Elizabeth Holmes and the Strange History of Hawaii’s Coconut Island

You know how sometimes you stumble upon a story so wildly specific it feels like a fever dream? Like, zebras on a private Hawaiian island owned by the grandfather of the Theranos lady? That’s the kind of tale that makes you pause mid-scroll, coffee cup hovering, and suppose, “Wait, really?” But here’s the thing—when you peel back the layers of that particular brand of island eccentricity, you don’t just find a footnote in tabloid history. You find a mirror held up to how places like Hilo, on the windward side of Hawai‘i Island, grapple with legacy, stewardship, and the quiet, ongoing perform of healing landscapes that were once someone else’s playground.

The source material paints a vivid picture: Christian Holmes II, scion of a Heinz dynasty and grandfather to Elizabeth Holmes, snagged what’s natively called Mokuola—Coconut Island—in 1937 for fifty grand. He didn’t just buy land; he remade it. Imported sand to swell the shores by sixteen acres, strung up lights in a saltwater lagoon, and filled a private zoo with zebras, camels, even a baby elephant from Germany. Hollywood’s golden age flocked there—Amelia Earhart sipping mai tais near the bowling alley, John Wayne trading stories with the Rockefellers under banyan trees. It was excess with a capital E, the kind of gilded-age fantasy that feels ripped from a Fitzgerald novel… if Fitzgerald had written about zebras instead of flappers.

But paradise, especially the manufactured kind, rarely lasts. After Holmes II’s death in 1944—plagued by paranoia and alcoholism, as the narrator notes, giving off those There Will Be Blood vibes—the island shifted hands. During WWII, the military took it over, a pragmatic end to its playboy era. Then came decades of quiet transition, until the University of Hawai‘i’s Hawai‘i Institute of Marine Biology (HIMB) established itself there, transforming Moku o Lo‘e from a vanity project into a hub for reef science. Today, over 200 researchers, students, and volunteers study everything from coral resilience to fish behavior, turning a legacy of extravagance into one of ecological inquiry.

Which brings us to the hard part: the bridge. In recent years, the sole land connection to Coconut Island failed—a structural collapse that severed access and left HIMB scrambling. Now, Hawaii County estimates that even a temporary fix is two years off, with full reconstruction not slated to commence until 2029. The price tag? Twenty million dollars. For a community like Hilo, where the rhythm of life is tied to the ocean and the ‘āina (land), this isn’t just about repairing concrete and steel. It’s about reconnecting a vital research station to the shore, ensuring that scientists can continue monitoring the very reefs that buffer the coast from storms and sustain local fisheries. It’s about honoring the island’s layered past—from ali‘i (royal) significance to Hollywood glamour—even as investing in a future where science serves the community.

And let’s be real: this delay ripples outward. HIMB’s work doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Their findings inform coastal management decisions across the Pacific, influence NOAA’s reef assessments, and help shape climate adaptation strategies for island nations. When the bridge is out, grad students can’t easily reach their labs. Long-term monitoring gaps emerge. Data collection stalls. In a place where traditional ecological knowledge meets cutting-edge marine biology, every day of inaccessibility risks losing ground in the fight to understand and protect Hawai‘i’s fragile near-shore ecosystems.

Given my background in environmental storytelling and community-focused journalism, if this infrastructure challenge impacts you in Hilo—whether you’re a researcher frustrated by delayed fieldwork, a fisherman noticing changes in nearshore stocks, or a teacher trying to bring real-time ocean science into your classroom—here are the three types of local professionals you need to know about.

First, look for Coastal Resilience Planners who specialize in integrating indigenous knowledge with modern engineering. These aren’t just generic civil engineers; they’re professionals who’ve worked with kūpuna (elders) and cultural practitioners to design solutions that respect sacred sites while addressing sea-level rise and storm surge. When evaluating them, question about their experience with Native Hawaiian consultation processes, their familiarity with DLNR (Department of Land and Natural Resources) shoreline guidelines, and whether they’ve completed projects in similar lava-rock coastal environments.

Second, seek out Marine Science Outreach Coordinators who bridge HIMB’s research with public understanding. The best ones don’t just translate jargon—they create programs that connect reef monitoring data to local school curricula or citizen science initiatives like the Hawai‘i Coral Reef Assessment and Monitoring Program (CRAMP). Look for those with backgrounds in both marine biology and community education, ideally affiliated with UH Hilo’s Pacific Aquaculture and Coastal Resources Center or experienced in facilitating talanoa-style dialogues that honor oral traditions.

Third, consider Sustainable Infrastructure Fundraisers who understand the unique blend of public, private, and philanthropic funding streams available for Hawaii County projects. These specialists know how to navigate FEMA hazard mitigation grants, pivot toward Hawaii Green Infrastructure Authority opportunities, and craft compelling narratives for foundations like the Harold K.L. Castle Foundation or the Hawai‘i Community Foundation. Key criteria? A proven track record in securing multi-year commitments for environmental projects, transparency about fee structures, and deep relationships with both county council members and grassroots orgs like KUA (Kua‘āina Ulu ‘Auamo).

Rebuilding access to Coconut Island isn’t just about concrete and rebar. It’s about reweaving the relationship between a place and its people—between the echoes of zebras on sandy shores and the quiet diligence of scientists measuring coral growth today. It’s a reminder that even the most extravagant pasts can evolve into purpose, especially when a community decides what kind of future it wants to build on the foundation left behind.

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