Dance With Her - My First Time Surfing Pipeline

Spitting distance from where I lived as a young kid in Hawaii, my dad used to take me to a Kailua bakery for malasadas. Inside the bakery hung a picture of Gerry Lopez, miraculously relaxed, in a backlit green gold tube. Teeth keening from the sugar intake, I stared at that shot whenever we went into the shop, and thought that that was what surfing was all about. That grace, that connection, that calm reverie in the middle of danger, that’s why I wanted to surf.

That’s why I dreamed of surfing Pipeline.

But like so many childhood dreams in life--playing shortstop for the Dodgers, point guard for the Lakers--the dream of surfing Pipeline seemed to have passed me by. My last trip to the Country was in my late teens, when I was still asking my dad the question, “Do you think I could surf Pipe?” My dad, kindly, would say, “Of course, with some training.” But then I hadn’t trained yet so I didn’t go out.

A young boy mezmerized by Pipeline. Photo: Reyn Murphy

Between stories of my dad roughing it through New Zealand, my mom hitchhiking through France and Spain as broke 20 something, and my experience with my friends on the college surf team led me to dream of other places. I traveled to West Oz, New Zealand, Fiji, Indo, Hossegor, Africa. These are places that I’m excited to have traveled to, to have surfed and where I made friends and returned, but I ignored the draw of Pipeline, the wave that meant most and epitomized what surfing was to me.

I wound up like many: married, working, and I have recently become a father to a sweet baby boy. My wife took maternity leave to be with our new son, and she wanted to plan a vacation while she had time away from work. I told her I wanted to be able to take my boy in the ocean for the first time, so I could share with him something that I love so deeply, but in looking at the warm water spots, we realized that with the spread of Zika, so many places were out of reach for a weeklong trip with a baby.

Except Hawaii.

And then I was flushed with memories of my time as a young boy growing up in Kailua, the vision of Gerry Lopez on the bakery wall, of Pipeline.

I immediately increased my normal workout routine, which needed significant changes because I had gained 15 quick pounds after the birth of my son. Sleep deprivation makes it easy to eat a whole tin of baked ziti.

The idea of surfing Pipeline became an obsession. And since I recently witnessed the horrifying falls from Evan Geiselman and Dusty Payne, I knew I had to get in much better shape, mentally and physically. I cut out desserts, and french fries, and then (gasp) beer. I searched menus and grocery stores for healthiest foods. I went on a cleanse. I intensified my trainings with a personal trainer, a competitive bodybuilder who took to my obsession by creating workouts designed for my goals. I swam laps while holding my breath. Even when walking my dog, I started running and seeing how long I could hold my breath (43 seconds at a fast run, even while the dog sniffed and I dodged cars, what you learn is that mental exertion affects breath holding). I read about Pipeline in Gerry Lopez’s “Surf Is Where You Find It.” I started watching the Surfline cams every day to see the differences in swell angle and crowd and where to paddle out--paddling out at Pipe is not intuitive, that’s for sure. I kept a journal of these thoughts and observations (Pipe often doesn’t really break until it gets overhead, so it’s strange to watch it at shoulder high look like San O). I studied the Volcom Pipe Pro live footage, and almost squealed when the drone filmed a perfect perspective to understand the reef through the pellucid blue water. I made a list of all the times I had surfed big difficult waves--Cloudbreak, Restaurants, G-Land, Blacks, Margaret River, Hossegor--and how I handled them.

What all of those plans reinforced was the feeling of the dream of getting tubed at Pipeline. Finally feeling what Gerry felt in that photo when I was a kid, present, on the right path, where he wanted to be, amidst a momentary emergence of perfection in the chaos of the ocean.

As I thought about getting tubed, I started to wonder why it mattered to me so much. As a new father, I could choose amongst so many other things that feel good, are momentary, that make you feel alive and have decidedly milder consequences.

In a book I love--“Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace--a Canadian terrorist cell is desperately hoping to find a movie that the terrorist cell can weaponize because the movie is so entertaining that people can’t stop watching it. Upon watching, the viewers stop feeding themselves, don’t go to the bathroom, and end up in a state of catatonia, starving to death, having soiled themselves, eyes glued to the television until the end. Other than the vision of getting tubed at Pipeline, you may be wondering, what could be so compelling?

The movie/weapon inside the book turns out to be very simple. It is film of the most beautiful woman in the world, who is the grim reaper and your next life’s mother, repeatedly apologizing to you over and over again. That’s it. That’s the entire movie, on repeat.

The author doesn’t go into why an apology is so deeply engrossing, but I think it has to do with how difficult life is, how much suffering we have to endure, and, most crucially, that none of us ever decided to join life. We were brought into this wondrous and torturous existence not of our own free will. And to get that apology from a goddess of death and life, feels satisfying on a level so absolute that, in the book, other needs don’t need to be met.

The difference with pulling into the tube--to the womb-like sounds, the slowing of time, the purity of presence, and the rebirth of the exit--then is choice. As surfers, we choose to be in that moment. We choose to take off on that difficult wave that will, sometimes, bless us, and other times punish us. What we enjoy and suffer will be of our own free will.

And Pipeline is the apex, the most beautiful in the world. That’s why I trained and ate well and researched and dreamed of surfing Pipeline and getting tubed. The idea felt bigger than my just-another-fish-in-the-sea existence.

____

We went to Hawaii in February along with my parents, my brother, and his girlfriend. We were welcomed by the smells of plumeria and ginger and salty humid air and the sounds of trucks splashing through rain puddles and the crow of wild roosters. We stayed in Sunset Beach, about a 15 minute walk from Pipeline, I think mostly because my dad wanted to have quick access to Kammie’s. I realized how deeply my early childhood memories were, and combined with the amount of time I had thought about this moment and with the fact that I was traveling with family, it felt like I had returned home.

A solid swell loomed on the horizon, predicted to arrive on Tuesday, peak on Wednesday and Thursday and stay solid through Friday. The forecast showed that the peak was looking plenty big, so I decided Tuesday was the best chance to test myself.

I woke early on that Tuesday morning, alive with anticipation, and a I took care of my newborn son and stretched while my wife slept. Pipe began to wake. The surf had increased slightly--though still not big by Pipeline standards--and the crowd looked far milder. My brother quietly made a pot of coffee and watched the surf with me. He spends most of his water time in Ocean Beach in San Francisco, and as a regular footer had never had much interest in surfing Pipeline. But he had heard me talk enough about it that as I got ready and invited him to join me, he decided to come too.

We walked the beach to Pipeline. The mist from wave detonation hung in the air, and the wild roosters crowed. The surf was overhead, sheet glass, and so my brother said, “Let’s get wet.”

We jumped in the water right by the exposed rock and let the current sling us into the channel. From there we paddled to the lineup with a perfect view of every wave cyclonically mowing over the reef, and we found ourselves amidst the pack. The lineup was packed tightly with pro-level bodyboarders, and a few local surfers. We were fortunate that the Pipe dominators--JOB, the Moniz brothers, Kamalei Henry, the Ho father-son tandem, Kala, Barron Mamiya, Kalani Chapman, the Rothman brothers, the Florence brothers, guys like that--weren’t out. The overhead crunchers didn’t pack enough punch for them.

One of the bodyboarders we had seen on the beach, a 270 pound Hawaiian who threw on a Superman rashguard. My brother and I watched in awe as Superman sat deeper than everyone and slid into some of the prettiest barrels I’ve seen up close. The sun refracting off the crystalline lip against the deep blue bowl and Superman snugly aligned for the spit.

I didn’t have to wait long for my first wave, as not many people fought for the smaller ones that swung wide. I dug in, overpaddling to make sure I made the drop, and I felt the speed. I bottom turned over the coral, the barrel not quite opening for me, and I carved into the face, and milked it all the way to the inside section. I had surfed one. Maybe not a great Pipe wave, but enough to break the ice. And I wanted a good one now.

A Brazilian in a Volcom Pipe Pro jersey paddled out, and I could tell from the way he paddled--feet wide and awkwardly dragging--that he wasn’t the best surfer. He was about my age, mid-30s, and the desperation of surfing Pipeline seemed cartoonish. I wanted to pretend that I wasn’t similar to him, but I know I was, at least a little. Though his lack of awareness did mean he paddled straight to the top--inside of Superman and a few other bodyboard pros. And when a beautiful set came in, he paddled straight for it, but the lineup being how it is, one of the body board pros faded him deep, and I saw as the Faux Pro straightened out into the flats and the lip of the wave crashed right onto the tail of his board, catapulting him over the reef. What did he expect when he paddled to the top of the peak at Pipeline?

I caught a few more that morning, but none of the really nicely lined up waves that tube beautifully. A few closeouts and a head dip, and I felt the thrill of surfing Pipe for a session.

Wednesday was the big day--why are Wednesdays the biggest?--potentially in that 6-8 foot Pipeline range and holding for the rest of the week. With my first session giving me the confidence to go bigger, I was excited for the next day.

When I woke up, the swell hadn’t filled in, but Pipeline has a reputation for picking up rapidly on a new swell. Other than the sheer anxiety of getting caught inside on a freak 10 wave set, the second surf at Pipe was relatively uneventful. The crowd intensified, and so I caught fewer waves.

The best wave I caught, a gorgeous solid overhead drainer, was paired with two bodyboarders right in my line, so I straightened out and got axed by the lip. I counted as I tumbled in the churning water, which made my 6 second hold down feel like nothing, because it really is almost nothing. It’s more our fear of what could happen in those 6 seconds that makes it seem so much worse. The burn from CO2 comes in bursts, and then resides.

That afternoon, the trades picked up as well as the surf. The crowds fought over the waves, and with all the jockeying from the real locals, I watched from the sand as I prepared for the next morning. The section I had been sitting on, a little wider and inside, didn’t line up as well for tubes as the directly inside section. Granted, I’d have to chase over the outside sets that the boys would get, but with the sets picking up on second reef, I would have advanced notice. I surfed good sized Rockies to prepare for the next morning.

Thursday it rained out of a low sky and the tide was out. I walked up the beach, roosters crowing, and paddled out into a rain stippled ocean. The surf dropped a little, and was still about 4 foot Pipe with the occasional 6 foot straggler coming in.

A few of the local heavies were out, and it was a pleasure to watch them get the best waves. I envied them. I found my spot underneath the main crowd, and caught a few smaller waves during the session, but not quite getting that barrel I was looking for, that chosen womb. I watched as a California pro sat at the top and got iced out, not catching a wave the entire time, and eventually paddling in. If he couldn’t get a set, I definitely couldn’t, and so I felt good about my plan. 

I traced the horizon, watching the waves lever up on the coral shoulders of Third Reef. The crowd started to paddle out, but I hung back, not even attempting to get the big wave. When a smaller one followed, I paddled as deep as I could. The wave raced to the shallows, and I leapt to my feet, tucked in, the frothy lip pitched, and heard the sound that the tube makes, that deep groan and hum. I sped out to the shoulder, and paddled back out for a few more waves. I felt elated.

On the walk back I started to think about my tube. Being honest with myself, I admitted that the tube wasn’t much for most people watching. The people who have surfed Pipeline for years would probably laugh at someone like myself for getting excited about a tube that small. And the people who look at photos of it in magazines--and who likely haven’t even come close to surfing it--would be so acclimated to beastly death pits, Wave of the Winter entries, that my wave probably would have seemed pedestrian. Something that they could see at their home beach on a good day. For anyone else, that tube was in no way similar to the Gerry Lopez picture I saw while getting malasadas all those years ago.

But it meant something for me. I know I’m not Gerry Lopez, I’m a 35 year old husband and father, and what it meant, and this may seem silly to write, but that it was not too late for me to surf Pipeline. I danced with her. I loved getting that little tube, and I thought, maybe next time will be bigger. It allowed for the space of a ‘next time.’ It was affirmation and confidence and hope.

As I walked back to our place, the rain smoothing the beach, a set wave’s whitewash crested the shelly berm and left a small, silver fish flopping on the sand. I rushed over to scoop it up and throw the little fish back in the sea, but it was small and hard to hold. On my first attempt I only tossed it part way to the water’s edge, and it landed on the wet sand. But I raced forward more, picked it up again, and launched it right into the shorebreak. Fighting for its life, the fish caught hold of water, and propelled itself back into the sea where it could breathe freely again.