It’s offseason travel time again, but instead of heading south of the boarder to my usual Central American beach spots, I’m heading to the Pacific islands of Hawaii.
I used to spend a month on the North Shore of Oahu every December when I was covering the women’s tour for Surfer magazine. Our staff would stay in a house on the beach with views of Pipeline out our kitchen window. I vividly remember sitting there one morning eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and watching Kelly Slater get spit out of the barrel only to arch a few more cutbacks and then air to 360 off the back of the wave. I sat there stunned, my mouth open, milk dribbling down the front of my shirt like baby spit-up.
The truth is, Hawaii scared me. The air was thick with a hardcore vibe that made me feel like I always was totally over my head. I walked around feeling like I wanted to apologize to everyone for being there.
I’d paddle out when everyone was complaining it was “flat” and end up getting pitched on every wave only to have ripping surfers come flying straight at me while I struggled not to drown, just waiting to have my scalp sliced open when their fins raked over my head.
One day during a big swell, my friend Tiffany and I surfed a point break at the harbor because someone told us it would be more protected there. The next thing I know, I’m scratching to get through a big outside set. Tight before the wave would land on my head, I’d brace myself and duck dive as deep as I could, watching the massive wave roll over me like a giant steamroller. I’d get spit out the back, the force of the breaking lip exploding water straight up into the air like the blowhole of a whale. It was like getting rained on, with little prism rainbows appearing all around me like the stars you see when you hit your head too hard.
I make it to the outside only to realize I have no idea where I am. I barely can see the lineup, which looks to be at least half a mile away, and realize I’m caught in a rip current. The proper thing to do is paddle out to sea and out of the current before you try to paddle back to shore. Of course, I panicked and did exactly what you’re not supposed to do and paddled against it. The current took me right into dry reef, a boulder-sized formation of razor-sharp coral. Filled with adrenaline, I didn’t feel the impact until I finally made it to shore, where I hid under a palm tree and cried.
On land, I had to interview all these intimidating female pro surfers like Keala Kennelly. Born and raised in the rough waters of Kauai, Keala is an intimidating girl to say the least, known for her fearless ability to charge in big, heavy waves like Pipeline and Teahupoo in Tahiti. She’s tall with broad shoulders, long legs and a manly figure with a waist that seems to blend right into her hips. She has pale blond hair and brown eyes that slant upward like a mean cartoon character.
I get to her house and am about to pull out my tape recorder when she looks at me like she’s about to pull a gun and says, “Let’s go for a surf.”
She takes me to this secluded break on the far side of the island that’s accessed via a long walk through sugar cane fields. I felt like I was being led through the forest by the Mafia or being forced to walk the plank.
When we get to the beach, she looks at me and goes, “Are you going to paddle out or what?”
I get out there and I’m way out of my comfort zone, but when she said go, I paddled with all my might. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head going, “If so-and-so told you to jump off a bridge, would you do that, too?”
The wave formed into what is known as an A-frame, a perfect peak that stands up and forms into a glassy wall before arching over and peeling down the line. I could hear her cheering and hollering as I careened down this perfect wave, overcoming my top 10 fears simultaneously. Needless to say, I got the interview and enjoyed my own private little victory.
This trip will be totally different – different island, friends from Aspen, and no pro surfers around. Still, chances are I’ll be over my head at least once in those Hawaiian waters. Part of me knows that’s exactly how I like it.
To learn more about freelancewriter Alison Berkley, visit www.alisonberkley.com.
