The energy on the North Shore palpably shifts around the first week of March. Maybe even a little bit before then. “For sale” signs begin cropping up on trucks parked around Pupukea and Ehukai. The ratio of non-surfing tourists slowly creeps up until you realize you haven’t seen anyone walk into Foodland barefoot to buy poké in over a week. Cars no longer stack up on the side of Kam Highway, binoculars peeping out over Waimea Bay. Houses empty out and the neighborhood right above V-land breathes a sigh of relief. Like bathing in a boiling pot, the end of the surf season is insidious, and when it’s finally over, there’s no denying it.
This season, though, I almost forgot it was the end of February. Every night at sunset, I drove my old truck up the narrow, winding road up Pupukea, and after the hairpin turn, the view would turn to lines, eight or more in a row, marching in over the horizon. It’s rare to see lines so defined from so high up. The last two weeks, it seems they’ve been there almost every day.
The next morning would bring a swim or surf or shoot on the beach and the waves would crash up victoriously above Shark’s Cove. The swells kept coming, one after another, and it felt like the middle of the season, maybe the prime even, with no thought of dropping waves on the horizon. Pipeline’s parking lot overflowed. Police cars from Honolulu, bright blue lights perpetually on, parked at the opening and cops watched from behind black sunglasses as throngs of kids, photographers, tourists, surfers, and lifeguards swarmed back and forth like ants to watch the scene unfold. The picnic tables were full of men in bright shirts and binoculars watching the lineup and the tuberides were as close as possible without touching sand. Two old men next to me complained about wind direction, mused that they may as well have lunch and come back out, and that tomorrow would also be big anyway.
Sunset was no different. It was almost even more cinematic: there were lineups of photographers with tripods near the shady trees, broken boards carted away from the shallow water, and Jet Skis revving to grab surfers who got knocked off into the shallower inside.
Towards the end of the swell, I swam out with a simple film camera. I took it because night was falling and, unlike my modern (heavy) cameras, it had a flash. Normally, the photographer lineup is a tough place. Everyone always seems a little on edge.
Several big-shot photogs were nearing the end of their marathon swim sessions: Eric Ippel, Christa Funk, Ryan “Chachi” Craig, and the whole gang. Gang really is the perfect term for it. The photographer lineup can make for the funniest conversations or the meanest forms of bullying you’ve ever seen, sometimes one right after the other.
That night, though, I guess everyone was satisfied with their waves, their photos, maybe even by getting caught inside. In a place considered the proving grounds, fatigue has a funny way of making people get along. Worried my flash would bother everyone with their, well, real cameras, I asked Chachi if it was messing with their shots at all. “Flash away!” Chachi said. The four of us left out there enjoyed the sunset. Patrick, one of the veteran photographers who doesn’t even use Instagram, stayed out an hour after his camera battery died. “I’m just enjoying the good vibes!” He laughed.
In the fading light, a perfect barreling wave appeared in front of me. I was right in the bowl despite staying safely behind the photog lineup the whole evening. I clicked the shutter to expose my last photo. Kelly Slater emerged smoothly over the back of the wave, spun out, and paddled back out into the darkness to catch one more.
