Every morning, Kimo, who grew up in the neighborhood with me, rakes the velvety grass sidewalk strips fronting his family home.
“Surf’s coming up,” he said the other day with a complicit smile.
I agreed.
“But it’s been kinda lumpy and bumpy.”
Kimo nodded.
“That’s because the bottom has changed. Sand has moved in. The waves have gotten shorter!”
So have tempers, I said. Could there be a connection?
“Maybe!” Kimo said, widening his eyes.
I’ll probably have to give up surfing on Sundays, in any case.
The last time I hazarded a Sunday sesh, there was this guy, I’ll call him Ronin, waiting on the outside for the left-breaking waves while I chased the inside rights. It was windy and thrashy, but there were only four of us out.
A set came, and Ronin caught a nice long wave on his ultra-short board. I paddled out too late, missing the set, but a fresh set came right away, just as Ronin paddled back out.
A wave approached and I was in perfect position. The others were still inside. I hesitated because Ronin had positioned himself deeper, but he didn’t seem to be going, so I went.
But after I took off and was going down the line, Ronin came zooming up to me. We kicked out simultaneously.
I paddled over and said I was sorry I’d dropped in on him. I’d honestly thought that maybe, because he’d just had a long ride, “You might let me go.”
He shook his head.
“That’s not the way it works.”
“It does in surf etiquette,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he said, adding that he was a reader of this column. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “The way it works is, you get all the waves you want. You catch a wave, paddle back out, sit deeper than everyone else and pick off the next wave. Over and over.”
Ronin began to gesticulate and shout.
“You don’t know what you’re doing! I’ve watched you. You don’t have good wave judgment, for all the years you’ve been surfing.”
Was this age harassment, I wondered, even though he had more white hairs than I? Whatever, he was in kind of a scary rage.
“I know I’m a pathetic surfer,” I admitted, hoping a little self-deprecating humor might defuse the anger bomb.
He brightened.
“So watch me! I can help you!” he cried, opening his arms. “I’ve got 40 years’ experience.”
I found myself nodding. Then my grovelling antenna went haywire. Wait! This was a classic abuser tactic, telling me he wanted only to help me while he intimidated and verbally beat me up.
I’d said I’d surfed for more than 40 years and I’d been taught the Hawaiian tradition of sharing, not snaking, waves.
This did not go over well.
“I’m a gentleman! I’m not a hog!” He cited his membership in a certain ethnic group (not Hawaiian), “one of the most generous cultures in the world.”
With that he vanished on a wave, and another surfer in the lineup spoke up.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said. “He laid into the rest of us before you came out. He’s been cutting everybody off, yelling at us.”
I thanked him.
Someone hailed me.
“Mindy! Good to see you!” It was Alfie (not his real name), a mellow, gentle guy, paddling out with two friends. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, thanks, Alfie,” I said.
He looked at me with concern. Could he discern my tears through the seawater?
“Actually, I’m not doing too well.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, commiserating. “But no worries. There’s always another wave!”
TWO DAYS later, on a brisk early morning with clean surf, I shared waves with a small group including a dad, his teenage son and two girls.
A set wave rose and I took it, making the steep drop and getting one of those good old long, flying Suis lefts as the dad, paddling out, cheered me on.
“You got the wave of the day!” he said as I rejoined the lineup.
“They’re worth waiting for,” I said.
Such waves are a gift. Maybe I don’t know how to pick them. Maybe they pick me.
Whatever, Alfie was right. There is always another wave — another chance.
“In the Lineup” features Hawaii’s oceangoers and their regular hangouts, from the beach to the deep blue sea. Reach Mindy Pennybacker at mpennybacker@staradvertiser.com or call 529-4772.
