A unique relationship exists between Shinnecock HillsGolf Club and the Indians who built it.

by Rich Skyzinski

THREE-AND-A-HALF centuries ago, the land that is now Shinnecock Hills Golf Club -- all of New York's Long Island, in fact -- was a vast, barren expanse of wilderness. To the south lay the Atlantic Ocean, so teeming with life it seemed possible to walk across the water. Bass, rock fish, and bluefish filled the bays and estuaries. The ocean floor was piled with oysters, clams, and scallops. Flounder, shad, and sea sturgeon were plentiful. And whales, incredibly immense creatures, roamed the entire shoreline and far beyond Montauk Point.

To the west, as far as the eye could see, were miles upon endless miles of scenic splendor. Sand dunes stretched from one end of the island to the next, shifting with the seasons but kept in place by the rocks tossed along the shoreline. Sand dunes that covered rich, fertile soil.

The entire population was Indian. Thirteen tribes farmed the lands or fished the waters. The Matinecocks, Rockaways, and Canarsies claimed the land that is now a large portion of New York City's Queens and Brooklyn Boroughs, and just east of them was the Merrick tribe to the south and the Missaquogues to the north.

Near the eastern end of the island, on a 3,500-acre tract of land, were the Shinnecocks. In 1640 an estimated 2,000 Shinnecocks lived on the reservation, making it one of the most powerful tribes on the east coast.

These were the same Shinnecocks for which Shinnecock Hills Golf Club, site of the 1995 U.S. Open, was named. That's entirely appropriate: The land for the golf course was originally part of the Indian reservation, and the overwhelming majority of the labor force used to build Shinnecock Hills was Shinnecock Indian.

One hundred fifty of them, with a few horse-drawn scrapers, cleared the land for the fairways. When laborers began to hollow some areas for bunkers, they realized much of the land had been a Shinnecock burial ground, used to inter members of the tribe as well as a collection of empty whiskey bottles. Rather than clear the remains, they covered the area with sand and went on. This undoubtedly provided Shinnecock's inaugural membership the opportunity to hit golf's first explosion shots; one never knew quite what would come flying out of Shinnecock's bunkers . . . sometimes a bone or two, sometimes an explosion of firewater-reeking bottles.

The reservation today is a fraction of its original settlement. The Shinnecocks of 1995 occupy approximately 1,000 acres just a mile or so southeast of the golf course, and although the current population on the reservation is more than 500, that's also the largest number of people who have lived there since the mid-1700s.

These are the same Shinnecocks who will contribute a number of logistical components for the U.S. Open Championship in June. A large part of the temporary work force required for the week will come from the Shinnecock tribe, and much of the reservation's open land has been rented for parking. Without the cooperation of the Shinnecocks, the USGA would have to go 13 miles further west -- to Suffolk County Airport, in Westhampton Beach, a part of which will be used this year -- to secure as much space as is scheduled for use on the reservation.

Says Tony Zirpoli, the USGA's director of regional affairs who's handled much of the negotiations with the Shinnecocks on U.S. Open matters, "There's no question some of the U.S. Open operations are made easier by having the Shinnecock reservation so close. I don't discount their part in helping make the U.S. Open at Shinnecock the successful venture it is."

Peter Smith, who, besides following in his father's footsteps as superintendent of Shinnecock Hills, is one of three tribal trustees elected annually to govern the reservation, knows an event the magnitude of the Open can be beneficial to members of the tribe. "We benefited from the Open in '86," he says, "and we'll benefit from this one. We're happy to do what we can, and any money we get goes to help run the reservation."

Since it opened in the late 1800s, Shinnecock Hills has been maintained by a crew consisting primarily of Shinnecock Indians. "The relationship started when they built the course," Smith notes, "and it's been a unique relationship that we have to this day." Until he died in 1980, Elmer Smith, Peter's father, spent 37 years as superintendent at Shinnecock Hills. (Elmer also followed the example set by his father, who was superintendent there for three-plus decades.) During that time it was his policy to hire Indians to fill positions on the ground crew, and that's still a practice Peter follows. Of the 17 members on the crew last summer, 14 were Shinnecock Indians.

One of those members is Mike Smith, one of Peter's three brothers. Mike also is minister of the Shinnecock Presbyterian Church, which, despite being the subject of considerable debate concerning the year it was founded, certainly is one of the oldest churches in the country.

"The greatest thing my father's generation handed down to me was not native dress, not craft, not traditions, but an attitude," Mike says. "It's how you take care of the land, how you treat other people. It's an attitude, and that's the thing I learned from him that I cherish most."

In many ways, life on the Shinnecock reservation is similar to a thousand other Smalltown USAs. They do not live in tepees or climb on horseback to go on the warpath. They do not operate glitzy gaming palaces. They commute to Riverhead and Port Jefferson and Huntington and work in offices, on the ships, in the fields. "We have the same problems as any other small community," Smith admits. "Our problems are not unique to the reservation."

But there are differences. Because the reservation is a self-governing body unique to the Shinnecocks, it is subject to neither city nor state laws regarding land ownership and taxes. No sales tax is collected by the two convenience stores on the reservation and sent to the state treasury, at least for items sold to members of the tribe, and no one who lives on the reservation owns land. It is owned by the tribe.

But some legendary Indian traditions are still practiced. The Shinnecocks, for instance, still have powwows. Since the mid-1940s, for three days every Labor Day weekend, the largest gathering of Indian people on the east coast, some 50,000, have congregated on the Shinnecock reservation, largely as a benefit for the Shinnecock Presbyterian Church.

The Shinnecocks primarily have been maritime people. They went on whaling expeditions and harvested the clams, oysters, and scallops closer to shore. Back in the 1970s, and until only a few years ago, the reservation even operated its own shellfish hatchery. The sea was not only where the Shinnecocks practiced their livelihood. It was also the site of their greatest tragedy.

In November 1876, the Circassian, an iron-hulled cargo ship, set sail from Liverpool, England, for New York, carrying 1,400 tons of industrial freight, a crew of 35 and one stowaway. The early days of the voyage passed without incident, but after a week at sea brutal winter storms battered the vessel, rendering the crew helpless in tracking its location.

Five hundred miles from the eastern tip of Long Island the Circassian picked up 11 crewmen from the Heath Park, a smaller vessel en route from New Jersey to London that had sent up a flag of distress after being overpowered by the weather and turbulent waters. Days later yet another series of violent storms battered the Circassion, which was becoming increasingly more difficult to pilot, and in early December it eventually ran aground a few hundred yards offshore two miles south of Bridgehampton.

Everyone on board was able to reach shore safely, but for days more vicious winter storms, complete with snow, sleet, and near-hurricane-force winds, rocked the ship. It rose majestically with every ocean swell, then was dropped violently on the rocky outcroppings.

Many days later, the Coast Wrecking Company, 11 experienced seamen from the Shinnecock tribe and more than a dozen members of the ship's original crew went aboard in an attempt to free the vessel and salvage its cargo, which was insured for $90,000, in those days an incomprehensible amount of money. Much of the cargo was unloaded, but the vessel was no closer to being freed.

More storms descended on the area, stranding those on board, and for days the weather raged, preventing any possibility that a lifeboat could be launched from shore. Early in the morning of Dec. 30, in the final hours of darkness before sunrise, the ship finally began to disintegrate. It broke in two, then into smaller pieces, and within hours the entire ship had been submerged in the stormy, frigid waters of the Atlantic.

Of the 28 who died in the salvage operation, 11 were members of the Shinnecock tribe, a brutal blow to a population struggling to reach 200.

The Shinnecocks survived, but most of their neighboring tribes weren't nearly as fortunate. Today only the Shinnecocks and one other tribe -- the Unkechaugs (called the Poospatucks by some), whose reservation about 20 miles west has shrunk to a few dozen acres -- own land on the island.

In a variety of ways, some legal and some unscrupulous, tribes were moved and their lands seized. The Shinnecocks sold some of their land to Colonists. English settlers often took land as payment for overdue debts, and in the mid-1800s, as the Long Island Railroad began to piece its way across the island on its way to Montauk, a settlement was made for land crossing Shinnecock Hills, pushing the Indians into the Shinnecock Neck area they occupy today.

The U.S. Open didn't get to be 100 years old without surviving some very trying times. In fact, a protest at the second U.S. Open, played in 1896 at Shinnecock Hills, nearly killed the championship.

One of the players scheduled to compete that year was John Shippen, who lived on the Shinnecock reservation, but when the aristocratic professionals learned of the planned participation of Shippen and Oscar Bunn, a member of the Shinnecock tribe, they threatened to boycott the event.

Upon learning of the trouble, legend has it that USGA President Theodore Havemeyer told the players in no uncertain terms: The U.S. Open, with you or without you, will be played as scheduled.

Shippen played (finished fifth, in fact). So did Bunn. In fact, they all played. They've been playing ever since.