Ramon, the Joy-Bringing Local

The guy in the surf shop looked at me doubtfully. “Are you SURE you don’t want a lesson or two? Or for me to go out with you?” I brushed off his concerns; I’d checked the conditions and the waves didn’t seem crazy. I took my rented board and leash and headed across the street.

We were on a family vacation on the Big Island of Hawai’i about six years ago. I’d caught the surfing bug in my early 50s and couldn’t get enough. There was nothing that came close to that feeling of nailing the pop-up, planting my feet, making the bottom turn and then riding the face parallel to the beach.

But of course, that was in my native waters of Carolina Beach, NC. I was familiar with the good breaks, the currents, many of the regulars. Here I was about ready to fulfill a bucket list item in the birthplace of surfing.

Maybe 50 yards out, I saw a few locals sitting in the line up. They straddled their boards, at a 90-degree angle to the beach, slowly rising and falling and watching the incoming sets. There was another guy cruising around on a standup paddle board. He looked at me suspiciously; the other guys ignored me.

This was one of the few sandy bottomed places for miles around; everywhere else had a bottom of razor-sharp lava rocks. So even though I was hoping not to clash with the locals…me being Kanaka ʻē, an outsider…I didn’t have much choice. I paddled about 50 feet away from them and watched the incoming sets.

They were much bigger than they had seemed from the shop and I waited until a smaller wave came. I turned my board, laid down and started paddling. It still didn’t feel right, so just before my pop-up, I backpedaled and let it go by me. It broke with a thundering crash; probably good that I had not picked that one.

The guy on the SUP had been watching all this. He dug deep, and paddled to over me with astonishing speed. He wore board shorts, a rash guard shirt, and a battered straw hat.

“Oh man, he said. “You can’t surf! You SUCK!” I ignored him and paddled back to the line up. He followed me.

“My name’s Ramon,” he said loudly. He looked over that the other guys. Some grinned. “Hey man, this is OUR beach, man. We don’t share it with NOBODY! Especially people who suck!”

I started to explain I was just getting a feel for things, but I needn’t have bothered; he interrupted me with more insults. He circled around me on his SUP like a predatory shark, hurling caustic comments. I ignored him, picked another wave, and paddled hard. This one felt better, I popped up and got a short ride. It only brought more derision from my new Hoaloha, Ramon.

Finally after an hour, I’d had enough hostility from Ramon and his buddies. I paddled in amidst hoots and catcalls.

If nothing else, being a Taurian I’m stubborn. Or determined, I prefer. I went back to the surf shop the next day and the guy gave me a look. You back for more?

This time in addition to the board and the leash, he hooked me up with a map and circled a spot about 10 miles away. “Try there,” he said. “Fewer locals, good break. But watch the lava.”

My first view of the “good break” had me gulping. Waves 1-2 stories reared back, gathering themselves, then thundered in a roaring break. But they were picture-perfect, quintessential Hawai’i waves. A few guys were out; I watched. They took off on the lip, zipped down the face, disappeared for a few seconds behind the curl, then came shooting out of the tube. Dayum.

I had water shoes and thought I’d start with a few belly rides in the whitewater. But even this was perilous; once or twice, a sideways wave knocked me off and I winced as my palms and knees opened on the sharp lava.

Finally, I threw common sense to the wind and decided to try the outside where the bottom was sand but the waves were huge. When was I gonna be back in Hawai’i? One of my favorite lines from “My Cousin Vinny” came to mind; Joe Pesci, looking earnest…”I dink you should DO dis ding.” Damn right, Vin.

I paddled out, timing my approach between a crashing wave and one drawing back to crash. I finally got out past the break, exhausted. I waited for a smaller wave to come, but they seemed to be actually building as I sat out there. 45 minutes dragged by and the tide was dropping.

I couldn’t put it off any longer. Here came a 2-story wave. Turn, dig, paddle, look over my shoulder, pop up.

What happened next was so far out of my wheelhouse, it could only have one pitiful outcome. Going down the face, the board was almost vertical and my feet floated off. In slow motion, I fell, fell, fell, hitting the water with a painful smack. And almost immediately several hundred tons of angry seawater fell with vengeance on this brash outsider who thought he could just step in where Duke Kahanamoku had once surfed. 

I was caught in “the washing machine,” a maelstrom of water, sand, foam, turning me upside down and inside out. I knew not to fight it, just relax and eventually my head would surface. I did, and it did. But as I stuck my head up, another wave was rearing up to break. 

I frantically paddled to shore as the wave broke all around me. I rocketed towards the beach on my stomach. 

The final vengeance of Hawai’i came when another rogue sideways wave knocked me off my board. Pain erupted everywhere as I fell on my back on the lava rocks. 

Yeah, great advice, Vinny, I thought as I put the board in the car…my rash guard shirt, legs, hands, and back of my head covered in crimson.

Three weeks later I was back in Carolina Beach. I was sitting offshore a few hundred feet, on a glassy day with an offshore wind. Now and then, some waist- or chest high sets came in.

As I watched, a pod of dolphins appeared. They were heading my way and I angled my board and paddled to intercept them. They got close enough that I could hear the pffft sound of their blowholes and see their eyes and sleek bodies. I could almost touch them. Then they dove down and resurfaced about 50 feet away. 

The one in the back gave me a friendly look, then slapped its tail on the water as they continued on.

My beach, my friends.

Home.