Oh wow, another flashback ...

1970s again, again ... surf report media doesn't exist yet; epic swells often seem to come out of nowhere and are easy to miss; "You should have been here yesterday ... ," the left out surfer crestfallen; but, nobody needs to tell me about the surf; I live over it, in it; I live on the near exact North tip of the mystic isle, on the cliff itself, and I know exactly how big the surf is; all the time.

To me, this privy of Nature is my gold, and I very selfishly covet it, hold it dear, keeping it in a silent circle of secret friends- no worries, none of us would ever say a word, we see the writing on the wall, this is it, the Lost Coast, the Last Coast. Our lives, in our way, charmed beyond belief for now but not forever. Halcyon days for us kingfishers.

We know Waikiki. We know Lahaina. We know what's coming.

We live hidden, the road is miles long and 4WD or horse only. Very few families are lucky like this and ours is very lucky and I know exactly when the surf rises, I see it, hear it, feel it, before nearly anyone else in the Pacific as these giant waves of energy meet their first resistance in 2000 miles, my back yard.

The few I will share this golden info with are diverse yet the archetype highly motivated group with one cause put before all others. Surf. Immaculate waves. Alone. The nearest phone is 4 miles away, 4 pretty rough miles. Hearing the size of the surf I awake, stretch a minute, and head for the booth. A phone booth in the middle of the jungle. It is 3am. I'll make 2 calls.

Up the mountain, literally in the jungle itself, a phone rings for the slightest beat before being picked up. Yet, that fraction of a second wakes at least 6 people up, at least for a minute. "half-hour," I say in a whisper to K-Boy. "kay-den," He hangs up gently as can.

The next call is to my cousin, nearly a hundred miles away, "Wat?" groggy and pissy picking up. "Landings," I say. "No Shit? Charge-em, be there later," he hangs up.

Waiting in the dark, there are no lights here, none. Dark forest. K-Boy, his complexion dark as night too, waits quietly, a part of the forest and the night. We tie his board on and coast down the hill but still are heard by everyone in these parts, and they know where we are going and why. The Landing.

The kind of wave that dreams are made of. The kind of wave you live for. The kind of wave that when you're all alone there you find life feels amazing; completely on your own, by choice and by distinction.

A secret spot. Even though every Hawaiian around here knows it and knows where K-Boy's going, they know everything K-Boy does, where he is all the time, and will get reports on our progress, performance in the surf, and more, over the day. But, tourists?, outsiders?, even west-enders? Well, they don't yet know about how to get to the Landing, even if they've heard of it, and they couldn't possibly know it was breaking right now even if they did.

We get there in the dark- and acclimate. It's cold here not warm, the river starts up high in the mountains. Large and perfect yet wicked and deadly waves howl out of open ocean into a small bay and explode as hollow cylinders that spit us out of the cannon over and over and over again. Just the 2 of us but the energy is like the World Tour: this is what we live for. Entering the water inandofitself is fantastically dangerous, one wrong move and it's the reef and cliff for you; we dive in the blackness just as the sun starts the light.

This is one of the things Hawaiians do, we surf. For thousands of years now, with our own Surfing Olympics- The Makahiki, so K-Boy and I, like gladiators that we are, compete in furious friendly competition, pushing each other harder, further and further back into the spitting, gasping tubes. He, quite literally, surfs like a pro. This is amazing as his body type is- large and not skinny. A few Hawaiians from this area are now on the cliff. They cheer us, and especially him, local hero, as he puts on a show you wouldn't soon forget in front of 4-5 people in the middle of nowhere at the crack of dawn.

We did that for years. And didn't tell anyone, but of course the legend always grows, and now our Lost Coast is on Wide World of Sports! That is how it is now, but I feel priveleged, certainly un-deserving and indulged by this remarkable inspiration and phenomenal moment of time.

Riding waves in analog.

(actual photos)

A Hui Hou