Comin’ Down

Walter Hoffman comin’ down on a big one at Sunset Beach. Photo: Hoffman collection

Rory Russell and I were best of friends, especially during the period when we both made surfing the Pipeline our life’s mission. I was older, and Rory was always trying to one-up me whenever he got a chance. It wasn’t out of any malice or jealousy; it was just the nature of our relationship.

We would see pictures or movies of ourselves surfing those great waves, and Rory would shake his head and ask, “Do you pose in front of a mirror to practice those moves before you do them on your board?”

“What moves?” I would answer, playing dumb but knowing what he wanted to figure out. Back then in the early 1970s, we tried to make our surfing look effortless when, obviously at a place like the Pipeline, it wasn’t.

The Pipeline had a reputation as a wave that could kill a surfer and a record to prove it. Photographers liked the spot because it broke close to shore, making the photography easier than trying to shoot photos at an outside break like Sunset Beach. But they liked it even more because it just looked spectacular in pictures. On those rare days when the swells rolled in cleanly from the west or northwest and the trade winds blew straight offshore, every surf photographer worth his salt was on the beach hoping for a cover shot or a center spread. This made for a competitive and crowded playing field in the lineup.

One of my favorite surfers from the generation before us who also made it look easy was Walter Hoffman. ‘Big Wally’ was a legend among his peers, being one of the early California surfers to go to Hawai’i and seamlessly fit in with the local crowd there. His surfing skills were elevated enough that he was instantly accepted by the top surfers and beach boys at Waikiki as one of their own. ‘Waltah’ often regaled me with wonderful stories of those heydays of the 1950s and early ‘60s. Generally this took place in between sets at places like Cottons Point or the Garden right in front of his Southern California home at Poche Beach. To be honest, I lived for those moments, for Walter had been in the front ranks of a special time in a special place.

One time, during a beautiful swell at Cottons, I watched him as he exercised his droit du seigneur, as King Cotton. Because he knew the lineup better than anyone else out there, he chose the perfect position for the next good set. When it came, he lined up the best wave, as usual, and, as was also his way, whenever he tied into a good one, yelled out in a booming voice, “Comin’ down!”

And, as if by magic, the path before him through the other surfers clustered in the lineup miraculously cleared. In reality, it was probably the loud bellow and the specter of the big guy on the big board, double-arm paddling into the biggest wave of the set that caused the other surfers to scatter like a school of minnows before a charging, hungry barracuda. After he rode his wave almost to shore, he paddled back through the crowd, only now like a Southern politician: campaigning, glad-handing, accepting the congratulations and acknowledgements of the last wave as his due. He sat down just outside of me so as to be in position for the best wave of the next set, pulled a small comb from the pocket of his surf trunks and slicked his hair back. As he slipped the comb back in his side pocket, another set loomed and he was off again. I had to smile at his entire act; it was an Academy Award performance, honed to perfection long before I had ever been on a surfboard. I especially liked the combing his hair in between sets and filed that away for some future use of my own.

The day was one of those classic Pipeline days, and Rory, as usual, showed up at the crack of noon to take his place in the lineup. With long arms, huge hands, and a loud mouth, he was a pig when it came to getting waves in a full lineup. This entitlement attitude was actually well deserved. Rory had put in his time and paid his dues long before many of the other surfers who were there. There were a few who had been there on a regular basis before him, but Rory was always acutely aware, if not perfectly polite, to those few when they were out, and always knew exactly where they were.

On many occasion, I had witnessed him in that sudden, explosive, totally focused paddling effort necessary to catch a set wave at the Pipe, twist his long neck, look over, and ask in all innocence, to the surfer right next to him, trying to paddle into the same wave, “Are you going on this one?”

Since it was often me he was asking, and I was trying my damnedest to catch the wave he was paddling into in front of me, I seldom had time to respond. Afterward I would wonder what in the world had he thought I was trying to do? Of course I was going on that wave, or at least attempting to. There were times when, beforehand, we would purposely plan to take the wave together to see if both of us could fit into the big Pipeline tube.

Today, however, was one of those days where every person out wanted to get a wave all their own. Besides, I was also trying to set Rory up for something that I knew would shatter his beady little mind.

The waves that day were of a quality that a good ten- to twelve-foot one would be a lifetime memory for any surfer. The Pipeline had the ability to sear an indelible impression into a person’s soul, an impression that would stand out over a thousand other waves. Sometimes it would come not even from a wave ridden, but from one watched from the vantage point of paddling back out.

Rory was in his usual white-hot surf frenzy. I had already been out all morning and that had been his first question to me when he joined the lineup. I told him I came out early, so he knew I was already four to five hours ahead of him in my wave count. But he was trying hard to catch up. I sat patiently and waited for that right moment. I wanted him to be paddling out when I rode my wave.

Finally, the perfect opportunity presented itself. Rory took a wave that I was certain he would make. Several waves after, the one I was waiting for came my way. I paddled out to meet it, turned around, and paddled hard. I felt the swell lift my board and propel me forward. I jumped to my feet as the board fell away beneath me. Lightly setting my edge, I dropped down the steep wall and kept my eyes open for Rory paddling out. Sure enough, there he was, in perfect position to see my wave. I ran my drop out into the flat in front of the wave, putting my eight-foot gun up on its rail and carving it around in a long bottom turn that would set me up for the bowling section ahead. Coming out of my turn, I stalled on the tail to slow down and position myself for the barrel. Rory was on the other end of that tube section.

As the thick lip curled over my head, I stood tall and reached into my wax pocket. I pulled out a comb, and with my eyes locked on Rory, I began to comb my hair in the tube. I almost lost it when I saw his jaw drop open and his eyes bug out. I combed my hair all the way through that tube. As I came out, I slid the comb back into my pocket and glided straight at him, carving a small arc in front of him and splashing some water into his wide-open mouth.

Without even a glance his way, I slowly began to paddle back out. I could hear some strangled, incoherent mutterings from behind that I casually ignored. With his long arms and my slow pace, he finally caught up to me, but poor Rory was still in shock. I had to bite my lip to keep a straight face as he tried to form one question after another and had no success with any.

Some months later on, in between sets during another California session with Walter, we were “talking story.” I told him about the trick I had played on Rory and Walter laughed heartily. Then a set came and as we scrambled for it, I found myself perfectly outpositioned by a master. All I heard was a deep bellow, “Comin’ down!”

At the 1954 Makaha contest, duke Kahanamoku and the ‘Queen of Makaha’ flank walter hoffman and his tandem partner, Gwynn davis. Photo: hoffman collection