Heading To The North Shore For BodyBoarding Magazine
My first of many trips to the North Shore of Oahu was probably the best, with a plum assignment that opened many doors and a wide-eyed naivety that never really left.
A True Tale From The Files; Written January 1990
Terrified of the surf, I still had a perma-grin for most of January 1990.
It was the fall of 1989, and I had been working at BodyBoarding Magazine for about a year and a half when Editor Bill Dellefield called me into his office with a mischievous side glance that meant he had a surprise.
Dellefield’s office was between that of Editorial Director David Gilovich and Surfing Mag Editor Bill Sharp. I could see Gilovich at his desk, smiling at me as I walked into Bill’s office, which was, well, weird.
I was still a freelancer — an occasional interloper into the office routine, thrilled to be stuck at an open desk next to Sam George up in the mezzanine, grateful to learn whatever I could from Dellefield, Peter “Doc” Brouillet, Barry Walker, Dwight Smith, Barry Berg, Tim Richardson, Drew Dougherty, PT, Jimbo Gaskins, Bob Mignogna, and the ever-capable copy editor Karen Zekan — among others.
So, when Dellefield sat me down and then silently appraised me with an “I know something you don’t know” look, I wasn’t sure what was coming.
“You know that Jay Reale did our North Shore article last year, right?” I recall him saying, suddenly in interrogation mode. “You’re no Jay Reale. Nope! So, I don’t want 3,000 words on 'Sean’s vacation to Hawaii' because nobody wants to read that.”
“Does that mean….?!” I yammered, afraid that saying the words would break the spell.
Dellefield’s sly smile returned.
Here’s my first draft of the January 1990 North Shore season article that eventually appeared in the magazine, with some misspellings in a few last names and mentions of “beer” and "Third Dip" that were later edited out.
Ehukai days. Photo: Bielmann.
SKYLINE: Peak season on the North Shore. Pros from around the world converge, and the swell on the outer reefs sounds like ….
Title: Distant Thunder
Byline: Sean O’Brien
The woman in seat 25C has been staring at you for the past five minutes. Gray-haired, with cat-eyed glasses and black sensible shoes, she looks worried, like you might be the perpetrator of some crime, a fugitive of the law, or an international terrorist.
You want to tell her not to fret, that really you're harmless. But the way you grip the armrest and glance nervously from side to side, sweat rolling off your forehead, you doubt she would believe you.
You want to tell her you're going to the North Shore for the first time, to that green island floating in the sunshine where rainbows arc every day over perfect crystalline tubes. Where the full brunt of Pacific storms is felt, and all are captivated by man's heroic attempt to conquer the world's greatest waves. It’s a place where, if you're lucky, you can cruise through huge cathedral-like tubes and into stardom on any given day.
For years, magazines and your imagination have perpetuated this myth, and you wanted to believe it. You knew that such a place really couldn't exist. You knew about the crowds, the heavy locals, the days and days of rain, and entire small or inconsistent winters. But the thought that maybe such a place did exist and that someday you would go there and ride it made life, and bodyboarding, a little more enjoyable.
You’d like to explain to the lady in seat 25C that you will come face to face with your imaginary nirvana in a few hours, and you're afraid it won't be there.
You want to tell her all this to calm her fears, but you know she wouldn't understand. She isn't a bodyboarder; she doesn't hear the siren song of the North Shore and never will. So, as the seatbelt sign comes on and you begin your descent into the night sky over Honolulu, you flash her your best psychopathic Jack Nicholson grin — just to make her squirm.
You make your way through the cane fields, windows rolled down, music cranked up, and the warm, richly scented Hawaiian air flows gently over your arm dangling out the window. Nothing about the air in Hawaii is sharp. It's a warm, soothing friend — something to be enjoyed after the cold mainland winter. You slowly pass in the darkness the same landmarks that have greeted countless surfers before you: Haleiwa, the bridge over the Anahulu River, and finally Waimea Bay.
At last, you’re here, but the tension within you continues to build. You stick your head out the window, vainly trying to see through the night to get a look at the surf, but like a horse with blinders on, you can only see the road in front of you.
The beach at Ehukai is nearly deserted as you finally pull into the parking lot at 10 p.m. A few pro bodyboarders, wandering through the darkness and thick sand to check on the surf at Pipeline, are milling about, being eaten by mosquitoes. Rumor has it that the surf will be coming up fast, but nothing is showing yet. Pipeline, calm and quiet, sits like a church after services have been let out.
You almost feel let down — this did not follow your envisioned script. You're standing in front of the world's most famous break. It should be huge, feathering on second-reef, with scores of nervous, wild-eyed bodyboarders running around the beach in frenzied, ant-like activity. Slightly disappointed, you walk back to your car.
Slowly but surely, the thunder gets louder. An hour ago, the neighbor's rooster, signaling dawn, seemed loud. But now its call is drowned out by the booming roar of each set wave breaking across the reef. Thoughts of sleep gone, you crawl from beneath your mosquito netting in the gray light of predawn and get dressed.
You walk across the street, down a narrow jungle-like path, and come face to face with what many would call paradise. The beach is deserted, and no footprint interrupts the smooth expanse of sand. The sun, still rising from the hills behind you, has turned the clouds overhead red. Out at Log Cabins, a solitary surfer drops into a huge pit, disappears for a few long seconds, and reappears with a casual, relaxed stance. All down the beach, the ocean seems alive with energy and power. A big day is brewing on the North Shore.
By the time you return to the house, everybody is awake and excitedly talking about how the trials for the Pipe Internationals will be held today. Before the contest starts, you cram into the car and head for the obligatory breakfast at Cafe Haleiwa. Keith Sasaki and Pat Caldwell are already there, busily shoveling food into their mouths. This morning, Sasaki has the quiet, intense look he reserves for big contest days. When he gets to your table, he claims, "Hey, I'm going out there to surf my best — just have fun — I'm not nervous," but by the look in his eye, it's clear that the pinnacle of the bodyboarding year has arrived.
In the days following the trials, the world's best bodyboarders slip into a frenetic routine.
One particular day is a prime example. The 6 a.m. recon of the contest site discovered that the event had been postponed yet again. Nerves are rising. Few competitors are found smiling. To escape the rainy, onshore conditions on the North Shore, you, like many riders, flee to the sunny side of the Island.
Pulling into the dirt parking lot at "I Don't Knows", you find nearly thirty riders standing on the beach, waiting for a photographer to arrive. Thirty people! The thought of that many people out at this photo-studio wave, which can handle at most six people, is sheer insanity.
Today’s surf is exceptionally large for this reef-bottom shorebreak, and as each set pours through, various groans and gasps rise from those assembled on the beach. The idea of paddling out without a photographer ready to shoot isn't even discussed.
But once photographers Tom Boyle and Brian Stephan enter the water, they are soon followed by Pat Caldwell, Keith Sasaki (donning a helmet before paddling out), Jay Reale, Cameron Steele, Kai Santos, and many others. Even hot Californian grommet Steve Spray grabs his fins, saunters pimp-like across the sand, and paddles into the fray.
The combination of hot talent, heavy waves, and prodding from the photographers in the water virtually guarantees the photographers some hot photos. Still, it soon becomes clear that the session is out of control.
Steve Spray goes over the falls and takes the reef across his back. Kai Santos is pitched upside-down on a hideous mutant wave right over the boil but miraculously survives. Others charge madly into shallow barrels, snaking the unwary behind them, in the name of photo glory.
Meanwhile, down the coastline, Ben Severson pulls into a parking spot and turns off his engine. The weather is perfect, with crystal blue skies and a howling offshore wind rushing down from the valley. Out through a narrow gap in the lava reef, perfect overhead rights rear up not twenty yards from shore and rumble and spit in offshore perfection. There isn't a soul in the water. On the beach are six photographers — some from Sports Illustrated here for the Hula Bowl — hunching over their 800mm lenses, taking pictures of the empty waves.
While fifteen riders elbow each other for room at "I Don't Knows", Ben Severson paddles out alone into perfect waves down the coast. Severson's first few waves are tentative, merely extremely long tube rides. He had never surfed this spot before and is afraid of being injured before the finals of the Pipe internationals. The reef is sharp and extremely shallow.
A half-hour later, Dave Cunniff and Danny Kim join in on the fun. Staying prone while riding deep in the wind-carved pits, Danny Kim flashes a huge smile after every wave. An epic session is in the works, and Kim, Cunniff, and Severson take turns dropping into the better set waves.
Other riders arrive and quickly paddle out. Australians Ross Hawke, Matt Riley, Dave Appleby, and Doug Robson get great waves. Carol Phillips pulls into the parking lot and heads straight for the water.
Finally, Mike Stewart arrives and proceeds to get half a dozen of the day's deepest tubes. Lisa Miller, Stewart's longtime girlfriend and personal manager, stands on the beach and videotapes Stewart's every wave. She tells you that nearly every session Mike has had in the last year is captured somewhere on videotape. Imagine what a surf film that would make.
Hype aside, at times like this, Mike Stewart is so far above the rest of the pack that you wonder if any bodyboarder will ever surpass his confidence and apparent nonchalance while deep in the tube. You doubt it.
Martin Potter, the new ASP world champion, shows up with Jeff Hornbaker and Don King for the filming of a promotional film on Potter. Hornbaker tells Potts that if he "doesn't want to paddle out and be the only surfer in the water, he wouldn't blame him." Potter sizes up the lineup and decides to paddle out. The vibe is good, mutual respect is shown, and for a brief time, it is possible to see the world champion of bodyboarding and surfing getting tubed on back-to-back waves. The dream session rolls on.
An hour later, Mike Stewart paddles in and, with a stoked grin, proclaims, "To have this pristine lighting, wind, and waves, with nothing but bodyboarders out here, is a once-in-a-year, no, once every two-year occurrence."
But paradise is transitory.
Soon after, surfer Perry Dane and two of his hardboard enforcers get ready to paddle out. Mike Stewart looks over at the surfers, saying, "This should be interesting," and quickly leaves in his car. Perry Dane paddles out and appears to shout and yell something at the bodyboarders. Immediately, they all paddle in. They don't wait for the next wave; they're not worried about dignity. They just paddle in. Like rats leaving a sinking ship, twenty bodyboarders squeeze through the narrow gap in the reef and onto shore. What five minutes ago was a bodyboarding heaven is now the sole domain of the heavy local.
The vibe level for most sessions is usually much, much lower. The day after the "Third Dip" session, Ben Severson, Pat Caldwell, Mike Stewart, Keith Sasaki, Cameron Steele, Mike Shaw, Chris Cunningham, Kainoa McGee, Jay Reale, etc., etc., are out at Pipe.
Although the contest had been postponed earlier that day, the surf is actually good, with an occasional double overhead set mixing things up a little. Nerves about the contest are increasing daily, and most Pros couldn't pass up such a prime chance to practice. Surfers, knowing that the fabled lefts would be overrun with bodyboarders, mostly steer clear. For today at least, bodyboarders outnumber surfers by a wide margin.
You decide to go ahead and paddle out for a closer look. From the water, things move quickly. You have to stay alert at all times. The nervous knot in your stomach never leaves you. A smaller inside wave rolls in, and you eagerly snatch it up. You are amazed at the power of the wave, and as you exit from the tiny tube on the inside, you feel proud.
Just then Pat Caldwell wheels around and strokes into a set wave. Halfway down the huge face, he turns into the pocket and backdoors a heaving section. Seconds tick off. The rumbling, luminous green lip slams into the reef for twenty yards, and then Caldwell is barfed out. His wave makes yours look like the Palm Springs wave pool. Your ego deflates.
Oh well, most of the riders getting good waves today have years of Pipeline experience behind them — and it shows.
Besides perennial stars like Severson, Caldwell, and Stewart, the true standouts of the session are Mike Shaw, Cameron Steele, and Jay Reale.
Many comment that if it suddenly went flat for a week, the contest director would never live down his decision to postpone the contest that day. Luckily for him, his luck holds.
Watching the contest videotape at the Aussie's post-contest party, everyone comments on how good the surf was for the contest.
In what Mike Stewart called "one of the best days all winter," the contest director struck pay dirt earlier that day. The surf grew and improved with every set from early morning to late evening. Now, after the final horn had sounded and the scaffolding had been pulled down, the Pros and visitors are ready to relax and loosen up a bit.
The Australian bodyboarding contingent is almost legendary for the parties it throws, and this year’s event continues the tradition. Every horizontal surface is packed with hundreds of empty beer bottles.
Outside, Cameron Steele is being punched by several Aussies. Why? Because he asked them to. Ross Hawke, tired and bleary-eyed, sits in a high-backed chair and looks down on the proceedings like a king on his throne. Some people have been there for hours and seem anxious to tell any who would listen their theory on life, the universe, and bodyboarding. The next morning, the landlord evicts the Aussies, but clearly the stress of the contest is gone.
By the look of the pictures in the magazine, you would think that every day in Hawaii is drowned in sun-drenched weather. Such is not the case. On days when the sun and surf come together, little time is wasted. Photographers and bodyboarders each have a new pace in their walk, like people on the way to an important business meeting.
Such is the atmosphere the day after the Aussies' party. Although some are still nursing headaches, by 9 a.m., the beach is packed with big-lensed photographers, and the water at Ehukai Beach is alive with bodyboarders.
Top performers in this photo frenzy are Kainoa McGee, Haouli Reeves, Ben Severson, Mike Stewart, and Jack Lindholm. Still, nearly every hot bodyboarder from around the world is out at Ehukai today. Jack seems perfectly at home on the thick lefts and takes whatever wave he wants. Mike Stewart rides like he has a death wish, completely disregarding his safety while trying aerials on the thickest lips of the day. When he lands on his head after one wave, he admits, "Yeah, underwater I thrashed around a little bit to make sure I could still move my arms and legs — my head hit the bottom hard."
The session lasts all day, and when the last rider paddles to shore in the dying light, both photographers and bodyboarders are happy.
After the Morey Boogie Banquet, everyone decides to try to get a party started down on the beach near Ehukai.
You sit in the thick sand at Ehukai beach. Above you, stars peek through the scattered moon-lit clouds. Far out to sea, lightning occasionally flicks down into the ocean. A huge bonfire is raging before you, casting a glow on the faces of the riders assembled. It is warm and comfortable. A mellow mood pervades the scene.
Ben Severson, Kainoa McGee, Shawnee Oide, Carol Philips, Keith Sasaki, Cameron Steele — in fact, most of the riders here are content to sit back and relax, talk about future plans, and unwind. Others insist on arguing about the contest, who deserved what, what wasn't fair, and how the system is screwed. The other riders quickly quiet the malcontents.
The party almost didn't happen. We arrived at Ehukai aimless and without leadership. But soon Ben Severson arrived and got people motivated. Wood was collected, a fire pit dug, and beer bought. Unlike some other pros, Severson always seems willing to pass along his earnings to bring people together at a party. While others wait at the all-night bank teller, depositing their earnings, Ben stands in line at Foodland, buying drinks for the gang.
Kainoa McGee sacrifices two Mach 7-7 boards to the inferno. They sit upright until they reach a specific temperature, then explode into flame, shooting flames ten feet into the air. The heat is intense. The boards burn quickly and finally disappear altogether. While the fire rages and lightning dances far out to sea, Mike Strawley, Keith Sasaki, and other lunatics leap through the flames like witch doctors in a prehistoric pagan rite. There is a certain magic in the air.
The next morning, nothing remains of the firepit. The incoming tide had washed away any trace of the night's activities. The sun is gone, and the rain begins.
When the surf is bad, when it's raining and windy, when the circus atmosphere of the contest has come and gone, you can't think of a more boring place than the North Shore.
Kainoa McGee organizes a bodyboard baseball game to break up the boredom. Using a bodyboard for the bat and a tennis ball for the ball, the group gathers at the park across from Ehukai and breaks into teams. Kalani Koookoooll (need spelling), Chris Burkhart, Ben Severson, Kainoa McGee, Dean Marzol, and Mike Strawley are on one team. The other team includes Aka Lyman, Shawnee Oide, Nelzs Velocido, Jason Lau, Mark Bromley, and you.
The action is heavy: Runners slide into first, wild pitchers aim for heads, and grand slam homers are common. Your team has its collective butts kicked with a score of 38-10. Everyone has built up a sweat, and as they run across the street to cool off in the water, you realize a boring afternoon has been saved.
After two days of pouring rain and no surf, you receive a frantic phone call, "They're going to open up the river!"
It's Keith Sasaki, and he tells you to put on your spring suit. He'll be right over. Behind Waimea Bay stands a lake a hundred yards across and nearly a half-mile long. Fed by the Kaiwikoele River and almost six inches of fresh rain, the lake has risen almost over the sand berm near the ocean. Once this happens, the pouring water will open a hole in the sand and form a standing wave.
When you arrive at the Bay with Shawnee Oide, Paul Robson, Simon (Hornbaker's girlfriend's son), Keith Sasaki, and Bret Young, you realize that although the water level is high, much digging will be required to make a channel for the water — maybe two hours’ worth. It is cold, and the rain continues to fall.
Everyone is dressed in spring suits except Keith, who wears a full suit. The digging starts. Two hours later, other riders, including Mike Stewart and Ben Severson, join in. Ben even brought shovels. Three hours in, the first trickle of water runs out of the lake, through your channel, and into the ocean. You merely have to sit back and wait.
Fifteen minutes later, your foot-wide channel has been widened to eight feet, and a small standing wave has formed. You jump in to reap the earnings of your hard work. It’s a wild feeling, surfing in place, nearly pearling every second, and the wave only grows.
Finally, you pearl and are swept out into the shorebreak. Without fins, you fight the brown river current sweeping across the bay for ten minutes before returning to shore. In that time, the channel has opened to the width of a highway. Brown standing waves, nearly seven feet high, roll and thunder in place. Huge branches sweep down through the waves. Lifeguards in yellow slickers with bullhorns yell at an unfortunate few caught in the shorebreak.
The small river opening has become a raging, mindless torrent, and nearly a hundred people gather to watch. Ben Severson, a veteran of riding the Snake River in Idaho and many Waimea river openings, claims these are the biggest standing waves he has ever seen.
Standing on the berm, watching the channel widen and the sea turn brown, you have a momentary idea of what Oppenheimer must have felt when his first atomic bomb exploded in the New Mexico desert. What have we unleashed here?
Despite how treacherous it looks, Mike Stewart, Ben Severson, Haouli Reeves, and Dean Marzol jump into the maelstrom and start ripping. Cutbacks, nearly spraying people on shore, and spinners are the moves of choice. Still, Stewart and Severson pull a couple of off-the-tops, a mini aerial, even a momentary tube ride before being washed down the river. Haouli Reeves loses it and severely wrenches his knee.
But then as quickly as it started, the river begins to mellow. Nearly a hundred feet wide, it can no longer produce good standing waves. The show is over.
As a group of bodyboarders heads over to Pizza Bob's for a post-river celebration, Keith Sasaki explains that opening the river is a mixed blessing — it creates a fun standing wave, but ruins the water color of the whole North Shore. As we drive past Laniakea, as far as you can see, the ocean is a sickly brown.
.
The thunder on the outside reefs shakes you from your sleep. Looking out the window, you notice that the rain has stopped for the first time in four days. It is 4:30 a.m. You get out of bed, dress, and walk down to the beach.
Later that day, you will fly home, but for now the moon has yet to set behind the Waianae Mountains, and you can see the building swell in the silver light. Two days ago, most pro bodyboarders packed their bags and headed for the Puerto Rico Bud Tour contest.
The season feels spent, and the beach lonely.
But although you're happy to be heading home, you can't wait to return.
Yes, there are dangerous crowds at nearly every spot, and yes, it does get boring on those flat rainy days. But you had seen the North Shore in its prime, and although it wasn't a flawless paradise, it was still pretty unbelievable. In a sense, you lived out your favorite daydream. You had met and rubbed elbows with bodyboarders from around the world, waited out a passing rainstorm laced with rainbows, and experienced the adrenal rollercoaster of the greatest waves on earth. You had found what you were looking for and a little bit more.
Seconds before the bottom went dry, I search in vain for the corner at Ehukai.
