Same Old Friends

We met up in the lawn of a friend’s house on a sharp, clear, Mokulēʻia morning. The cool air, with just a touch of breeze, felt light on my shoulders. We stood chatting (about six feet apart) with warm to-go cups of coffee in hand and eased through the suppressed excitement to see one another again. On the coattails of quarantine and with the excuse of a friend’s birthday, this was the first time we could all get together in a while.

Despite the deadly impacts of the Covid-19 pandemic, it’s difficult to ignore the silver lining that comes with a frozen world (and remote work). For the first time since high school, I’ve been able to spend more than a few weeks at home on O‘ahu. And I’m not alone. Old friends now settled in North Carolina, New York City, San Francisco, Los Angeles, have all booked it back to their childhood homes to join the lucky ones with their feet rooted in the islands. 

After a quick assessment of the surf, we paddled out to the reef pass in packs of two, partially because some of us got ready quicker than others and partially as not to immediately (although inevitably) dominate the local lineup. By now, the sun had crept above the Ko‘olau Mountain Range and it covered the ocean with a low, white glare. Through that and the exposed, low tide coral heads, we paddled quickly but carefully, as not to cut our fingers or ding our boards, trading glances with the playful right that teased us from 50 yards away. 

The surf was small but fun. Waste high sets rolled through often enough that there were plenty of waves to go around. While in no way comparable to the run of swell that hit the islands (and the west coast) for the majority of this spring, these waves unlocked something else in my surf psyche. Something less noticeable, and easily forgettable, until once again found. Sharing a lineup with old friends adds yet another dimension to wave riding. 

The hooting, the hollering, the burning each other. The fake filming, the “ho! ho!”, the claiming of waves. The aspect of sharing a space with people you’ve grown so comfortable with is liberating. And this is only magnified after a long separation apart. Hearing whistles as I pumped backside down the line of a knee-high closeout was enough to make me laugh out loud mid ride. The playfulness, so easily lost in young adult life, flushed back over me with the same feeling of duck diving just beneath the lip of a wave. 

There are few joys that can compare to riding waves at home, but to do so with old friends is even closer to bliss. Saltwater lubricated conversations flow freely across the lineup. We catch up at our own pace and slip back into an old and easy groove. Jokes and stories blend together with laughter like salt and water. It’s reassuring how easily we can take back up where we left off.

Our lives, scattered across the western hemisphere, were pulled right back to this tiny island in the pacific. We’ve all come and gone and come and gone but now we are here, riding a small right crumbling delicately into the channel. Although we will never really be the same punk kids that we used to be, moments like that morning are a gentle reminder that change doesn’t have to be isolating and growth doesn’t have to mean loss. Eight twenty-five year olds can paddle out to one-foot surf and have their best morning in a long, long while.