Surf Is Where You Find It (Revised and Expanded)

Reno Abellira taking the drop on a winning wave, while I shove hard and pray my board makes it over the top. Photo: Steve Wilkings

Fitz and I knew the surf was going to be big, but until we started down the hill past Wahiawa we had no idea it would be gigantic. From that panorama, the ocean looked like wide wale corduroy: thick lines stacked up all the way to the horizon. After a few moments of shocked silence, little or no breathing, and intense staring, we also noticed lines that looked darker and thicker. We assumed those were the sets. As if the waves in between weren’t big enough.

It was huge, as big as we ever had seen it while still clean. I remembered bigger waves back in 1969, but that was all storm surf. What we were seeing was clean, perfect, and enormous. We had an early report that they were going to run the contest at Waimea. It was obvious as we drove by Hale’iwa with waves breaking almost across the channel that nowhere else could hold a swell of this magnitude.

It was Thanksgiving Day, 1974, and the North Shore had a long tradition of supplying a good swell on the third Thursday of each November. This, however, was almost ridiculous. Terry Fitzgerald, an Australian surfer who had earned a solid reputation among the elite Hawai’i winter crew, and I were both feeling the butterflies as we passed by Laniakea and Chun’s Reef showing nothing but whitewater as far out as we could see. The ‘ehukai in the air made it seem like there was a fog, but it was just the mist from the waves.

As we pulled over on the side of the road that overlooks the Bay, we were greeted by a beautiful set. Waimea was as perfect as we had ever seen it. The lines were wrapping around the point and peeling into the bay. There were a group of guys scrambling in the lineup, and several turned to paddle for one of the bigger waves. Two caught it, stood up, and began taking the long drop. It looked like Jose Angel and Mike Miller, two longtime veterans of Waimea. Their experience showed as they made the drop successfully and bottom turned together to race the wall. What took our breath away was how high above their heads the wave towered. It was a solid twenty-five-foot wave and without a drop of water out of place. As they rode their way out into the channel, Fitz and I finally started breathing again. We looked at each other, and I wondered if my eyes were as big and round as his were.

“Jesus Christ!” I said, “Are we ready for THIS?” Fitzzy slowly shook his head.

“I don’t know, but we might as well get down there and see what’s going on with everyone else,” he replied glumly.

We drove down and parked in the lot. We walked over to where we could see Freddie Hemmings animatedly talking to a crowd of the guys. They, like Fitz and I, had made it through the preliminary heats run earlier that week in more reasonable waves at Sunset Beach. We were all here to surf the semifinal heats and hopefully make our way into the finals of the Smirnoff Professional Surfing Contest.

As I looked around and saw guys like Peter Townend, Mark Warren, Jimmy Lucas, Barry Kanaiaupuni, Larry Bertlemann, and others whom I knew had never even surfed Waimea before, let alone at this size, I began to understand what was making Freddie boil. He had promoted this event for the past several years, and here was this great-big, beautiful swell at Waimea Bay that would make unbelievable press for his sponsor, but the surfers didn’t want to go out because it was too big. Fred was livid.

“What do you mean this surf isn’t any good for a contest … it’s great,” he screamed.

He started to peel off his shirt, “I’ll paddle out there myself and show you guys how good it is.”

In his time, Fred Hemmings had been one of the top big-wave chargers in Hawai’i with lots of days in at spots like Makaha, Laniakea, Sunset Beach, and Waimea. Having gone to high school with Fred, where he was the captain of the football team, I figured he just might borrow a board off someone and paddle out to make his point.

Just then the sun climbed over the hills behind Waimea, and it was as though a whole new light was shone on the subject. The beach where we were standing had been in the shadow of the hills. Suddenly it was lit up and warm. The whole mood seemed to change. The waves were really good, and the regular Waimea guys, including Jose, Eddie Aikau, Peter Cole, Ricky Grigg, and Kimo Hollinger all were getting fantastic rides. It looked spectacular from the beach.

Everyone went, if somewhat reluctantly, to get ready. Generally before contests, a lot of guys would get to the beach early to have time for a practice session to gauge the waves. That day at Waimea not one of the contestants paddled out before his heat. Everyone was going in cold, and for quite a few of them, it would be their first time out at the break. Even guys like Hakman and Reno, who had surfed many times before at Waimea, were a little nervous.

I was in the second heat and began to wax my board even before they called the first heat. I probably waxed that thing for half an hour, going through several bars of wax in the process. It was my first time out on this new 8’10”, and if I was going to have any problems with it, lack of wax was not going to be one of them.

People who surf Waimea a lot have said that over the years it’s changed, that sand has filled up the bay. Years later I would go down there to watch, and it seemed that once the waves were twenty-five feet or so, they would close out the Bay completely. On that Turkey Day of ’74, I don’t remember one wave closing out. Maybe it was just a very clean swell, but as it came time for my heat to hit the water, I jumped in at the corner and paddled out without getting my hair wet.

When big surf is clean and perfect like it was that day, from the elevated vantage of the beach, it has a tendency to look smaller. Once I was in the channel paddling out the full size of the waves was more evident, and it was a chilling sight. The size was unusually consistent at eighteen to twenty feet, the sets regular and frequent.

The tubes were probably the most astonishing thing about the waves that day. It was so top-to-bottom that sitting there in the safety of the channel watching, I didn’t think there was a way to catch one, stand up, and make the drop on such a hollow wave. The tubes were completely round and looked like the Pipeline except two to three times bigger. The caverns were so enormous that several city buses stacked on top of each other would have fit inside.

As if to make the point of how difficult it was to drop-in, I watched Larry Bertlemann get pitched and take the worst wipeout I have ever seen. It made me sick to my stomach just seeing the beating he took. On the very next wave, Jimmy Lucas did the same thing. He free-fell from the top through twenty feet of space. Then the thick curl just pounded him deep and held him down for much too long. Both surfers came up, swam in, and didn’t return. I couldn’t fault either for deciding to quit after the pummeling they took. Finally the heat ended, and we paddled into the lineup to try our luck.

Photo: Steve Wilkings

Being seasoned veterans of many surf contests, our initial apprehensions were soon overcome by the heat of battle, especially since we were surfing for the biggest purse in the short history of professional surf contests. Reno and I paddled out together to join the Waimea regulars, who had decided to stay out in the lineup without interfering with the contestants.

Freddie had tried to get them to clear the water, but the intensity of the situation, the size of the waves, and the fact that it was one of the best days in the history of Waimea was just too explosive. Fred wisely backed off and let the guys stay out in the water. Most of the contest surfers were unfamiliar with the break and didn’t even want the set waves so everything worked out.

The regulars were sitting farther outside and much deeper than any of us wanted to, so Reno and I took a position closer to the channel and just inside. With our insides boiling, we tried to appear calm as we waited for the first waves.

With a clean swell like this, the wave interval was widely spaced and very regular. We spotted a set coming in and paddled a few strokes outside mostly out of nervousness since we were already in the right spot. Reno went for the first good one and I got ready for the second.

It was as perfect a wave as I had ever seen at Waimea. Jose, Peter, and Ricky all shouted encouragement as I paddled hard for it. I caught it pretty easily and made the drop. I turned at the bottom and held my line toward the channel. It was no big deal and that really surprised me. I cut back a few times and weaved in alongside the channel, milking the wave even though the critical part was over. I felt more confident as I took the easy paddle back out.

Bud Browne was swimming out at the edge of the impact zone filming from the water. He and I were good friends. He saw me, smiled, and said, “Nice wave.”

Bud was known as the ‘Barracuda’ because he moved like one through the water. He was sixty years old, but I didn’t have a second thought about him being out here in these giant waves. Later on that day, he would find himself caught inside by a big set and take the pounding of his life. Afterward he would comment in his usual deadpan way, “I’m getting too old for this.” That would be the last time he shot from the water at the Bay.

Oh boy, I thought, I guess that is what a guy has to do to win. A few more sets came. They were about the same size as the previous ones, and we both got a few more rides. Finally what looked like a bigger set approached and we both got ready for it. This time I went for the first one, but it was a lot bigger than my first wave, and it jacked up so fast I barely had time to hit the brakes and pull back. I managed to keep myself from getting sucked over, but when I turned around and saw the next one I almost had a heart attack.

In front of me was the biggest wave I had ever seen in my life, and I was not in a good spot to avoid it. Reno was paddling hard to catch it and I was paddling even harder to avoid it. He was paddling down as I paddled up, as we passed we looked right into each other’s eyes. Reno stood up and I could see the thick lip right behind him. I was pretty far up the face, but there was no way I was going to paddle through the top of the wave, it was already throwing out. I got off my board and shoved it as hard as I could straight up through the lip.

It was an enormous wave, but desperation must have worked in my favor. I saw my board penetrate the top of the wave just before I dove under and swam through to the other side. I was never so happy to see my red gun waiting for me. There were only these two waves in the set so I had time to calm my rapidly beating heart and catch my breath.

Reno paddled back and had this really intense look in his eye. I knew without asking that it was a result of the huge wave he had just caught. The big sets were a solid five to six feet bigger than the regular eighteen- to twenty-foot waves. The next set we saw looked even bigger than that. Reno and I watched as all the regulars who were a little further outside and deeper than us all moved out as the set approached. We looked at each other and without a word, lay down, and started paddling hard for the outside.

When we paddled over the top of the waves in front, we saw that this was a huge set. The first wave stood up outside of us and it was at least ten feet bigger than the largest ones we’d seen so far. No one wanted these waves, and because everyone saw them coming, we started paddling outside early and no one got caught. But the sensation of paddling over a wave this big left a feeling down in the pit of my stomach that I had never felt before. I guess it had to do with the thought of what one of these waves could do to me if I got caught inside. Everyone, including the Waimea regulars, just got out of the way of that set and let the waves roll through unchallenged.

They were the biggest waves that Reno and I had ever seen up close. Even now I remember the look that he had in his eyes. I realized that he really wanted to catch one of those waves. I understood that that’s what we needed to do if we wanted to win this surf contest, but I wondered if I had it in me to launch myself into something that big.

We had a few moments to think about it, but soon we could see the next set coming our way, and it looked like another giant one. We both took a few deep breaths and got ready for it. It was big, not quite as big as the one we just paddled over, but much bigger than the waves we had caught so far. The first one was perfect, and I saw Reno wanted to make a move for it. I paddled over the top to see what was behind while he stroked hard to catch the wave and was gone.

The next wave was considerably bigger than anything I had ever ridden, but I was in position, it was clean, and I didn’t give it a second thought. I turned and paddled as hard as I could. I felt the wave lift, I had it, I was in early, and I leaped to my feet. I crouched down feeling the board start to drop. I was stoked, everything looked and felt good as I began my descent.

The next thing I knew, the bottom dropped out of the wave and I free-fell into space. “Oh shit!” That good feeling I had a moment before was long gone and I knew I was in deep trouble. I fell about a third of the way down the wave still standing on my surfboard—at least ten or twelve feet. The first thing to touch the wave again was the nose of my board. It buried and flipped me off headfirst. That turned out to be a good thing because I had enough momentum built up that I managed to penetrate into the face of the wave instead of skipping off and ending up down in the pit.

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to dive through the wave and come out the back. What looked like the worst wipeout of my career ended up as nothing. I was behind the wave, safe and sound. I took a few deep breaths before swimming in after my board. The next heat was paddling out in the channel. When I swam by, they all looked at me and asked how I survived getting pitched by that set wave. I laughed and told them it was no big deal. They just shook their heads and paddled by, trying to prepare themselves should the same thing happen to them.

Everyone around saw me get pitched on one of the biggest waves and assumed the wipeout was horrendous. I didn’t tell them how lucky I was to dive through the wave.

Grubby turned around and announced, “It was the money motive—the money motive made him do it. Nothing else could have made him try to catch that wave.”

I didn’t advance through the heat but actually that was a relief. Reno made the finals, continued his strong performance, and went on to win the event.

Afterward we left the beach and went to eat a big Thanksgiving dinner. All the while, Grubby was telling anyone who would listen: “The money motive made him do it.”