From: Chapter Twenty

THE WORLD SERIES OF SURFING

“Waves are not measured in feet or inches, they are measured in increments of fear.”

––Buzzy Trent, big wave rider, 1955

The powerful waves of the Banzai Pipeline have killed thirteen surfers. As with downhill ski racers and bronc riders, the element of danger is seductive, and every year for five weeks in November and December the professional surfers converge on O’ahu’s north shore from Brazil, Europe, Japan, Tahiti, and practically everywhere there are waves.

... Seeing some guy “spit out the barrel”––ass backwards with his legs in the air, like a circus performer of yesteryear being shot out of a cannon––sounded fantastic. So, Paulette and I flew to Honolulu, rented a car, and drove north to Sunset Beach.

. . . With Paulette content to explore the spa at the Turtle Bay Resort, I went another day in search of surf. At Eukai beach a mutual friend introduced me to the then-current world champion, Kelly Slater. I said, “I’ve moved to the Big Island. I’m just about at retirement age.”

“Me too,” Kelly said.

I laughed. He didn’t. At age 41 he was at retirement age. Several of Kelly’s friends have died in this perilous occupation. “See you on the golf course in about ten years,” I replied. (Kelly is an avid golfer in his down time and is a natural.)

He ran into the water and paddled out for a training session. His first wave was impressive––flying off the top––but I’ve seen others do it. I grabbed my board and while stroking out to the line up we talked. I mentioned that we had something in common: we both grew up in Florida. (I had spent six years of my childhood in Kelly’s home state.) “Well, you must have gotten good at fishing,” he said. “Cause there’s no surf there.”

There sure is surf here, I thought, and I was surfing with the best in the world––el numero uno. He paddled farther outside and caught a wave. Sitting on the inside I had a bull’s eye view of the champ as he approached the critical section. It looked like he wouldn’t catch up with the curl, but, unpredictably, he flew off the crest and in mid-air, like a helicopter, he twirled around three hundred and sixty degrees. He landed as easily as a dolphin and continued his next turn before disappearing in the tube. We’ve seen this on film, but in real life––unbelievable. The live view of an acrobat in flight, in my face, was better than a front row seat at any event. Kelly’s flexibility and love of surfing are what separate him from the others. In the athletic world someone like this is one in a million––Rocky Marciano, Babe Ruth, Mikail Baryshnikov, etc.

A few days later, we went to the ultimate event in the Triple Crown––the Pipeline Masters. The final heat: John John Florence, the rising star, versus Kelly Slater older and wiser––mano a mano. 

... Not everyone appreciates the invasion of competitors, however. Later that afternoon, after watching the waves at Pipeline, I was crossing the parking lot when up drove a rusty pick up truck with oversized tires. Hanging out the back were a pit bull and a mangy, mean-looking mutt, jumping up and down with their tongues hanging out. A big shirtless Hawaiian got out, revealing a melange of badly executed tattoos. He softly chided his dogs, “No step on da boards.” Then he turned to the massive sign with the names of previous winners, mostly Hawaiians and Australians, and the scaffolding of the Pipe Masters competition. He raised his two closed fists in the air with the middle fingers extended, and shouted “F### da Triple Crown,” no less than three times. Then he got back in his truck, turned around, and laid some rubber on the asphalt.

Next Chapter: Chapter 21