For the second time in two weeks, Uncle Clyde Aikau had called a green light for his dearly departed brother’s memorial surf contest.
This would be the greatest gathering of surf gladiators in the world.
And little did I know, it would be the greatest contest day in surfing, well, perhaps ever.
“The Bay calls the Day” is the ethos, and this time all the stars were aligning.
Clean winds and sunshine.
A forty foot deep ocean groundswell radiating out from a super cyclone churning up the North Pacific Ocean.
And for weekday workers in Honolulu like me, the good fortune that the swell would explode into our sport’s greatest Coliseum - Waimea Bay - on Sunday, January 22nd.
In other words, I could attend!
When I first moved to Hawaii almost two decades ago, a zealous and surf-crazy 23 year old making my way in the world - I arrived just a week before the Eddie Aikau was convened in 2004.
That was the contest when Bruce Irons won the day by riding a massive wave all the way into Waimea Shorebreak, pulling into a closeout monster and sending the crowd into euphoria.
That was back in another era, before cell phones and the internet had transformed the North Shore and the world.
This time, everyone who cared on the planet knew the contest was coming.
On Oahu residents in every corner of the island made plans to attend. But how would there be enough room for 40-60,000 people to fit into Waimea?
Answer: There wouldn’t be.
I had my plan.
On Saturday I raced around Honolulu to fill my cooler with three meals and matching beverages. I packed my pickup truck with a beach chair and a guitar, and knowing that the crowds were already migrating from Town to Country, I pointed my compass to the pineapple fields of Central Oahu, and set out on a solo overnight mission to the Seven Mile Miracle.
Here we go!
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The contest wasn’t set to begin until sunrise on Sunday, but the Coachella-style carnival atmosphere was already beginning on Saturday afternoon. Traffic was backed up to Haleiwa for the slow cruise down Kamehameha Highway. Cars were already parked along the road, on the hillsides, anywhere and everywhere. Families, college students, and tourists had pitched tents, brought grills, and even set up mobile living rooms under canopies with couches and tvs.
In my lifetime immersed in this tribal surf culture, attending pro contests all over the planet, I’d never seen anything like this.
The swell wasn’t indicating at the Bay yet, but 4-6 foot waves were rolling around the inside point at Waimea Bay, a break we call Pinballs.
As the sun dropped toward the horizon, my oldest North Shore friend (Teddy Waimea) and I took ten foot Waimea Big wave guns, and we paddled out through the keyhole at Three Tables,
The night before the Eddie, we surfed Waimea Bay alone, just the two of us.
It was surreal, as hundreds of people on the cliffside and the beach watched on. It was as if we had snuck into the Super Bowl stadium, the night before the big game, and we had the whole field to ourselves to play.
That’s the beauty of surfing - our surf sites are public parks, and all are welcome.
We laughed and glided and flew, struck now and always by our great fortune to frolick and play in God’s greatest playground.
As night fell, we returned to Ted’s Pupukea compound to jam on our guitars, cook vegetarian burritos, and nervously await the thunderous swell that would soon rumble the foundations of the North Shore.
We fell asleep that night with excitement and anticipation.
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Boom! The ground shook, my bed vibrated, and the crackling explosions of collapsing water avalanches reverberated through the Valley and up Pupukea Heights.
Overnight wind and rain had coursed through the North Shore, and I wondered how it was for the thousands of people sleeping in tents and their cars.
I packed my cooler and bag, bolstered myself with a big breakfast, and jumped on Teddy’s 125 CC Scooter, so I could navigate around the crowds and gates to my secret viewing spot.
I banked down Pupukea Road to the mountain ridge directly above Waimea Bay. I pushed my motorcycle around a gate, almost dropping it into a muddy ravine, then just managed it to muscle it back to the road.
I motored into the sacred Heiau, which was a Hawaiian religious site, as well as a strategic outpost facing the distant island of Kauai. The rock foundations of the old temple remained intact on the ridge, lending the whole area a feeling of deep history, meaning, and mana.
Already tens of thousands of people were filling up the beach and river valley below, but I had no intention of coming out of the mountains. I knew that from up here, perched on the ridge, I would have the aerial vantage point. From here I could see miles out to sea, much farther than the surfers could see, and from here I could watch and anticipate the approaching water mountains as they exploded into the Bay.
The trees and viewpoints at the heiau were already filled with spectators everywhere. I nimbly climbed down the ridge into a grove of trees, where I could see the whole Bay, the surfers, and the big blue ocean beyond.
I set up my beach chair on the edge of a cliff, planted my cooler, and thus it began. . .
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From 8 AM to sunset, there I was, riveted, ecstatic, energized. I felt the energy of the Big Blue coursing through my heart, my blood, my veins. I felt the vibrations of the waves refracting off the valley walls, shaking the trees. I watched every single surfer and every single ride, cheering for their successful drop-ins, bellowing at their wipeouts, and always scanning the horizon.
I saw the biggest waves I’ve seen, the best rides I’ve seen, and the most ocean power I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
Time slowed down and sped up, measured like a metronome in sets of waves, which never ceased.
The swell built, strengthened, deepened. It just grew bigger and bigger. It was holy, overpowering, awesome.
I roamed excitedly around my mountain perch, shouted with joy, laughed and talked to others hiding in the trees. Old friends and new friends came to watch with me.
The sun rose, peaked, and began to slink toward the horizon. The collective stoke of the crowd, the competitors, and Mother Nature was overpowering.
The contest ended before sunset, and from on high we could see everyone gathering down in the Bay for the awards ceremony and an impromptu concert. We considered going down, but then we looked out to sea.
And there, with the contest already finished, was one lone soul surfer, doing brave battle with waves that were still growing in size! Even after ten hours of spectating, we couldn’t pull ourselves away.
We cheered for every wave, for every ride, for Mother Ocean, for a day we’d never forget.
And then, we saw it. The biggest waves of the day were marching in.
Here they come! It’s going to close out the channel!
We whooped, cheered, looked on in awe. The contest had officially ended, yet the sea spectacle was more captivating than ever.
The waves devoured the whole bay, cheers and music rose to the heavens, and the ocean exploded with the primal energy of Creation.
I walked out of the heiau, covered in mud, one sandal on my foot, an empty cooler, and a smile as big as Luke Shepardson’s contest winning wave.
A day I’ll never forget as long as I live.
Aloha Eddie!
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