Rise to the mornings first breath, as she exhales through the palms, and wakes the first choral member, a dove. The dove's insistent calm cooing calls me to check out the world. On clear days, Molokai's fields and cliffs can be seen. When the surf is huge only the outline can be seen through the sea mist; on this morning Molokai could not be seen.
Portlock is a point on Oahu that tells the day's south, east, and west shores surf report. Misty edges and a break in Kahala's deep swells tells me Sandy beach is probably cranking. Grab the keys, grab the fins, wake the friends it's time to beat the crowds. Alphaville's "Utopia", a good start on the day, plays the tunes as we climb the hill towards Hunama Bay. At the top of the hill a sight sends a rush into my body so strong that the only feeling close to it is when a cop turns on the rollers while driving behind you. Adrenaline and fear both register because there are lines so large across the sea, and every crash into the islands sea walls explodes with the message "Swim in me and I'll kill you."
It is the summer of 1988 and I've been surfing every day all day, and the sea's death threats only make me drive faster to a pure pounding. I want the pounding, Dave "the dolphin" is making local pigeon "my wave" sounds (Dave's Future Sound bite recording link), Rob looks a little white, and Jon is clear when we pull into the parking lot.
Sandy Beach in the afternoon is always packed, so packed it makes me hate living on an island that is so crowded, but in the early morning's first moments the parking lot is purely empty, and we pull into a slip where we can sit and wrap up Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough," watch the sets and say our last words before we grab our fins.
Some car doors sound solid; Mercedes Benz and Cadillac's make a good sound. When you drive these cars you don't go to the beach that often it's a different attitude one of order and cleanliness, scheduling and work. The brown Toyota truck's door sounds like a tent flap, the other side of the spectrum, where a swell is chaos and only shows up in it's own time, the surfers life.... . The parking lot is still chilly. As I grab the fins out of the back, the percussion of a deep drum one hundred feet across and twelve feet high pounds soft sand. I feel the blast in my feet, my fins, the back of my neck, all of the places deep rhythm hits. That was the first wave and statistically they come in sets of three, usually the second is the largest.
I turn on my heels to see the wall of water rise from ten to twenty feet, break far from shore in deep water and then crush the shore with a high tide rush.
When I was ten years old my dad showed me how to body surf Mokapuu beach, and told me the most important lesson is to strike a great pose at the edge of the water and possess the rhythm of the ocean.
This day at Sandy Beach was different, a symphony of a thousand pieces, complete with an army division, pounded beats and hurled death and paralysis to the songs of the sirens. I did not strike a standing pose with one foot out, left hand holding fins, right hand rubbing stomach that I usually do, I sat down humbled and obsessed.
Two sets later, I run as fast as I can from the shore to the water and dive backwards facing the beach, quickly put both fins on and swim faster than I think I can before the next set hits....too late. I dive down in six feet of water and feel my ears pop as fifteen feet of water rolls over me. I pop up and swim through the middle of the second wave, catch the smaller third as a warm up and do it all over again.
The beach, the grace of water curling, and the colors of Hawaii in the summer morning all wrapped up into one little ring.
