The ONLY photo proof I have from the most North Shore night one could imagine. Photo: Danny Karel
There are some areas of the wild, lush jungle on Oahu’s North Shore that have been tamed by locals to accommodate homes and gardens. However, there’s still a strong anti-development spirit that’s allowed the vast majority of that jungle to keep growing on its own terms. The result is a dense and remarkably alive band of nature, which I once tried climbing through with 10 other people, all in various degrees of inebriation, somewhere close to midnight. We were searching for a clearing a mile or two in where some rugged locals had carried speakers and a makeshift stage. This was my sixth week on the island and I couldn’t help thinking that this was the most Hawaiian thing I had done yet – walking through miles of untouched jungle for a few drinks and a good time.
I had come here from Los Angeles to work as a skateboard coach in Honolulu and live with a close friend for a winter on the North Shore. I grew up skateboarding, not surfing, but my friends rip and I have no problem bumming it on the beach or paddling out for the occasional beating of my own. Besides, living on the North Shore for any amount of time is an opportunity only a fool would pass up. It’s an impossibly gorgeous place, little more than a dash on a map, but a goliath in terms of reputation. I wanted to learn all of this first hand. So here I was.
On my first night, I found myself at a birthday party in a beautiful home, overlooking a moonlit Waimea Bay. In the following weeks, we’d spend late nights down at the beach or at Turtle Bay’s Surfer, The Bar, the North Shore’s closest approximation to a nightclub. Partying in the jungle never even occurred to me. We’re talking about the same jungle where they filmed the show Lost, chosen for its primeval dankness and land-before-time quality. I spent lots of time staring off into it, trying to differentiate between the countless sounds it broadcasts and admiring its deep green, earned by lapping at pure Pacific Ocean water since the moment the Hawaiian islands emerged from the sea.
One day a friend tipped us that some people he knew were hosting an event somewhere deep in the jungle. Had we been anywhere but Hawaii this plan would have raised eyebrows. In my short time on the island, I had already figured out that many Hawaiian activities balance fun and self-reliance, frequently pushing both to their extremes. Getting drunk somewhere deep in a jungle fit the template. Later that night, we piled into a two-truck caravan and sped off down Kamehameha Highway. Across the street from Pipeline, we spotted a group of familiar trucks pulled off near a small trail that snaked into the jungle. We parked and walked in.
Thirty minutes later we had abandoned the trail and were wandering the side of an overgrown mountain. Our path was lit by a single headlamp and some phone lights. The plan was to head deeper until we heard music, but so far the only sounds we heard were the rumble of waves breaking behind us and the organic noises of the jungle. During a break on a small plateau, we finally caught the faint murmurs of a bassline. Soon enough we were stumbling, dirty and shining with sweat, into a packed clearing. It was filled front to back with dancing bodies, all facing a small stage blasting tropical house music into the night. We spent the next few hours lost in a kaleidoscopic blur of lights and faces, the intensity magnified by an implicit understanding that if you wanted to leave, there was at least a mile of inky black jungle waiting for you.
Even though I was new to the area, I was surprised by the number of people I recognized. I had seen many around Haleiwa and Foodland, and from my time spent in the water trying not to break my friends’ boards. Because of the North Shore’s monster reputation as a surfing mecca, it’s easy to forget that the community is still relatively small and tight knit. Everyone knows everyone. Condensed to a small clearing in the jungle, this fact became visibly evident.
Eventually, the drinks ran out and some of the crowd started to make their way back. Someone received word that cops had entered the jungle and were trying to find our location. We cut the music and began to clean up, suspiciously eyeing the darkness just beyond the clearing.
Climbing down turned out to be more treacherous than climbing up, mostly due to the hours of partying that had come in between. I was walking with a large, friendly Hawaiian when we heard a groan somewhere just beyond our lights. A quick scan revealed a shaggy-haired kid slumped against a tree, clearly too drunk to make the trip down alone. This new large Hawaiian friend announced we were going to help him, so we got him up and threw his arms over our shoulders. What followed was strange. After about 10 feet, he began to inexplicably curse us, mumbling insults and laughing at our attempt to help. In a moment of drunken arrogance, he tried to shake us off, sending himself into a brief and steep tumble towards another tree a few feet below. He landed back in the position we found him and resumed groaning and cursing us. This time the large Hawaiian walked right past him. After a few feet of silence, he explained that you can’t waste time helping people who won’t help themselves. That resonated with me. His words felt drawn from somewhere beyond the situation, like he was recounting a piece of local wisdom. We soon emerged from the jungle after chancing on the trail we had originally abandoned.
The next day, we heard that cops had scoured the mountainside and picked up the people who failed to make it down. Secretly, I was relieved. In my remaining two months I never went back to the jungle to party, though I’m sure I would had the opportunity come up. When I returned to the mainland, that night behind Pipe stuck as the memory I look to when trying to process my experience on the North Shore. It had a little bit of everything – except, of course, waves.
