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A gi-normous southwest swell is pounding the coast, probably helped a bit by the 5.3 quake we had yesterday.
It was an awesome sight to experience this amazing wave and riders. The surfers are delivered by jet ski to the wave to gain the momentum to surf these huge waves
Oahu, November 1976: Mother Nature unleashes a giant northwest swell that rivals the mythic waves of December 1969. I pondered the morning news reports with my best friend, Mark Wildman, and we brainstormed about how to partake in the glory of the day. With Civil Defense warnings on every radio and television station, the North Shore was obviously way too big for surfing. The roads were washed out at Laniakea and Sunset Beach, and driving from Kailua would surely be a traffic jam. Then an idea zapped me like a bolt of lightning: My dad kept his Piper Cub at Honolulu International Airport, and I had a key! It didn't take long for Wildman to sign on, and rambling through the Pali Tunnel in his Volkswagen bug gave me a premonition of events yet to come.
For those unfamiliar with a J-3 Piper Cub, allow me to describe: It's an Alaskan bush plane -- a slow flying tail-dragger traditionally painted yellow with a black lightning bolt along its fuselage. A lightweight two-seater with an overhead wing and a wide-open window, it requires a hand crank on the wooden propellor to start the engine. Steered with rudder pedals and a joystick, they say piloting a Piper Cub is just like driving a Volkswagen bug. At age 18, with a grand total of 20 hours flight time, a solo license, and a death wish, I had to agree.
I did a quick pre-flight exam of the aircraft and removed the chocks around the J-3's balloon-shape tires. Sitting in the front seat, Mark pressed the foot brakes and prepared to pull back the throttle knob. I yelled, "Clear!" and with both hands yanked down on the prop. The trusty motor sputtered to life as I quickly jumped backward. I climbed into the cockpit behind my partner in crime, buckled my seat belt, put on the head-phones, and taxied onto the tarmac. I revved up the rpm's, checked the magnetos, and contacted ground control for a little "Roger" talk. Shortly thereafter, Piper N62053 was cleared for takeoff on Runway 4 Left. Full throttle forward, we lifted off at about 25 knots.
We flew over the Aloha Stadium at 1,000 feet and could already see the mounds of whitewater along the North Shore. A salt mist enshrouded Haleiwa and Waialua towns -- bright and pure -- this was no sugar cane fire haze. En route to Waimea Bay, we saw huge swells spanning from Pua'ena Point all the way past Leftovers. A big grinding left roared from Alligator Rock across into Waimea Bay, slamming that jagged coastline like a hurricane. To our utter amazement, there were two surfers out at Waimea. We recognized Ken Bradshaw straddling his signature orange big-wave gun, but we didn't know the other guy on the white rhino chaser. Despite the gnarly surroundings, the light tradewind fanning offshore made the bay smooth. Nevertheless, it seemed like certain death out there. A solid set appeared on the horizon, so we buzzed them and yelled "Outside!" in unison as we passed by. They immediately started stroking out past the point, perhaps too far, as neither man tried to catch a wave. I thought our exuberance might have caused them to paddle out of position for a ridable set.
After that, it was time to find a real big wave. We headed straight out to sea a couple of miles and found an enormous deep ocean swell. Then we turned around and followed the turquoise Goliath, zigzagging slowly as we rode the gladiator's coattails back into the arena. Like kamikaze pilots zeroing in on a battleship, we descended into the rising mist just as the massive hulk rolled over. I'll never forget looking down at Bradshaw and his accomplice as they scratched up the face and tried to shove their boards over the top of the heaving behemoth. A surfer's worst nightmare, yet they made a valiant attempt to save their equipment and not just abandon ship. Bradshaw's orange rocket twirled in the air like a spinner dolphin as it skirted in the lip. However, the other guy lost his board. I thanked God that I wasn't in his predicament. I don't think I could have made it ashore.
Outside Log Cabins was next on our ariel agenda. Gigantic rights peeled into a channel as we approached from the west. I don't believe anyone had ever surfed there yet, but this was as good as it gets. We circled at treetop level for a couple of sets -- dipping the wings from side to side as we simulated bottom turns above the aqua monarchs. Many of the waves looked very similar to Bradshaw's epic tow-in ride in January 1998. We continued up the coast toward another cranking right, Phantoms, about a mile outside of Velzyland. Windy and wicked, most of the waves closed out as they moved into the white wash smothering Sunset Beach. Wildman barely stuck his head outside the window and his sunglasses blew away. I remember thinking to myself that if the engine quits out here we're goners.
On our way back toward Haleiwa, a tall left stacked up west of Waimea Bay and a daredevil notion dawned on me. Coming in fast, heart drumming in my chest, I aligned our glide path to the Waimea jumping rock. As the wave feathered down the line, we crossed over its back and with a blast of gas, I pushed the control stick forward and we swooped down below the crest of the wave. Looking up at the cars parked along Kamehameha Highway, I tugged back on the elevator as we skimmed the protruding landmark. With another power punch, I pulled a U-turn right over the beach.
At this stage, there was only one place left to go, Ka'ena Point -- the greatest wave of all. We flew over Himalayas and Avalanche as we headed west. Outside of Mokuleia there were two large round metal tanks adrift in the ocean -- probably ripped off an ill-fated vessel by the high seas. As we drew near, it became clear that the surf at Ka'ena Point was substantially larger than the North Shore. Colossal peaks funneled into an apex of coral reef. Towering windswept cathedrals pitched out perfect barrels. We soared over the lefts as long as possible before the easterly gusts blew us into the channel for a bird's-eye view of the rights. From our perch in the Piper Cub, we could almost feel the impending magnitude of the double wave as it developed. Time seemed to stand still as it sucked deep from the trenches, dredging the underwater ridge and amassing into a vertical surge.
The ten-story heavyweight poi pounder threw out square with a cavern more than twice as high and wide as the Pali Tunnel. Every surfer knows what happened next, but terms like spit, salvo fusillade, or even blown-to-smithereens are far to feeble to describe the expulsion from this oversized pressure chamber. Without exaggeration, the foam layer of its aftermath could have covered a football field -- sidelines and end zones included.
It wasn't the odometer or the empty fuel tank, but rather the salt glaze caked on the Piper Cub that tipped off my dad. He grounded me from driving for three weeks, but that was okay: A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was already in the memory bank.
Fast-forward ten years to the winter of 1986. After surfing at the Banzai Pipeline, I meet Roger Erickson, the renown big-wave rider. I had a hunch so I asked him what were the biggest waves that he ever surfed. In a solemn tone, as if reciting folklore, he replied, "There was this day at Waimea back in November of 1976...." I interjected and probed if he remembered a yellow airplane. Erickson looked at me as if I was his long-lost brother.
"Was that you?" Roger asked, "I've always wanted to meet you!" he exclaimed, "You don't know what you did for me!" He crushed my handshake with his vise grip and patted my back like a new found hero.
Erickson said that he was more scared on that day at Waimea than he had ever been in his entire life. Fear like no other -- not Vietnam or other dangerous surf. When Wildman and I showed up and started buzzing overhead he claimed it felt like a "mother's blanket" draped over him. To know that another human being shared such close proximity to the deadly situation somehow made it less terrifying. A false sense of security if I've ever heard one -- he's lucky to be alive!
Composition made with Photoshop from actual images of my Pro-Tools audio production system.
It's the first time I use Pro-Tools to create image, instead of audio ☺
Mixed as double exposure, image recreation of gravitational waves according to quantum physics.
Past, present and future of waves views
There is a surfer going over the falls on this wave. You can just see the trail of his arms going over with the lip of the wave. Needless to say he got hammered! .6 second exposure.
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Men at Work - taken before sunset last night.... watering the newly 'laid' grass on Ajijic's Malecon Promenade.
These are our magical mountains in the background. Nestled inbetween the mountains and the largest inland lake of Mexcio lies the village of Ajijic. These walls belong to waterfront properties.... houses along the lakeshore, where recently this beautiful Malecon/Promenade has been built.... for the Pan American Games 2011!! It's about 1 km long, great for running or fast walking in the early AM or at sunset.