Shaka Stories

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Picture California in 1849. With the Mexican-American war over, California exchanged hands from Mexico to the U.S. And at the same time, the gold rush had brought tens of thousands of newcomers, mostly Anglo-Americans. For the Spanish-speaking families who had lived here for generations, known as Californios, their world was changing fast. 

And that was especially true for a man named Tuburcio Vazquez. Vazquez grew up in Monterey, but as he grew, so did his resentment of how his people were marginalized, cheated out of land, and looked down upon by the new Anglo settlers. By 1852, at just 17 years old, Vazquez fell in with his cousin, a notorious bandit named Anastasio Garcia. 

Together, they attended a party where a fight broke out and a constable was killed. Though Vazquez was not the killer, he fled with Garcia into the hills. That moment, a night of violence and a flight from the scene, set him on a path to becoming an outlaw.

Some say he was motivated by revenge. Others say it was the thrill of adventure. Whatever the reason, his course was set. 

Vazquez was a bandit. He roamed up and down Central and Southern California, robbing Anglo settlers rich and poor alike. With charisma and daring, Vazquez began to draw followers. 

He was bright, charming, and well-educated. And he had a pretty incredible mustache. Stories told of him raiding across the Salinas Valley in hiding in the caves here in Pinnacles.

He cast himself as a defender of his people, a kind of California Robin Hood. Whether that was the truth or myth didn't matter. It gave him purpose, and it gave him power.

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In the United States, perhaps no stretch of highway is as storied as Big Sur. So, what exactly is that story? Well, depending on who you ask, Big Sur's southernmost point is somewhere around Cambria, San Simeon, or even Morro Bay. There's no official start or end point, but generally people think it starts around here and ends at Monterey. 

Now, wherever you consider its boundaries, the Ohlone, Esalen, and Salinan people have lived along this coast for generations. When the Spanish arrived in California back in the 16th century, they found this rugged stretch of coast to be a bit intimidating. With its steep cliffs and rocky shores, it wasn't an easy place to land a boat, let alone colonize. 

Even in the 18th century, Spanish settlers in the colonial town of Monterey referred to this wild, unexplored stretch of coast as El País Grande del Sur, or the Big Country of the South. And, well, that's how we get the name Big Sur. It wasn't until the late 18th century, when the Spanish built missions in the area, that settlers moved in.

The land remained lightly settled all the way through the 19th century. In 1848, California was incorporated into the United States after the Mexican-American War, and 14 years later, the Homestead Act enticed American settlers near the coast. Their legacies, along with those of the Spanish and Native American families before them, are still present with the place names you'll see today. 

Names like Molera, Cooper, Gamboa, and most of all, Pfeiffer. We'll talk more about the Pfeiffer family later on. In the early 1900s, the region's post office was officially renamed Big Sur.

And that is when a regional identity began to emerge. But still, it was a remote place. Highway 1 wasn't completed through Big Sur until 1937, and the coast didn't even get electricity until the early 1950s. 

That is when a new wave of visitors arrived. Hippies and bohemians began moving into the area, where they created a culture of New Age mysticism and experimental therapy. Even now, it's still a place for nature-centered spirituality. 

Today, Big Sur is still sparsely populated. Every year, three million people come looking for inspiration, for rejuvenation, or, well, the next big Instagram spot. So, let me ask you something.

What are you looking for?

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Giant kelp is a kind of seaweed. Now, kelp can stretch more than a hundred feet from the rocky seafloor up to the ocean surface. And just like a forest on land, the kelp shelters an incredible variety of life. 

Rockfish and perch weave through the fonds, finding food and protection. Down at the bottom, abalone and sea urchin graze, slowly working away at the kelp roots. Crabs and sea stars patrol the ground, while sea lions chase fish through the shifting light.

And kelp forests are important for more than just wildlife. They also help protect our coastline by absorbing wave energy, which then shields beaches from erosion. Plus, kelp grows insanely fast, over a foot a day. 

That incredible growth rate means that kelp pulls in a lot of carbon from the ocean. Like, a lot. We're talking roughly 20 times more per acre than forests on land. 

But California's kelp forests are in trouble. Rising sea temperatures have put stress on these ecosystems. And an even bigger problem is an overabundance of sea urchins.

Remember before I said that they graze on the kelp? Well, the disappearance of natural predators, like sea otters and sunflower sea stars, means that urchin numbers have exploded. And they're devouring the forests at an alarming rate. In the 21st century, California has lost about 96% of its kelp forests. 

The good news is that the state is working hard to restore balance. Countless volunteers and organizations have removed millions of urchins. And that seems to be helping. 

Where the urchins have been removed, the kelp forests are starting to recover. So, the next time you see a patch of kelp bobbing at the surface, picture what's below. A valuable ally against climate change. 

And a living forest. The sequoias of the sea.

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Sometimes, when I'm in German Village, I feel that if I listen closely, I can almost hear the echoes of the old world. The rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn wagons on brick streets. The hum of neighbors speaking German and English drifting from open windows.

And in the evenings, piano or fiddle music spilling out of a tavern, blending with the hiss of coal stoves and the barking of a dog guarding its stoop. But there was a time when all of that beautiful noise went quiet. During World War I, German Village faced one of its hardest chapters.

Not from bombs or battles, but from backlash. Across the U.S., anti-German sentiment exploded. German-Americans were suddenly seen as potential threats.

In cities like Columbus, schools banned the teaching of German. German street names were changed. German newspapers were shut down.

German books were pulled from library shelves and, in some cases, even publicly burned. In German Village, the effects were deep. Some families anglicized their last names.

Social clubs quietly dissolved. Traditions were hidden away. Or abandoned altogether.

But even in those years of suspicion, one young man from Columbus was making history. Have you ever heard the name Eddie Rickenbacker? He was born in 1890 to Swiss-German immigrant parents on the north side of German Village. When the United States entered World War I, Eddie joined the army and became a fighter pilot.

Before long, he became America's top flying ace, with 26 confirmed victories in the skies over Europe. Newspapers called him the Ace of Aces. And he returned home a national hero.

But still, Eddie's service to his country did little to end the anti-German sentiment in America, let alone his hometown of Columbus. And it didn't end with World War I. During World War II, those same suspicions returned. Imagine what that must have felt like.

To have built a community from the ground up. To have helped pave streets and raise schools and shape a city. Only to be seen as suspect when war broke out overseas.

Even Schiller Park lost its name for a time. In 1918, it was renamed Washington Park. But thankfully, by 1930, citizens petitioned the government to change its name back to Schiller Park.

Still, the damage was done. And for years, much of German Village's history was erased. Over the next few decades, German Village was on a steep decline.

Prohibition put the breweries and their workers out of business. Suburbanization pulled middle-class families away from the city center. Empty buildings fell into disrepair.

And parts of the neighborhood were demolished to make way for highways and commercial properties. The quaint German Village that had stood for a hundred years was on the precipice of destruction.

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This is a living archive that preserves the American story in all of its forms. People often ask, can you check out books from the Library of Congress? And the answer is no, nothing leaves the building. Members of Congress and a few top officials can have materials brought to them, but for everyone else, the collections stay right here.

The Library of Congress was the idea of the Founding Fathers. They felt that Congress needed its own reference library to help lawmakers write and debate legislation. Will I sound lame if I remind the kids out there that people survived for centuries without the internet? Uh, no Wi-Fi, no AI, no problem.

The library began simply, just 740 books and a few maps to support the new government, all kept inside a few rooms in the Capitol building. Then, just 14 years later during the War of 1812, British troops burned down the building and everything in it. That might have been the end of the idea of a Library of Congress until Thomas Jefferson stepped in.

He sold his personal library of nearly 6,500 volumes to Congress. Jefferson had amassed volumes about science, philosophy, history, world literature, you name it, he had it. But by the 1870s, the library had outgrown the Capitol, and so Vermont Senator Justin Morrill pushed for a grand standalone building.

Washington architects John L. Smithmeyer and Paul J. Pelz designed it, and construction lasted from 1886 to 1897. They called it the Jefferson Building, named after the man who saved it all. And when it finally opened in 1897, it was celebrated as one of the most ornate public buildings in America. 

There's a lot to admire when you go into the Library of Congress, but pay special attention to the grand golden-domed main reading room. If you're 16 or older, you can get a free reader ID and actually sit down in the reading room to use the materials, whether that's a Civil War battle map, an early recording of Ella Fitzgerald, or even a newspaper from the day you were born. And speaking of that, the collections here really are jaw-dropping. 

Imagine holding history in your hands. The library has one of only a few surviving Gutenberg Bibles. Music lovers might be surprised to find George Gershwin's handwritten score for Rhapsody in Blue, and the very piano he composed it on. 

The library holds one of the largest collections of comic books in the world, over 140,000 of them, including the first appearance of Superman from 1938. It keeps baseball cards dating back to the 1880s, early video games, and recordings of legendary voices like Billie Holiday and Martin Luther King Jr. There are maps that show how people imagined the world centuries ago, alongside charts that guided Apollo astronauts to the moon. You can also find early websites, maybe even your first Myspace page, millions of tweets, and even old commercials, so that one day people will look back and study how we lived in the digital age.

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Now, when you hear FDR, what comes to mind? The Great Depression, the New Deal, World War II. Well, one of FDR's biggest flexes, as the kids say, is that he's the only president in history to serve four terms in office. And he's also the reason the Constitution now limits presidential terms.

Let's go back to the very beginning of American democracy, George Washington's presidency. Washington was elected unanimously and led the country through its fragile first years. And then he walked away from the position.

He could have stayed. I mean, many people wanted him to, but he believed that no democracy should depend too heavily on one individual for that long, no matter how capable that person was. Two terms was never a law.

But for nearly 150 years, every president followed Washington's example, until FDR took office in 1933. The country was in crisis. Banks were collapsing.

One in four Americans was unemployed. Faith in government was fragile. Over the next eight years, FDR created jobs, reformed financial systems, and established Social Security.

And just when the nation had begun to recover, the world moved to war. At that point, FDR was at the end of his second term in office. But in moments of uncertainty, people often cling to stability, right? And by 1940, many Americans believed that changing presidents in dangerous times felt riskier than keeping the one they had trusted.

So Roosevelt ran for a third term, and he won. Then in 1944, with World War II still raging, he ran again, and he won again. Four terms.

That was an unprecedented extension of presidential power. But just two short months into his fourth term, FDR died, and the country faced a sudden transfer of power in the middle of a global war. Vice President Harry Truman stepped into the presidency, and suddenly, many Americans realized they didn't know anything about his leadership style.

They had relied too heavily on FDR's presence, and they didn't think about what would happen in his absence. And that was risky. In a democracy, the country must be the priority.

It's more important than the effectiveness or popularity of one individual. So just two years later, in 1947, Congress proposed the 22nd Amendment. It was ratified in 1951, and it formally limited presidents to two elected terms.

Not because FDR had been a tyrant, not because Americans regretted his leadership, but because democracy depends on renewal, rotation, and on the peaceful, predictable transfer of power.

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Personally, I think the size of the memorial is fitting for a man who spent his life contemplating the mysteries of the universe and left us with such a big legacy. And unlike most monuments in Washington, DC, this one actively invites you to climb on up there, take a seat and commune with the genius. So this tribute to Einstein was unveiled on April 22nd, 1979 on what would have been Einstein's 100th birthday. 

This whole look is purposefully casual. Sculptor Robert Burks didn't want Einstein to look stiff and formal because by all accounts, he wasn't like that in life. Instead, a larger-than-life Einstein sits here casually, hair tousled, shoes worn, looking as if he's just wandered out of a late-night thought experiment and is ready to chat with you. 

On the bronze paper in Einstein's hand, you'll find three of his greatest contributions to the scientific world. The equation for the photoelectric effect, which won him the Nobel Prize, the theory of general relativity, and the field equations of general relativity, which describe how mass bends space and time. You know that one, E equals MC squared. 

Don't worry, you're not being quizzed on any of this. Einstein himself once said, if you can't explain something simply, you don't understand it well enough. So he'd probably be the first to tell you and me to just enjoy the moment and don't stress about the math.

Do you see the circular dais at Einstein's feet? Look closely. You see those thousands of tiny metal studs? Well, they form a star map showing the night sky exactly as it looked on April 22nd, 1979. If you stand in the very center and speak, you'll hear your voice bounce back at you in a strange whispery echo. 

That is an intentional acoustic effect. It's like a little cosmic secret. Be sure to try it out for yourself.

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The Polynesian sport of surfing is thousands of years old. It was introduced to Western audiences here in California in the late 1800s, but the person most responsible for growing surfing culture in California came a bit later. His name was Duke Kahanamoku.

Duke was born in 1890 in Honolulu. He was a native Hawaiian, a natural athlete, and as a kid he spent a lot of time out in the water. In fact, his fame didn't originally come from surfing, but actually from swimming. 

He was a three-time Olympian, and he won five medals, including three gold. Fame followed his Olympic success, so he performed in swimming exhibitions around the world. And whenever he could, he brought his surfboard with him.

It's thought that Duke probably first surfed in California in July 1913, following his first Olympic victory. People gathered and watched as he traveled up and down the California coast, searching for the best surf. And along the way, he taught the locals how to do it for themselves.

But it was more than just surfing that kept people interested in Duke. He was kind, he was stoic, and he was built like a statue. People liked the way he spoke, the way he dressed, and the way he carried himself. 

So, in his wake, surfing communities began to take shape. Now at first, surfing was counter-cultural. It wasn't until much later, in the 1980s, that surfing became more mainstream. 

Around that time, mega brands popularized not just the sport of surfing, but the way of life. And it's been pretty popular ever since. In fact, during the COVID pandemic, more and more people took it up than ever before. 

And today, it's still going strong, all thanks to Duke Kahanamoku, the father of modern surfing.

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Pismo Beach usually has one of the largest concentrations of butterflies of any of the groves across California. And here's an interesting tidbit. The monarchs that migrate here have never been here before.

You see, like most insects, monarchs have very short lifespans. So, the butterflies that show up every winter are actually four generations removed from last year's wintering monarchs. Pretty wild, right? It goes like this.

When it warms up, the first generation of monarchs here on the coast leaves and heads inland, throughout the western United States. They find places near milkweed to lay their eggs, which is the caterpillar's only source of food. And then, the butterflies die.

When the second generation is born, they live for about two to five weeks. They lay some eggs, and then they die. The third generation does the same thing.

They live for about two to five weeks, lay some eggs, and then also death. But, the fourth generation is the real wonder. They're born somewhere inland and migrate back to the California coast, having never seen where the heck they're going.

And, they have a lifespan of six to nine months. Isn't that just amazing? But, what's even more amazing is that we really don't know how they do it. How do butterflies that have never been here before know where to go? Scientists do have some theories.

One guess is that the butterflies use the sun to point the way. But, the sun's not always visible, right? So, another theory is that they have some sort of internal magnetic compass, probably in their antenna, and they can use the Earth's magnetic field to point them in the right direction. So, maybe they use the sun as the first option, and the internal compass is their backup.

Or, another completely different guess is that there's something in their genetics that sets them up for migration. It's all a mystery for now. Well, however they got here, monarch populations are in trouble.

In the last quarter-century, the count of monarch butterflies in Pismo Beach has decreased by 90%. Climate change, habitat loss, and the use of pesticides have really decreased the number of monarchs. But you can help.

First, if you do visit a grove today, just be extra careful not to step on any butterflies. Back at home, avoid the use of insecticides and fungicides in your gardens. Try planting milkweed, since that's what monarch butterfly caterpillars depend on for food.

Or, if you can't do milkweed, you can also ask your local nursery about some native nectarine plants that can sustain butterflies as they're on the move. We can't do everything, I know that. But each of us can do something.

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By the middle of the American Civil War, in 1863, the Union Army was beginning to run low on soldiers. And so, President Abraham Lincoln called for the creation of black regiments. And one of the first states to do so was Massachusetts, establishing the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment. 

Although the men serving in the 54th were black, the officers were still white. But the goal was to find white officers who came from abolitionist families. So, the Massachusetts governor promoted 25-year-old Captain Robert Gould Shaw to lead the 54th.

Shaw was from right here in Beacon Hill and belonged to a wealthy abolitionist family. Now, Shaw knew what they were up against. The general public thought black men just weren't cut out for soldiering. 

So, it was up to the 54th to prove them wrong. But fortunately, the men quickly turned into a well-trained force, and Shaw proved to be a good leader. With their training over, Shaw and the 54th Regiment arrived in South Carolina in June 1863. 

They were eager to prove themselves in battle, but for a month their only jobs were manual labor and ransacking a town. But finally, finally, a chance came to prove themselves. During the Battle of Grimble's Landing, they got into a skirmish with Confederate troops.

They fought well and saved the skin of the all-white 10th Connecticut. And just two days later, there was another chance. The Union was planning an assault on Fort Wagner, a seaside fort near Charleston, South Carolina. 

Because of its location on an island, the Union soldiers wouldn't be able to approach on all fronts. There was only a narrow strip of beach. It was a dangerous assignment. 

The unit that led the assault would be under considerable risk, but Shaw accepted the challenge for the 54th. On July 18th, 1863, Shaw personally led his unit in the assault. He told his men that the eyes of thousands were on them that day. 

There, on the narrow beach, they marched on Fort Wagner with nowhere to hide. Shaw hollered, forward 54th! And then they attacked. The battle was an absolute disaster for the 54th. 

Shaw was shot dead early in the fight, though his men pressed on. Despite their bravery, they failed to capture the fort. And by the end of the battle, 40% of them were dead, wounded, or captured. 

What a blow for these brave men. The 54th may not have taken Fort Wagner, but they accomplished something else. They gained the respect of the country. 

The public acknowledged their bravery and fighting skills. In the end, the 54th Massachusetts inspired more than 180,000 black men to enlist in the Union Army. These men helped tip the scale in the Union's favor and end the war in 1865.