While I Was Away

With proof of a negative COVID test in hand, I touched down on O’ahu on one of those sticky nights that precedes rain. Driving out to Ma’ili, on the western flank of the island, I gazed out the driver’s side window at the inky sea. Without the reflection of the hiding moon, the water was absent of texture, movement, or light. The orange haze of street light pollution put me in a kind of a trance. Each bumb and dip of the dilapidating old road traveled up through the frame of my car and into my skeleton so that I felt like I was traveling to space in a rumbling rocket ship. Driving at night both dulls and magnifies things. That’s probably why I’m so drawn to it.

The first time I woke up that night was to a snare drum played by rain. The heavy droplets from the sky shattered on the rooftop above my head. Without wind, the drops fell vertically and hard. I swear my bed frame was shaking. There was no way I could fall back asleep I thought. Until I did. And woke up again to the familiar and welcomed sound of surf sizzling in the distance. It was still dark when I rolled my body out of bed and touched my feet to the surprisingly warm concrete floor. The little joys of being in Hawai’i again. 

With a hot cup of coffee in hand, I watched grey silhouettes of waves move through dawn like ghosts. An early-season, head-high north swell had wrapped around Ka’ena point and was now unloading on the low tide Ma’ili reef. The now emptied rain clouds were pink when I began the quick paddle out. The sky was blossoming like a flower and reflected brightly off of the still, morning water. Out at lineup, the only things that appeared to move were the waves and the changing colors of a pre-sun sunrise. Having shed my wetsuit skin for a pair of board shorts, it was refreshing to feel the water rush through the hairs on my dangling legs. Maybe my early morning senses were more acute. Maybe you just miss out on these things when you’re cold. Regardless, the air that traveled in and out of my body mimicked the waves in the sea. Looking landward at the yawning and stretching mountains, I was left with a feeling that this was right. 

When a north swell hits Ma’ili point, it does so violently. It is violent not with brute force or power, but with sharp peaks and knifey drops. With shallow a-frames and spitting wedges. When a north swell hits Ma’ili point it does so with the beautiful kind of violence that every surfer dreams of. This mid-October morning was no different and my passed down lineup marker, like a cheat code, put me in the perfect position for some quick, pink barrels in front of my home. 

By the time the sun popped above the Waianae Mountain Range like the world’s slowest jack-in-the-box, the surf was crowded with both familiar faces and new. Surfers moved across the water like ants, appearing random and frantic at first, but quickly slipping into a pattern thereafter. The churning gears of a crowded lineup, lubricated by consistent surf, is a wonder in itself. Paddling deep for the small ones, kicking to the channel for swing sets, waiting patiently outside for the bomb. People– knowingly or unknowingly, take up these roles with ease. Soon no wave is unridden and stoke levels are sky high. 

We all continued this choreographed dance up and down the reef for an hour or so until it was time for me to hang up the shoes and paddle back in to shore. My hunger for warm-water tubes was satisfied (but can it ever really be?) while my hunger for pancakes and eggs became overwhelming. A slow righthander and a prone insider over the reef and I was back on the beach. I watched from the sand as a near perfect set rolled through. It was enough to make me question my hunger, but not enough to commit to a paddle back out. I easily convinced myself that there were more waves to be had after breakfast. 

Something held me there for a split second longer. And then a minute longer. And soon I was sitting on the sand with my eyes glued to the lineup. It’s hard to turn your back to the ocean. Like the ultimate case of FOMO, waves (sometimes epic waves) will continue marching towards shore and people will continue to ride them. 

I began to think about all of the waves that I’ve missed here, at my favorite place in the world, while I’ve been bunkered down in San Francisco. I thought about all of the waves that I’d be missing while I prepared and ate my breakfast. But then these thoughts evolved even more. The quiet drive through the night. The loud rain in the darkness. The awakening of the world from the water. These strangely, but deeply, moving moments had all hit me in less than twelve hours at home. And I couldn’t help but think about how many of these moments have gone by since I’ve been away. 

This isn’t to say that my time in the city was unremarkable. It’s been incredible. But as they say, some things just hit different. It felt good to be home again, soaking up these moments. But if there is one thing that returning home has taught me, it’s that the world moves whether we are there to look at it or not.