoon in November 1901. You're working on a farm in Wahiawa, a sun-baked plateau in central Oahu, northwest of Honolulu, Hawaii. Your foreman has asked you and three co-workers to clear a 10-acre parcel of wild grass and guava bushes in order to plow. You've been here a month, ever since losing your job at a sugar plantation on Maui. Your new boss is a novice homesteader from Massachusetts. He's already tried to grow watermelons, grapes, cashews, and who knows what else, but none of those crops thrived.

Now he has a new idea, pineapples. Once you plow these acres, you're supposed to plant 50,000 of them. The boss's right-hand man, your foreman, hovers as you work. Well, how much longer before we can start planting? Well, that red soil over there is pretty thick, chief. We'll probably have to till it twice to loosen it all up. Two, three days just to turn the soil. At least another week to plant.

Well, do what you have to do. Just get those plants in the ground as fast as you can. Boss doesn't want them to dry out. They cost him a pretty penny, and I hear he's buying even more. You've met the boss a few times. He seems nice enough, though he may be in over his head, switching to yet another new crop. But it's not your place to challenge his decisions, as long as he keeps paying you a dollar a day. The foreman is about to leave, but then turns back. Oh, and after you clear the field, make sure to lime it good before you plant.

You frown. You've worked pineapple fields back home in the Philippines, and you know they need soil that's acidic. Adding lime to the soil will do the opposite. Lime? You sure about that? That'll practically kill a pineapple plant. Boss's orders. So no backtalk, just do it.

You got it, Chief. Lime it is. Say, who's going to buy all this fruit anyway? Pineapples aren't easy to transport, in my experience. Might turn into a rotting mess before you get them down to Honolulu. Well, that's none of your concern either. Boss man has a plan. He says he'll get the fruit peeled, sliced, and canned right here before it goes to Honolulu. How's he going to do all that? Again, not your concern. Just get the plants in the ground, okay?

You nod and turn back to the fields. Your boss is clearly determined, and if he manages to pull this off, there will be plenty of work around here. But even though you haven't been here long, it's clear that the sugar men are the ones who really run these islands. Compared to all of Hawaii's sugar plantations, you don't see how your boss and his pineapple stand much of a chance. From Wondery comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a witness? Paul can do it. I'm your host, Brandon Jinks Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House.

Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history. your story. At the turn of the 20th century, a powerful group of businessmen and sugar barons deposed Hawaii's native monarchy in a bloodless coup, paving the way for America to annex the islands. Soon, Hawaii was flooded with adventurers and entrepreneurs looking for opportunities. One man with an ambitious and unlikely dream was James Dole, who set his sights on pineapples. Dole was warned that pineapples would never flourish.

They were difficult to cultivate and easily perishable, but he saw the tropical fruit's potential, and he was determined to create Hawaii's first large-scale pineapple operation and to compete with the Big Five sugar producers. Within 20 years, thanks to Dole's innovations and savvy marketing, pineapples expanded from a novelty fruit to become Hawaii's second largest crop, one that employed thousands of immigrant workers and reshaped the island's agriculture and image. This is Episode 2, The Pineapple King. James Drummond Dole landed in Honolulu in mid-November 1899. A skinny 22-year-old with an agriculture

degree from Harvard University and dreams of becoming a farming entrepreneur. Dole had been hearing about Hawaii his whole life. Earlier generations of the Dole family had come to the islands in the mid-1800s as Christian missionaries. His second cousin, Sanford Dole, was among the leaders of the group that deposed Hawaii's Queen L Lily Okalani, and took control of the islands in 1893. After the monarchy was overthrown, Sanford Dole became Hawaii's first president, and later, when Hawaii became a U.S. territory, its first governor. Sanford Dole was backed by the island's powerful sugar industry, but he knew that in order to thrive, Hawaii needed to diversify its crops. So he reached out to his second cousin, known as Jim, and encouraged him to come to Oahu and try growing something other than sugar. Jim Dole arrived in Hawaii with $1,500 in savings

and head full of agricultural theory, but he had no practical farming experience other than having grown a few vegetables in his mother's garden. But nonetheless, in July of 1900, Dole bought a 61-acre parcel in the hills of Oahu at an outpost called Wahiawa. He soon discovered that the land was not ideal for many crops. It sat on a dry, windswept plateau between two valleys, more than 800 feet above sea level. Sun was abundant, but water was limited, and irrigation would be a challenge. It was also an arduous five-hour trek to the port of Honolulu along a winding wagon road. Initially, Dole had envisioned a coffee plantation, but when he moved to the property, he chose to instead experiment with other crops. He planted test patches of peas,

potatoes, starfruit, grapes, watermelons, avocados, and bananas. And then he decided to try a crop that had vexed many others, pineapples. Pineapples were not native to Hawaii, but had been growing wild on the islands for centuries, likely introduced by Spanish explorers. Attempts at growing wild on the islands for centuries, likely introduced by Spanish explorers. Attempts at cultivation began in the 1850s, but most pineapple farms were small and unprofitable. The plants were tricky to grow because they were susceptible to pests and required good drainage, and the fruit was difficult to transport. Once established, though, a pineapple plant could produce for 50 years. That longevity

appealed to Jim Dole. He figured if he could get enough plants started, his farm would become a long-term moneymaker. A few nearby farmers had successfully grown pineapples, which he felt was proof that the soil was suitable, but no one had tried to plant the crop on the scale he was planning. Soon after Dole purchased his 61 acres, a childhood friend named Fred Tracy came to Hawaii to help. The two men started plowing fields using second-hand equipment pulled by a horse named Withers with a cracked hoof. Dole and Tracy lived together in a barn along with their horse

while they built a small cabin to serve as more permanent lodgings. They pooled all their money to buy their first pineapple plants, then hired a few Japanese, Filipino, and Chinese field workers. Their first crop of pineapple plants failed to bear any fruit, and eventually they figured out their mistake. Dole had treated the soil with lime to make it more alkaline, based on faulty advice from a Harvard professor. Pineapples preferred acidic soil.

So the next crop bore a small yield of fruit, which Dole and Tracy peddled in markets in Honolulu, a day-long trip by horse and buggy from their farm. But they soon discovered that once ripe, pineapples bruised easily and spoiled quickly. Still, Dole was undeterred. He realized it would be too difficult to ship and sell fresh, whole pineapples on a large scale. So he decided to process and package his fruit, hoping to make it more transportable. He also set his sights on a bigger market, the American mainland. In the 1890s, a few small pineapple growers had tried processing their pineapples into syrup or jelly and packaging it in glass containers.

But the jars themselves were prone to breakage, and a 35% tariff on processed foods imported into America cut into profits. By the time Dole came along, most of these early growers had gone out of business. But Dole's timing was fortunate. The import tariff had expired in 1898 when the U.S. annexed Hawaii, meaning Dole now had the advantage of lower tariffs on any fruit he exported. He also decided to preserve his pineapples in sturdier tin cans instead of glass jars, reducing his breakage costs. Still, Dole knew almost nothing

about canning fruit, and he had another problem. He was running out of money. So in December of 1901, Dole incorporated the Hawaiian Pineapple Company to raise cash. He sold shares to investors, some of whom were the elite of Oahu, lawyers, politicians, and sugar barons, including a few of the men who had deposed the queen. Dole hoped the influx of new capital would allow him to hire more laborers, buy more horses, grow more pineapple plants, and most importantly, build his own cannery. Eventually, Dole was able to sell enough company stock to purchase another 50,000 pineapple plants, but it wasn't enough money to build a cannery. So in early 1902, he traveled to

the U.S., hoping to bring back enough cash and canning equipment to take his ambitious enterprise to the next level. But if he failed to secure this investment, he knew his dream could be doomed. Imagine it's December 1904. You're the manager of Hunt Brothers Fruit Packing Company of Northern California, but today you're a long way from home. You've come to Hawaii to visit the pineapple farm of James Dole, who's seated beside you as he steers a horse-drawn wagon slowly up into the hills above Oahu. On your first trip here a year ago, you liked what you saw and decided to become Dole's sales agent and an early investor. Sales were slow at first, but now you're thinking of expanding your partnership

and investing more money into Dole's scrappy company. Maybe a lot more. You wince as the wagon goes over another bump in the rutted dirt road. Well, I see you haven't improved the road yet. Well, we've invested in other areas. You'll see we've grown quite a bit since you were here in 03. The wagon rounds a bend and you finally see the tidy rows of spiky pineapple plants up ahead. Field workers turn and watch you approach. Dole greets them with a friendly wave. See, this is all new. A couple of neighboring farms went out of business and we bought their land. And we leased another 300 acres over that hill, getting us close to 1,000 planted

acres now. Well, that's impressive. You have come a long way. And I feel we can't slow down, not for a minute. I've read about those new farms in Cuba and Puerto Rico. We need to stay competitive. But how's the cannery running? Well, that's what I've been wanting to discuss with you. Is there a problem? My firm invested a fair amount of money. No, I know.

And now that our crops are coming in strong, the canning process here is just too slow. My workers can't keep up. And next year should be an even bigger yield. But I'm not sure we'll be able to get it all canned fast enough. Well, what do you think might be the solution? Dole stops the wagon outside a wood-framed building. Inside, you see workers chopping and slicing pineapples by hand. The two of you climb down, and Dole hands the reins to one of his employees.

Well, I think we need a new cannery. And a big one. There's some land I've been looking at just west of downtown Honolulu. down and Dole hands the reins to one of his employees. Well, I think we need a new cannery. And a big one. There's some land I've been looking at just west of downtown Honolulu. Could be perfect. And how would you get all that fruit to Honolulu? That wagon's not going to do the job. Oh, I've got a plan for that too. A friend of mine from college, he's running his father's railroad company. And I think I can convince him to add a narrow gauge rail spur up here to Wahiawa. Then we'd have direct rail access to Honolulu. We could process and can the fruit right near the pier and ship it to you.

We could even start canning fruit for other plantations, because I know they're desperate for better methods as well. I see. But how long would all this take? Maybe a year to get it up and running. And, of course, we'd need capital. Of course. And I assume you're looking to us for that. And, of course, we'd need capital. Of course. And I assume you're looking to us for that. Yes, I'd like you to take more shares.

But I think together we could turn this into the greatest pineapple business in the world. Dole leads you toward a mound of freshly picked pineapples. He picks one up and hands it to you, clearly proud. You like this young farmer. He's a bit naive, but he's ambitious. You've already been thinking about investing more. And in time, maybe, you could even make a play to gain control of this little upstart company. In late 1902, Dole established a key partnership with Joseph Hunt of Hunt Brothers, a Northern California fruit packer and wholesale grocery distributor.

Later on, Hunt would become one of the world's largest producers of ketchup and canned tomatoes. The two men met while Dole was traveling the U.S. to raise funds and buy cannery equipment. After meeting Dole, Hunt agreed to become sales agent and distributor for Dole's canned pineapples and invested $10,000 to help Dole build his first cannery. And when Dole's first harvest came in in mid-1903, he packed 43,000 cans and shipped them to San Francisco. Hunt Brothers sold the canned fruit to stores up and down the West Coast. A year later, Dole packed nearly five times that amount. Even so, some investors felt the company's growth was too slow and sold their shares. They found an eager buyer in Joseph Hunt, who by 1904 owned 40% of Dole's company.

But the partnership was mutually beneficial. In 1905, with the help from Hunt's financing, Dole's production rose again to more than 600,000 cans. But keeping up with demand was still a challenge. The canning process was slow and labor-intensive. Workers would cut the fruit into pieces, pack it into cans, then solder the lid shut. But if the soldering wasn't done just right, the pressure of the fermenting pineapple would cause the cans to explode. Dole lost thousands of cans every year to spoilage and explosions. Still, despite the setbacks, business continued to boom. By 1905, Dole's original cannery couldn't keep up.

To increase capacity, he convinced Hunt to help him build a modern new cannery near the Honolulu Piers. At the same time, Hunt persuaded the American Can Company to build a new factory right next to Dole's cannery. Next, in order to get his fresh fruit to the factory more quickly, Dole worked out a deal with former Harvard classmate Walter Dillingham, who ran the Oahu Railway and Land Company. Dillingham agreed to build an 11-mile extension that connected Dole's plantation to the main rail line into Honolulu. What had been a five-hour trip over rough roads was now just 60 minutes by train. And then in 1907, Dole's new cannery and packing plant opened in Honolulu.

He had also solved the problem of the exploding cans with new sealing machines that crimped the lids on more tightly. That year, he processed 2.7 million cans of pineapple. Dole's cannery employed 700 men and women who processed 8,000 cans a day during peak season. It quickly became the largest pineapple plant in the world. But then, in October of 1907, a financial crisis spread across the United States, causing the stock market to plunge. Many consumers considered pineapples a luxury item, and demand plummeted. The so-called panic of 1907 didn't have an immediate effect, as most of Dole's crop from that year had already been canned and sold. But 1908 promised to bring a record crop of pineapples,

and Dole worried that he might not be able to sell his product to consumers tightening their belts. So even though he finally had his operation running at full speed, Dole needed to figure out a way to keep customers buying what he produced. Because if he failed, everything that he had built would all come crashing down. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect,

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listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today today who created that bottle of red sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge did you know that the air jordans were initially banned by the nba we'll explore all that and more in the best idea yet a brand new podcast from wondery and t-boy this is nick this is jack and we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast.

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Ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. In early 1908, Jim Dole confronted a stark dilemma. His pineapple business had grown rapidly, and he had engineered efficient new ways to produce and package his product. But he now faced the possibility of too few customers. When he had first started his business,

the naysayers had been quick to warn of his impending failure. The Honolulu advertiser called it a foolhardy venture which had been tried unsuccessfully before, arguing that pineapple export on any profitable scale was out of the question. But Dole's early success seemed to prove the critics wrong. Still, six years later, the Panic of 1907 suddenly threatened to ruin his company. Dole knew he needed to take bold action. So in early 1908, he joined forces with other pineapple growers, who were also expecting a drop in sales.

Dole met with these other farmers to develop plans to market pineapples more aggressively in the U.S. and to educate buyers on how to eat them, cook with them, and even how to use them in cocktails. So in May of 1908, they formalized their alliance, creating the Hawaiian Pineapple Growers Association, with Dole named its first president. The group pooled funds to create a $50,000 national marketing and advertising campaign. Soon thereafter, in newspapers and women's magazines, their ads shared recipes and cooking tips, promoting Hawaiian-grown pineapples as the best tasting in the world. One ad in the Ladies' Home Journal put it, Don't ask for pineapples alone. Insist on Hawaiian pineapple. Dole also offered a free recipe booklet to anyone who wrote to request one,

featuring dishes like baked ham garnished with sliced pineapple. Dole and the Hawaiian Pineapple Growers Association had competition, though. Other parts of the world, such as Cuba and the islands of the West Indies, also exported pineapples to America. But Dole's ads sought to link Hawaii and pineapples in consumers' minds, the way Cuba was linked with cigars. Newspaper ads and the packaging on the cans themselves promoted mythical versions of the islands, featuring hula girls in grass skirts beneath titles like Paradise

Island. Dole wasn't just selling pineapples. He was selling Hawaii. The campaign was a resounding success. Demand rebounded in late 1908, and pineapple sales reached a record high. Members of the New Growers Consortium exported nearly 10 million cans of sliced, crushed, cubed, and grated fruit that year. Just six years earlier, that number was only 75,000. And soon, even Hawaii's tourism board realized that pineapples were an effective marketing tool and began using them in its promotional materials. The success of Dole and the Growers Association drew more farmers into the pineapple business. Dole encouraged this, since few of the growers had their own canning operation, which meant they would need to pay him to process their fruit.

So by 1909, Dole had doubled the size of his Honolulu Cannery and Processing Plant. He employed hundreds of workers at the peak of each season, many of whom were recent arrivals to the islands. Pineapple, an immigrant itself to the islands, was now mostly grown and processed by immigrant labor. But that was nothing new for the islands. For decades, Hawaii had been a magnet for immigrant agricultural workers from Japan, Portugal, and especially China. But when Hawaii became a U.S. territory in 1900, it became subject to America's ban on Chinese immigration, enacted by the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. So after 1900, Japanese laborers began to outnumber Chinese on Hawaii's sugar plantations. And when their sugar contracts expired after three to five years,

many left to work on pineapple farms, where the work was less physically demanding. By 1909, most of Dole's field and cannery workers were Japanese, plus some Portuguese and a growing number of Filipinos. Immigration from the Philippines had increased after the Philippine-American War, when the group of Asian islands like Hawaii before it became a U.S. territory. Workers of all nationalities lived in bunkhouses and shopped at the company store. During peak season, the days were long, 10 to 12 hours. The pay was measly, about a dollar a day and sometimes less. And not all of these workers were equal. On the plantations, a hierarchy evolved. White Americans or Europeans,

the Haulis, owned the land and managed the crews. Portuguese field bosses, known as Ditch Lunas, often served as foremen, overseeing the mostly Asian field workers. Native Hawaiians also worked in the industry, but immigrants comprised an ever-larger portion of Hawaii's population. On his plantation, Dull was known as a fair but driven boss, who tried to get to know his employees and paid above-average wages. At the cannery, he provided showers, an employee lounge, and eventually free daycare. But he was motivated less by kindness than by good business sense. As long as his workers stayed happy with their modest wages and didn't strike, his company

would prosper. Badal also had an eye on profit and growth. In order to stay competitive, he needed to keep costs as low as possible, and that meant pushing his workers to produce at a faster rate. Pineapples had to be peeled, cored, and sliced largely by hand, a painstaking and sometimes dangerous process. And crude, hand-cranked machines had been introduced. One machine peeled the fruit, another cored it, another sliced it. These helped increase processing rates to about 10 to 15 pineapples per minute. But for Dole, that still was not fast enough.

To keep up with demand, his employees had to put in long shifts and work quickly, sometimes cutting themselves or even losing fingers in the machinery. So if Dole wanted to keep expanding and maintain morale among his workers, he would have to innovate. Imagine it's March 1912. You're standing on the factory floor at the sprawling Hawaiian Pineapple Company cannery in Honolulu, about to unveil the latest version of your invention, a single machine that will automatically trim, peel, core, and slice pineapples.

The company's president hired you a year ago to invent a machine that could both speed up the process and salvage the trimmings to make his newest product, bottled pineapple juice. But he's notoriously impatient and meticulous. So as he hovers next to you by the machine, you feel your heart race. All your prior attempts have been full of glitches. But now you think you've worked out the kinks. At least you sure hope so. So with this new prototype, one machine does it all. No more Lewis peeling machines or those dangerous slicing machines.

It just needs three or four workers to operate. Yeah, yeah, I understand the concept. But let's see if it works. You load a few pineapples onto the machine's conveyor belt. Watch as they trundle inside. So as you can see, the machine locks conveyor belt and watch as they trundle inside. So as you can see, the machine locks off the top and bottom, removes the core, cuts off the rind, and spits out a clean tube of pineapple there. Dole watches as a perfect cylinder of pineapple emerges from a chute.

He bends down to pick it up and inspects it closely. He seems impressed. So far, so good. These look clean. And the trimmings? Yes, those are collected in this bin and then sent to the juicing station over there. And all this excess pulp is collected as well. It's crushed for syrup. There's very little waste.

But just then, your machine clogs and seizes. Dole looks furious. Look, I can't use a machine that keeps breaking down. For what I pay you, I should be able to get something reliable. I'm sorry, sir, I'm not sure. It was working fine before. It doesn't matter. All I know is the hand crank machines work day in and day out. They don't die on me. But I will tell you this. If more of my people get injured on those old machines, it'll be your

fault. Dole storms off, leaving you to wonder if this might be your last day on the job. Then again, you're sure that with just a few more adjustments and upgrades, you can get your machine up and running and reliable. If you're right, you could process 50 pineapples a minute, maybe more. You just hope your boss gives you one more chance to prove it. Despite the setbacks, hiring inventor and engineer Henry Ganaka would turn out to be one of Dole's smartest moves. Ganaka had previously worked on sugar plantations and a small cannery in Wahiawa, where he learned about fruit packing. In 1911, he was working as an engineer at the Honolulu Iron Works. That's where Dole found him and lured him away, offering Ganaka $300 a month to design a machine that

would automate the labor-intensive process of preparing a pineapple for canning. After a few frustrating failures, Ganaka slowly improved his machines. And by 1913, his automatic fruit corer and sizer more than tripled Dole's production. Requiring fewer than five operators per machine, Dole's cannery began processing 35 pineapples a minute, then 50, and eventually 100. Just as Henry Ford was learning how to churn out more cores through the assembly line process, Dole and Ganaca were pioneering the automation of agriculture. In 1915, Ganaka's newest machine was awarded a gold medal at the Panama Pacific Exposition in

San Francisco. Ganaka left Hawaii that year to join his brothers at a mining operation in California. He died just three years later at age 42 of influenza and pneumonia, leaving his invention to far outlive him. Kanaka machines would continue to be used across the industry for decades to come. By 1915, pineapples had become not just Hawaii's second-largest crop, but its second-largest industry in terms of revenue. But the powerful Big Five sugar companies still ruled Hawaii's commerce and politics. Over the years, these companies had strengthened their power base, expanding beyond sugarcane into shipping, newspapers, and hotels.

Dole had no choice but to do business with them, leasing land from the Big Five and largely relying on their ships to deliver his product to America. But consumer pineapple sales slowed during World War I, so Dole negotiated a deal to send canned pineapples to overseas Allied troops. It was not just a contribution to the war effort, but also turned out to be a brilliant marketing campaign. Troops returned home after the war with a new taste for the island fruit, making it even more of a staple on American pantry shelves. So as the war came to an end, demand for pineapple rebounded. In 1918 alone, 25 million cans of Dole pineapples went to American homes and businesses.

Improvements to the Ganaka machines led to steady increases in production, and by the mid-1920s, Dole's Honolulu Cannery was packing half a million cans a day. Dole, meanwhile, had gotten married and started a family. He built a lavish plantation house for his wife, Belle, and their five children. He continued to buy more land, including former sugarcane fields. He created pineapple plantations on other Hawaiian islands and nursed ever more ambitious plans to compete with Big Sugar and make pineapples the number one industry in Hawaii. Then, in 1922, he decided to expand his empire even further by buying an entire island. Soon, it would become the largest pineapple plantation on the planet. But Jim Dole's triumph would not last long. Soon, the American economy would take a devastating turn, and the Pineapple King

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only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. By the 1920s, Jim Dole had purchased or leased every available piece of land he could find. His Hawaiian pineapple company held more than 12,000 acres on Oahu, Maui, and the Big Island of Hawaii. In need of even more farmland, Dole traveled the world searching for new fields. But after touring Mexico, Fiji, the Philippines, Malaysia, and Australia, he decided he preferred to find a way to expand closer to home. So in 1922, he purchased the sparsely populated, cactus-covered island of Lanai for $1.1 million in cash. Rather than borrow money for the purchase, Dole sold shares of his company to the Waialua Agricultural Company, one of Hawaii's largest sugar firms. He had been leasing land from Waialua for years, and now with their investment, they owned a third of Dole's

company. Waialua was in turn owned by Castle & Cook, one of the Big Five sugar corporations. Some advisors warned Dole about letting Big Sugar take such a large stake in his company, but he believed the earnings from the new Lanai plantation would offset that risk. At the time, roughly only 100 people lived on the 90,000-acre island, mostly native Hawaiian fishermen and farmers raising cattle and sheep. Dole hired some of those residents, while others were displaced to make room for his pineapple fields. And after acquiring the island, Dole spent the next few years turning Lanai

into the largest pineapple plantation in the world. He spent more than $4 million constructing a harbor and roads, as well as a water system, a reservoir, and company housing to accommodate 1,000 workers. In time, the island would produce 75% of the world's pineapples. Throughout the 1920s, Dole continued to create clever marketing campaigns to increase consumers' appetite for his crop. He launched a recipe contest in 1925, whose winner, a woman from Norfolk, Virginia,

was credited with creating the pineapple upside-down cake. Dole printed the recipe in magazines and a pineapple cookbook. The cake was an instant hit and would become a classic. The steady rise in profits through the 1920s allowed Dole to pay shareholders regular dividends and to continue making improvements for his workers. He created employee pension and stock plans and paid annual bonuses. And in 1927, Dole launched another new marketing campaign. Until then, his company, still called the Hawaiian Pineapple Company, had been selling its canned fruit under various paradise-themed names like Waikiki, Paradise Islands, and Royal Palm. But now Dole and his executives decided that the name Dole was well-known enough

that it was time to begin embossing it on the top of every fruit can. Ads began to feature Dole's name and his backstory, with the tagline, You can thank Jim Dole for canned pineapples. That same year, Dole was inspired by Charles Lindbergh's pioneering transatlantic flight and started thinking about delivering pineapples by air instead of sea. To test this idea, he came up with yet another marketing scheme. But this one would end in tragedy.

Imagine it's August 16th, 1927. A foggy Tuesday morning in Oakland, California. You're the pilot of a Lockheed Vega monoplane dubbed the Golden Eagle, owned by George Randolph Hearst, son of the newspaper magnate. You're one of eight planes about to compete in the Dole Air Race, sponsored by the Dole Pineapple Company. The goal is to fly from Oakland to Honolulu. And if you can beat the other seven planes, you'll take home the $25,000 grand prize.

But unfortunately, the race seems jinxed. Already, there have been multiple crashes and three deaths. So now, as you and your navigator stand behind your plane, waiting for officials to clear the runway, a newspaper reporter approaches. You boys see that latest crash? It's a miracle no one was killed. How are all these wrecks making you feel about your chances? Sorry, pal, we're kind of busy here. Go talk to one of the other pilots.

I'd rather talk to the guy who's been bragging he has the fastest plane. That true? Of course it is. 200 horsepower and fast as a bullet. We got her up to 135 miles per hour just yesterday. I figure we'll make it to Hawaii in about 20 hours. In fact, I'll predict that we'll be having breakfast in Honolulu tomorrow morning. Bacon, eggs, and maybe a little pineapple. You don't worry you'll end up flying into the cliffs like those boys last week? Or land in the bay? Or tear off your landing gear? No, sir. I've been flying since the war. I've been a stunt pilot, logged more than 5,000 hours in the air. And I've seen my share of wrecks, sure, but this flight is a straight shot over open water. Should be no problem. So you're telling me you're not

scared? Not one bit. Those other crashes were pilot error, plain and simple. Well, I don't know. Seems to me like they ought to cancel the whole thing. I know they're calling it the greatest race in aviation history, but three men are dead. You've had enough of this reporter's doom and gloom, and thankfully, you see race officials waving their arms out on the dirt runway. It's your signal to taxi into place. Well, excuse me, sir, and please step back. We're being cleared for takeoff, so see you in Hawaii. You and your navigator climb into the cockpit, and you fire up the engine. The fog has cleared, and you're airborne in no time.

The crowd of nearly 100,000 cheers your smooth takeoff, and soon the Golden Gate Bridge passes beneath you. You're on course, and you have plenty of fuel, along with two quarts of coffee and a dozen sandwiches. Ahead lay 2,400 miles of ocean and a life-changing amount of money. Coming on the heels of Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight, the Dole Air Race of 1927 was supposed to be a thrilling competition that aligned the Dole name and brand with progress and adventure. The race was initially conceived by Hawaii's governor and the publisher of the Honolulu Star Bulletin, who thought it might be good publicity for Hawaii. They brought the idea to Dole, who agreed to sponsor the race with a $25,000 grand prize

and a $10,000 prize for second place. August 16, 1927, eight planes were scheduled to compete. Two of them crashed during takeoff. Two others managed to get airborne, but soon turned back with mechanical problems. Of the four that remained, the pilot of the Woolerock reached Honolulu in 26 hours and took first prize. Another plane, called the Aloha, got lost and nearly ran out of fuel, but landed two hours later. The two other planes never arrived. The Lockheed Vega monoplane named the Golden Eagle, with its crew of two, was lost at sea. The Miss Doran, which carried a two-man crew and a 22-year-old Michigan schoolteacher named Mildred Doran, also vanished. The public was horrified by the tragedies, and even aviators who had supported the race now argued that it had been far too risky.

Dole offered an additional $20,000 reward for the recovery of the missing crews, whom rescuers hoped might be found alive in life rafts. But a plane that joined in the search, the Dallas Spirit, also disappeared. None of the three missing planes was ever found. In total, the race claimed ten lives. Many in the press criticized Dole's race as wasteful and foolhardy. The Philadelphia Inquirer called it an orgy of reckless sacrifice. Dole felt personally guilty and wished he had pushed for stiffer safety requirements. He told the press that he deeply regretted the loss of life and that he was through with aviation. And yet the race had its desired effect. Now the world

knew the name Dole, and despite the tragedies, the press had been good for business. Some even praised the race as a bold advancement in long-distance flight. But meanwhile, Dole's competitors were starting to catch up. Heading into the late 1920s, Dole's share of the pineapple market

had declined to about a third. Large rivals had entered the business, including the California Packing Corporation, which later became known as Del Monte. Still, by 1930, Dole was manufacturing more than 100 million cans of pineapple a year. Pineapples were now firmly entrenched as Hawaii's second-largest crop, behind only sugar. And Dole stood alone as the world's largest pineapple producer. But Jim Dole would not be around to see the company he founded reach its peak. As the Great Depression hit America, demand for canned pineapples plunged.

In 1931, Dole packaged a record 120 million cans, but much of it went unsold. After years of profits, Dole's company began losing money, and he began borrowing to stay afloat. By late 1932, the company was on the verge of bankruptcy. Skidish shareholders decided it was time for a shake-up. Dole was ousted as general manager and given the mostly honorary title of chairman of the board. Big Five Sugar Company, Castle & Cook, which still held a minority stake in Dole's Hawaiian pineapple company, took control and named a new president. Dole would stay with the company for another 16 years, but from the sidelines. Dole had beaten the odds to build a massive pineapple empire and helped to transform Hawaiian agriculture. More importantly,

his savvy marketing campaigns had established Hawaii in the American imagination as an exotic island paradise. Other companies from hotels to passenger ships followed in Dole's footsteps, using that tropical allure to turn Hawaii into a booming tourism destination. And as more tourists came to the islands through the 1920s, so did many thousands of American sailors and soldiers. An expanding U.S. military presence would create tensions with local Hawaiians, leading to an explosive murder trial that made headlines around the world and threatened Hawaii's tourist-friendly image.

From Wanderie, this is Episode 2 of Hawaii's Journey to Statehood from American History Tellers. On the next episode, travelers flock to Hawaii on luxury steamships lured by novelties like surfing, hula dances, and flowery shirts. Tourism transforms the islands, but further marginalizes Native Hawaiians, and the U.S. military expands its presence with deadly results. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

If you'd like to learn more about James Dole and the pineapple industry, we recommend The Story of James Dole by Richard Dole and Elizabeth Dole Porteus, and A Pineapple Republic by David Oglesby and Joy Ogawa. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Neil Thompson, edited by Doreen Marina, produced by Alida Rozanski. Our production coordinator is Desi Blaylock. Managing producer

is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer, Tanja Thigpen. Senior producer, Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman and Marshall Louis

for Wondery. In November 1991, media tycoon Robert Maxwell mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed. It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt, and multi-million dollar fraud. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that define their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life. Taking the name Robert Maxwell, he builds a publishing and newspaper empire that spans the globe.

But ambition eventually curdles into desperation. And Robert's determination to succeed turns into a willingness to do anything to get ahead. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.