The Eddie had been called off. But the hype surrounding breaking Waimea was very much still on. Kamehameha Highway looked like it had been hit with Haleiwa traffic from first light all the way to sundown. Groups of onlookers with telephoto lenses and binoculars lined every lookout point from Shark’s Cove to the top of Waimea Valley.
The Waimea parking lot was no better, but here, stopped cars unloaded surfers holding 10-foot guns: Bushmans, Brewers, handshapes. The age range was impressive. Groms as young looking as 12 suited up with inflatable vests next to surfers so old I was impressed they were getting out there… on a big day at a famously heavy spot.
On the beach lay an even more hectic scene: gaggles of families approached the shorebreak, eyeing breaking waves in the distance while staying right behind the yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. Whenever anyone set even a foot past the line, immediately, the lifeguards blared into their speakers, “Stay back from the shore break, these waves are powerful and you do not want to get swept out there!” One woman holding a drink calmly murmured to her friend, with no hint of sarcasm, “The lifeguards are actually being pretty chill.” I didn’t even want to know what un-chill looked like.
I did, however, see the lifeguards gun it towards the rocks at the far end of the bay, as a surfer later identified as Forest Giles was heroically rescued moments before getting thrashed on the rocks. A crowd quickly commenced, and when he was once again on dry land, board intact and in hand, everyone cheered.
Even the water was crowded: on the 11th, I counted at least six Jet Skis, plus the daring water photographers Brian Bielmann, John Hook, Pedro Gomez, and Christa Funk who braved the epic conditions. There were so many surfers, each time a set rolled through a sea of colorful boards bounced up and down, and, though many would paddle, few would get a ride. Drones swarmed overhead and, even without the Eddie, Waimea was the place to be on the North Shore.
On the 12th, I swam out to get a taste of the insanity. Just as I’d made it out to the lineup, a ski was bringing someone in. They had suffered a leg injury as the result of the sheer force of a wave to their body. A couple groms dodged sets while giggling, “Ivan got pounded!” These laughs faded when a cleanup set rolled through and one of them got caught inside.
The day rolled on: party waves, airborne wipeouts, near-barrels, and broken boards. Even when the sun went down, there were a couple people still paddling in. Waimea is majestic, awe-inspiring, and above all, humbling. Even with swell still coming, the past few days have been nothing short of insane on the North Shore.
