Opening Day of the North Shore Oahu Winter 2021/2022 Surf Season

Opening Day, North Shore, September 26, 2021

Opening Day for the 2021/22 North Shore Winter Surf Season arrives on Friday, September 26, 2021.

These days, we know when it’s coming.  The buzz on Oahu begins days in advance.  Thousands of surfers

on every corner of Oahu triple check forecasts, shift work commitments, and pull down dusty big boards

from the rafters they haven’t touched since last season.

The GAP (Gross Adrenaline Product) of Oahu climbs upwards, as the densest crop of surf talent in the Galaxy collectively stokes up for the approaching liquid energy barrage.

I’m part of this tribe.  I can feel my own blood pressure and breathing rhythms intensify, purely in anticipation of the water walls on the way.

I live in a valley above Honolulu at the bottom of Oahu, some thirty miles away from the Northern rim of the island.  On Friday afternoon, I pack my two Jeff Bushman mini-guns into my beloved 2012 white Nissan Frontier (one of the last production years before cars became autonomous and bossy spaceships!).  

I drop out of our valley, glide onto the H-1, accelerate past Ft. Shafter and Red Hill up the H-201, through Halawa, across Pearl City and Aiea, merge onto the H-2 in Waipahu to ascend the Central Valley, cruise past suburban utopia Mililani,cut through the busy commercial roads of Wahiawa, jet past the Dole Pineapple Plantation, and then. . .

The sky opens up.  Pineapple fields run across the island from the Waianae Range to the Ko’olau Mountains, and the two lane Kam Highway slices through the fields like a single fin at Sunset Beach.

I drop into neutral and descend thousands of feet down into Haleiwa.  In the distance at Kaena Point I can see booming whitewater, salty sea-spray, and the endless abyss of the Great North Pacific.

I bank at the roundabout in the back of Haleiwa, and crawl through town in search of a short two millimeter neoprene wesuit suit to keep me warm, buoyant, and insulated from the thunderous swell that awaits.

Searching for a wetsuit provokes worry for future of Haleiwa surf retail.  There are too many condemned spaces, abandoned buildings, and shops with thin inventory (thinventory?).  Even Surf and Sea, that stalwart staple of North Shore surf shop service, had weak wetsuit options and a harried staff.

Luckily I find suit I need at corporate behemoth Rip Curl, pick up fresh Sticky Bumps surf wax for board traction, and continue on my mission to the Seven Mile Miracle.

Busy, busy, busy is the Kam Highway into the North Shore, always, and today is no different.  I slow-crawl past Laniakea, Jocko’s, Chuns.

The surf is booming and exploding, ten feet, 18 second periods, triple overhead.  Except for Waimea Bay, most everything is out of control.  Too much North for Pipeline, and too much juice for Rocky Point. 

I stop my car illegally at Sunset Beach, surfing’s Roman Coliseum.  

It’s my favorite surf spot in the world, the place where all my physical and mental abilities are pushed to their limit, and it’s a natural oceanic amphitheater fit for ocean gladiators.  I’ve come closer to dying here than anywhere else.  And I’ve lived as fully and immediately in these waters as I have anywhere, anytime.  

As surfing has become my ritual practice, my communion with natural beauty and power, Sunset has become my St. Peter’s Basilica, the holiest site in the Vatican City that is the North Shore.

I dash down to the shoreline to greet my friend Ted and his son Lion, both of them thrashing and laughing their way through monster shore pound surf.  It is blustery, raining sideways, and the surf is. . .  cranking.  A half mile out to sea, 10 to 15 foot walls of water stack ten waves deep to the horizon, as a crowd of fifty plus of the best water-people in the planet jostle their seven to eleven foot rhino chaser surf spears to ride just one of those gorgeous water beasts.

I am transfixed, and scared.  At 40 years old, I’m interested in longevity, maximum wave count, and a balanced risk/reward ratio.  I’m stronger than ever, but I am jittery on Opening Day at Sunset Beach, especially with such an intense crowd, and a wild and wooly, imperfect swell.

And more than ever at 40, I trust myself, and I know myself.

I salute Ted and Billy and head for a different surf spot, Jocko’s.  I’m a goofy footer who stands with my right foot forward, and Jocko’s breaks to the left when I’m riding the wave, which means I can face and see the wave better when I’m riding.  When the surf is cranking, this is an extra advantage I’m happy to take.

Importantly, Jocko’s has a deep water channel, so there is a safe zone where surfers can retreat to, and a conveyor belt rip current to carry us all out to the take-off peak.

Unfortunately, at Jocko’s the outflowing current can overpower surfers, ripping us out to sea faster than we can paddle to stay in place.  Which is basically what’s happening today, and accelerating with the outgoing ide.

I slide into my wetsuit, strap on my helmet and sunglasses, completing my “Mr. Safety” outfit.  I wax my board, secured my leash, stretch, and then, dive into the sea.

Three hours pass in five minutes.  I enter a flow state of focus, emotion, integration. My body and mind are fully integrated, and attuned completely to the surging ocean.  I am strong, capable, and responding to the thunderous wave energy enveloping me.  I fly, fall, drop, carve, race, rebound.  I charge, pull in, wipeout, recover.  I am alive, in the water, competent in the face of saltwater fury.  

I am the farthest surfer a half kilometer out to sea, relentlessly paddling for position.  Close to dusk one monster set obliterates the entire lineup, everyone but me, as I just sneak under the exploding lip line.

A worried surfer over his head can’t keep up with the current, and he paddles a half mile west to Laniakea with the current to get to shore.

I feel so good, alive, now.  There are just a few of us left, the sun is low on the horizon, a rogue wave crashes on my head, and. . .

My leash snaps.  

My board is gone.  I’m drifting on my own now.  

What do I feel and think?

I feel glad I’ve been swimming in the Manoa pool, glad I have a wetsuit and helmet, grateful I know these reefs and beaches and feel comfortable in these waters..

I start the long downshore swim in.  Waves crashing on my head and rolling me towards shore.  I stroke and paddle and swim, buffeting myself off the currents to go with the flow.  The sun sets, waves crash and crash, I am swimming in a boneyard of reefs and rocks looking for a place to come ashore.  It’s too dark to swim to Lani’s, so I body surf over dry reef, clamber over slippery rocks, and emerge onto dry rocks.

I’m alive, as alive as I can be.  A fellow surfer in the distance waves my board in the air.  He has rescued my Bushman!  He introduces himself as Doug and smiles and tells me he is relieved I am on shore.  I am too.

I drive home in the darkness, smiling, grateful, energized.

This all feels normal.  I can’t tell if it is anymore.  

But for the North Shore surf tribe, we all have these moments, when we are completely alive, tuned in to the deep energy of the most powerful natural forces on earth: sun, moon, wind, and water.