That Legendary Ride

	Much seems to have been made of
that once-in-a-lifetime ride I made from the
outer steamer lane off Waikiki, and now is as
good a time as any to put the record straight.
The incident has been written up before, but
might bear repeating. I can remember the
details as though it all happened yesterday,
for, in retrospect, I have relived the ride
many a time. I think my memory plays me
no tricks on this one.

	Pride was in it with me those days, and I
was still striving to build bigger and better
boards, ride taller, faster waves, and develop
more dexterity from day to day. Also, vanity
probably had much to do with my trying to
delight the crowds at Waikiki with spectacular
rides on the long, glassy, sloping waves.

But the day I caught "The Big One" was
a day when I was not thinking in terms of
awing any tourists or karnaainas (old-timers)
on Waikiki Beach. It was simply an early
morning when mammoth ground swells were
rolling in sporadically from the horizon, and
I saw that no one was paddling out to try
them. Frankly, they were the largest I'd ever
seen. The yell of "The surf is up!" was the
understatement of the century.

	In fact, it was that rare morning when the
word was out that the big "Bluebirds" were
rolling in; this is the name for gigantic waves
that sweep in from the horizon on extra-
ordinary occasions. Sometimes years elapse
with no evidence of them. They are spawned
far out at sea and are the result of cataclysms
of nature-either great atmospheric disturbances
or subterranean agitation like underwater
earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.

	True, as waves go, the experts will agree
that bigness alone is not what supplies out-
standingly good surfing. Sometimes giant
waves make for bad surfing in spite of their
size. And the reason often is that there is an
onshore wind that pushes the top of the
waves down and makes them break too fast
with lots of white water (foam). It takes an
offshore wind to make the waves stand up
to their full height. This day we had stiff
tradewinds blowing in from the high Koolau
Range, and they were making those Blue
birds tower up like the Himalayas. Man, I
was pulling my breath from way down at
sight of them.

	It put me in mind of the winter storm
waves that roar in at Kaena Point on the
North Shore. Big wave surfers, even then,
were doing much speculating on whether
those Kaena waves could be ridden with any
degree of safety. The Bluebirds facing me
were easily thirty-plus waves and they looked
as though, with the right equipment-plus a
lot of luck-they just might be makeable.

	The danger lay in the proneout or wipe-
out. Studying the waves made me wonder if
any man's body could withstand the unbelievable
force of a thirty- to fifty-foot wall of
water when it crashes. And, too, could even
a top swimmer like myself manage to battle
the currents and explosive water that would
necessarily accompany the aftermath of such
a wave?

	Well, the answer seemed to be simply-
don't get wiped out!

>From the shore you could see those high
glassy ridges building up in the outer Diamond
Head region. The Bluebirds were
swarming across the bay in a solid line as far
northwest as Honolulu Harbor. They were
tall, steep and fast. The closer-in ones
crumbled and showed their teeth with a fury
that I had never seen before. I wondered if
I could even push through the acres of white
water to get to the outer area where the
buildups were taking place.

	But, like the mountain climbers with
Mount Everest, you try it "Just because it's
there." Somedays a man does not take time
to analyze what motivates him. All I knew
was that I was suddenly trying to shove
through that incoming sea-and having the
fight of my life. I was using my Papa-nui (big
board), the sixteen-foot, 114-pound semi-
hollow board, and it was like trying to jam
a log through the flood of a dam break.

	Again and again it was necessary to turn
turtle with the big board and hang on tightly
underneath-arms and legs wrapped around
a thing that bucked like a bronco gone berserk.
The shoreward-bound torrents of water
ground overhead making all the racket of a
string of freight cars roaring over a- trestle.
The prone paddling between combers was a
demanding thing because the water was wild.
It was a case of wrestling the board through
blockbusting breakers, and it was a miracle
that I ever gained the outlying waters.

	Bushed from the long fight to get seaward,
I sat my board and watched the long humps
of water peaking into ridges that marched
like animated foothills. I let a slew of them
lift and drop me with their silent, threatening
glide. I could hardly believe that such perpendicular
walls of water could be built up
like that. The troughs between the swells had
the depth of elevator shafts, and I wondered
again what it would be like to be buried
under tons of water when it curled and detonated.
There was something eerie about
watching the shimmering backs of the ridges
as they passed me and rolled on toward
Waikiki.

	I let a lot of them careen by, wondering in
my own heart if I was passing them up be-
cause of their unholy height, or whether I
was really waiting for the big, right one. A
man begins to doubt himself at a time like
that. Then I was suddenly wheeling and
turning to catch the towering blue ridge
bearing toward me. I was prone and stroking
hard at the water with my hands.

	Strangely, it was more as though the wave
had selected me, rather than I had chosen it.
It seemed like a very personal and special
wave-the kind I had seen in my mind's eye
during a night of tangled dreaming. There
was no backing out on this one; the two of
us had something to settle between us. The
rioting breakers between me and shore no
longer bugged me. There was just this one
ridge and myself-no more. Could I master
it? I doubted it, but I was willing to die in
the attempt to harness it.

	Instinctively I got to my feet when the
pitch, slant and speed seemed right. Left
foot forward, knees slightly bent, I rode the
board down that precipitous slope like a man
tobogganing down a glacier. Sliding left
along the watery monster's face, I didn't
know I was at the beginning of a ride that
would become a celebrated and memoried
thing. All I knew was that I had come to
grips with the tallest, bulkiest, fastest wave
I had ever seen. I realized, too, more than
ever, that to be trapped under its curling
bulk would be the same as letting a factory
cave in upon you.

	This lethal avalanche of water swept shore-
ward swiftly and spookily. The board began
hissing from the traction as the wave leaned
forward with greater and more incredible
speed and power. I shifted my weight, cut left
at more of an angle and shot into the big
Castle Surf which was building and adding
to the wave I was on. Spray was spuming up
wildly from my rails, and I had never before
seen it spout up like that. I rode it for city-
long blocks, the wind almost sucking the
breath out of me. Diamond Head itself
seemed to have come alive and was leaping
in at me from the right.

	Then I was slamming into Elk's Club Surf,-
still sliding left, and still fighting for balance,
for position, for everything and anything that
would keep me upright. The drumming of
the water under the board had become a
madman's tattoo. Elk's Surf rioted me along,
high and steep, until I skidded and slanted
through into Public Baths Surf. By then it
amounted to three surfs combined into one;
big, rumbling and exploding. I was not sure
I could make it on this ever-steepening ridge.
A curl broke to my right and almost engulfed
me, so I swung even farther left, shuffled
back a little on the board to keep from
pearling (nose-diving) .

	Left it was; left and more left, with the
board veeing a jet of water on both sides
and making a snarl that told of speed and
stress and thrust. The wind was tugging my
hair with frantic hands. Then suddenly it
looked as if I might, with more luck, make
it into the back of Queen's Surf! The build-up
had developed into something approximating
what I had heard of tidal waves, and I wondered
if it would ever flatten out at all. White
water was pounding to my right, so I angled
farther from it to avoid its wiping me out
and burying me in the sudsy depths.

	Borrowing on the Cunha Surf for all it was
worth-and it was worth several hundred
yards-I managed to manipulate the board
into the now towering Queen's Surf. One
mistake-just one small one-could well spill
me into the maelstrom to my right. I teetered
for some panic-ridden seconds, caught control
again, and made it down on that last
forward rush, sliding and bouncing through
lunatic water. The breaker gave me all the
tossing of a bucking bronco. Still luckily
erect, I could see the people standing there
on the beach, their hands shading their eyes
against the sun, and watching me complete
this crazy, unbelievable one-and-three-
quarter-mile ride.

	I made it into the shallows in one last
surging flood. A little dazedly I wound up in
hip-deep water, where I stepped off and
pushed my board shoreward through the
bubbly surf. That improbable ride gave me
the sense of being an unlickable guy for the
moment. I heisted my board to my hip,
locked both arms around it and lugged it up
the beach.

	Without looking at the people clustered
around, I walked on, hearing them murmur
fine, exciting things which I wanted to remember
in days to come. I told myself this
was the ride to end all rides. I grinned
my thanks to those who stepped close and
slapped me on the shoulders, and I smiled
to those who told me this was the greatest.
I trudged on and on, knowing this would be
a shining memory for me that I could take
out in years to come, and relive it in all its
full glory. This had been it.

	I never caught another wave anything like
that one. And now with the birthdays piled
up on my back, I know I never shall. But
they cannot take that memory away from me.
It is a golden one that I treasure, and I'm
grateful that God gave it to me.


- Duke Kahanamoku,
"World of Surfing" (1968)