Sights & Musings

One of the reasons I was determined to make a February pilgrimage to O’ahu was to witness as an adult the big waves on the North Shore, which deliver 40- and 50-foot faces during the winter months. Yesterday was one of those days, marking a “go” for the mythic surfing competition, the 31st annual invitational “Quiksilver,” honoring the memory, legacy and spirit of the Hawaiian demigod and surfing legend, lifeguard Eddie Aikau. Around here, this most famous of surfing events is simply known as “The Eddie.”

Though I was born on this island and lived here a couple of times during my childhood, sadly, I never learned to surf. Better informed accounts are being written about yesterday’s event by surfing insiders who not only mastered the sport but who know the culture and its fearless star performers. They will write knowingly about how they’ve been waiting for ideal conditions to run this event since the last one was held in 2009. How yesterday’s early morning churn gave way to crisper sets that sent the world’s best surfers sliding down slippery faces, while 6 or 7 jet-skis manned by the famed Hawaiian Water Patrol raced towards the beach to outpace staggering, avalanching walls of water. I don’t have the context or the expertise to put what I witnessed yesterday into proper perspective. All I can say is that surfing scholars and aficionados will call it “epic.” And finally, I understand why.

When I heard the Eddie might go, I gave up on my idea of traveling everywhere by foot or the Bus. With only a few days before I travel back to the Mainland, and only a few days left before this year’s window closed for running the Eddie, I couldn’t risk not getting there in time. So, I went to Enterprise rental on Kapi’olani and booked a small car. With 10,000+ spectators expected to crowd the beach and the narrow roadway leading to Waimea Bay Beach Park, I drove to the North Shore on Wednesday night to scope out my spot, and was ready to hike to the event all the way from Turtle Bay if traffic was too heavy or parking impossible on Thursday morning.

Setting up and waiting for the ‘bay to call the day.”

The fabled Waimea Bay.

Camping overnight to secure prime viewing spot.

Cliffside “cave-dwellers” camp out to reserve prime spectator position.

In the end, I got there by nesting the little Nissan in free public parking at the Pipeline, then walking the two and half miles on to Waimea Bay. Without the walk, I would have missed the street carnival atmosphere that makes this event absolutely unique in the world of sports. It’s a world where the 23-year-old winner actually rode his bike through the dark streets of his hometown to reach the “venue” on the morning of the big day. Fitting, because it perfectly captures the vibe of the sport, the spirit of Eddie Aikau, and the ethos of O’ahu’s North Shore. Truly, one of the best places on earth.

My starting time, just outside the gates of Turtle Bay Resort.

Along the hike towards Waimea Bay from the Pipeline, Pupukea is covered with the frothy churn from crashing waves.

One of many campers along the way.

Homage to famous surfer Brock LIttle who lost his battle to cancer days before the event.

Beautiful Catholic church on the hill overlooking the Bay.

Final stretch of hikers and campers just before reaching my viewing spot, along the rail overlooking the Bay.

The beautiful Waimea Bay greets me upon arrival. As they say, the Bay calls the day, and lucky for me, the Eddie is a go!

Visit the embedded links of this blog post to learn more about this, yes epic, event and the so-called “gladiators with boards” who take on the world’s most powerful and unpredictable adversary. My photos unfortunately just don’t capture the scale nor the might of these unbelievable swells, so please also enjoy the linked photos from the brave and talented photographers who were immersed in day’s surfing action (Quiksilver site). But, honestly, you can’t truly fathom a 60-foot wave until you see it in person. How lucky I was to be there.

The sky and sea around the time of the morning’s first heat.

Surfing icon Florida-born Kelly Slater surveys the roaring bay. Cameraman surveys Kelly.

Haleiwa’s John John Florence studies carefully before taking the plunge.

John John paddles out to meet his first heat on a day he’d turn in the highest score.

Thank god there are people in this world like Eddie and his brother Clyde. Those who would go . . . at any cost. I witnessed about 20 of them yesterday. I’ll forever consider it my parting gift from this island I love so well.

66-year-old Clyde Aikau, a legend in his own right, heads out for what he claims will be his last Eddie.

A next-gen surfing champ is coronated on an epic day at Waimea Bay. The winner, North Shore native John John Florence.

Our more direct 30-minute car trip brushed Waikiki along Kalakaua and Kapi’olani before emptying onto the H-1 headed towards Koko, with unexpectedly light traffic.

Tim drives us out to Makapu’u.

The drive out to Hawai’i Kai and on over to Waimānalo features some of O’ahu’s most iconic sights, but you don’t really want to stop at any of them on a Saturday afternoon. This artery is clogged with tourists and locals, all clamoring for a piece of paradise. After the dredge-filled, planned community of Hawai’i Kai, there’s the famous and popular Hanauma Bay preserve, my childhood favorite Halona Blow Hole, the lesser-known Japanese fishermen’s memorial, and the rough and tumble Sandy’s Beach, one of the best spots in the world for extreme bodysurfing.

Bodysurfing at Sandy’s.

I don’t know if it’s the way the light strikes this stretch of south O’ahu before you turn and head up windward, or if it’s the abrupt confrontation between the rugged lava rock and the deep ocean with barely any beachfront buffer, but there is no blue more gripping than the blue of the Pacific along these miles of the Kalaniana’ole Highway. It’s stunning and unforgettable. Long ago, this stretch of coastline fused my own internal Pantone color chart for “Pacific Ocean blue.”

At least three shades of “Pacific Ocean blue.”

It’s the deepest of all blues. Here, coalescing long before I could possibly know it, I learned visual and emotional context for just what an ocean looks like. Just what an ocean should be. And, sadly, it has forever relegated the Atlantic Ocean to second-class status . . . for me, the lesser sea.

As we took the curve after Sandy’s, we saw too many cars lining the roadway leading to the large parking area for the recently resurfaced Makapu’u Point Lighthouse Trail. Tim snatched a roadside opening. We changed into our hiking shoes, then Tim unexpectedly lead us over to the Makapu’u Lookout, rather than towards the smooth trail which was already crowded by families with strollers, bikers, runners, and even many elderly.

I was admiring the vista when Tim jumped the lookout rail and said, “Okay, this is it. Just follow the worn footpath all the way up.”

Just above Makapu’u Lookout, where we jumped the rail for the path less traveled.

My only admonishment to Tim as we attacked the rocky ascent was that there’d better be another way down. I was okay to slowly and steadily hike up – mountain goat style – but my halting knees would never tolerate coming back down the same path, without a serious tumble. He assured me we’d take the actual trail to descend once we crested and caught a good look at the lighthouse.

At 22 stories (according to my Fitbit), I fervently wished that I had better conditioned myself on the stairclimber at Cross Training San Marco. As I looked above to gauge just how much further we had to go, I noticed rock-climbers dangling from an even steeper precipice, one hiking tier closer to the sea than we were.

Rock-climbers face the precipice.

For a second, I fantasized they’d strap me securely in their safety harness and bounce me gently back down the face of the cliff. But of course, that wasn’t going to happen. Since I couldn’t go back down without risking a painful fall, the only way for me to see the unobstructed lighthouse now was to keep on climbing. One loose lava rock after another, I followed the faint footpath, lunging well beyond my natural stride and grasping gnarly scrub brush roots to steady myself and to help propel me upward.

Glancing at the Fitbit just before we reached the top of the craggy hillside, I was at 47 flights. I can assure you that I worked harder for those 47 motley, incongruous flights than any orderly staircase I’ve ever climbed. Despite frequent water breaks and vista-rewarding rest-stops,

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just before we crested, I felt faint and very near exhaustion. I had unfortunately skipped lunch. With one last swig from my plastic Kirkland water bottle, I pushed through the final 25 steps.

How many steps to go?! (Notice the moon.)

The rocky ascent gave way to a short grassy plateau and the most remarkable views you can imagine – an unobstructed look the lighthouse and out in the deep blue Pacific, evidence of more humpback whales than I had dreamed we’d see.

Makapu’u Lighthouse.

Looking windward, the lighter shades of Pacific Ocean blue.

Long way down.

The trade winds that had been imprisoned by the rocks were now set free, racing over my hot flesh and nearly snatching the faded Duke ball cap from my sweat-soaked hair. The release was similar to the euphoria that comes just after an intense hot yoga class. You’ve given your all. You’re absolutely spent and yet at the same time, restored.

My exhaustion from the climb was generously rewarded with the exhilaration of being able to witness first-hand some of the most stunning sights I’ve ever seen, including a crystal clear view of Rabbit Island and the sheer wonder of countless spouting humpback whales way beyond the old lighthouse, now off-limits to the general public.

Good view of the lighthouse from the trail side, with spouting humpback to the side.

Resting and taking it all in. Exhausted but restored.

It was a visceral reminder that sometimes the less traveled path is the very best way to go.

On the way out there, we decided to run by Kahala Mall so we could pick up lunch at Aloha Salads and increase Glenda’s Verizon data plan. That accomplished, we detoured through the Kahala Resort then looped back into the residential area near the crater – one of the most beautiful neighborhoods on O’ahu – to snag a parking spot.

Manicured cliff on the makai side of Diamond Head.

The waves roll in with the regularity of a wave machine.

Gentle ride on an O’ahu afternoon.

Watching the surfers from a semi-shaded spot which graces the cliff-top before it dives sharply to the sea, I worked up a thirst and started craving a shave ice. Knowing that we were pretty close to Uncle Clay’s, I asked Glenda to take me there before we headed back to change clothes for First Friday, Honolulu’s monthly art gallery walk in Chinatown. She and her family had regularly frequented Uncle Clay’s House of Pure Aloha when they lived in Hawai’i Kai, but I had never tried it.

Was I in for a treat! Sure, the famed all-natural, locally-sourced homemade syrups were deliciously refreshing over the fine shaven ice, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and fresh pineapple topping. But they aren’t kidding about this being the “House of Pure Aloha.” The shave ice and homemade toppings are a given; but what Clay and his handsome nephew, Bronson, are truly peddling is “Ohana” and the spirit of Aloha. All my life I’ve struggled to communicate the meaning of that three-syllable word:  Aloha. Uncle Clay and Bronson did it over a single serving of shave ice, late on an O’ahu afternoon. 

According to Uncle Clay, “Aloha” is unconditional love. It’s making a commitment to appreciating all people as part of our one world, one family (“Ohana”); to being our best selves and to believing that we can change the world for the better starting with ourselves, one heartbeat at a time. Whew. I felt like I was in church.

#hopalove manifesto (and marketing genius) on display.

Is this “House of Pure Aloha” (#hopalove) credo designed to sell more shave ice? Of course. You can bet tech-savvy Bronson is behind the branded hashtag, Facebook and Twitter accounts, and the mouth-watering Instagram photos. Yet, somehow Uncle Clay’s interest in speaking to every customer and sharing his vision of Ohana and Pure Aloha seem to go beyond contrived marketing gimmickry. It seemed genuine. Greeting each patron with a warm handshake or heartfelt embrace, Clay’s affection was palpable, even when he struggled to remember a customer’s name.

Out here, they take “Aloha” seriously enough to write it into the law books. And believe it or not, most people embody the concept. Is there a fragment of the population simmering with anger and resentment surrounding Cook’s contact and so much of what followed? Undoubtedly. But if you are truly mindful and respectful of cultural customs, sacred places and practices, your attitude is appreciated and met with the same respect…and I daresay…spirit of Aloha.

According to official statute in Hawai’i: “Aloha is more than a word of greeting or farewell or a salutation. Aloha means mutual regard and affection and extends warmth in caring with no obligation in return. Aloha is the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence. Aloha means to hear what is not said, to see what cannot be seen and to know the unknowable.”

A-lo-ha. Three little syllables that mean so much and speak so deeply.

It’s southern hospitality on steroids, without the cloying saccharin, or judgmental up-in-your-business nosiness that too many of my southern brethren exude. 

The handsome Bronson and Aloha evangelist Uncle Clay, pictured with their Square cashout reader.

In a state so committed to living the Aloha spirit that it’s even written into the law books, it seems appropriate that a simple outing to fetch shave ice turned into an inspirational prayer meeting with the Aloha evangelists of Aina Haina.

Long live #hopalove.