Surfing in the dark

Yesterday after work, I decided to go for an afternoon surf on the fly. I needed the exercise, and more importantly, a release from the work week. It was Friday afternoon, around 5 o'clock when I entered the water. I hadn't intended for my afternoon surf to turn into dusk, to turn into night. But for some reason, I didn't tire as quickly as I normally do. And with each wave that I waited to catch, the sun would sink lower into the sky, and the large group of surfers I started out with, thinned to only a few.

The transformation that took place looked like something out of a movie. As the sun crept down from the sky and into the ocean, a golden glow emanated from the west that illuminated the waters around me. As I looked out to the horizon for incoming swells, it was still relatively bright; however, when I looked back to the city on shore, it was slowly descending into darkness. The clouds that shrouded the mountains were creeping slowly into the city. The setting sun splashed colors of pink, purple, and red along the buildings, and illuminated Diamond Head in a tawny haze. I was captivated by the contrast of dark gray clouds against the lush greenery of the mountains and the brilliance of colors from the sunset. For a moment, I felt like I had been transported to a different planet. Soon, the sun sunk into the ocean, and completely disappeared.

The waters beneath me transformed from a luscious turquoise to a deep navy. I wasn't deterred. There were still plenty of people out catching waves, which inevitably became easier because the majority of people had called it a day already. I stayed. And with each wave I caught, I wanted to catch more. The horizon was still dimly lit, but the shore was now only lit by the tiki torches and bright store fronts. The waters deepened further from navy to an inky black. I'm not going to lie - my senses were immediately heightened. I've been diving at night, in the safety of the depths with flashlights. But never have I just been hanging out on the surface of blackened water, a considerable distance from the beach. I didn't intend to stay out until it got dark, but I was waiting for one last wave to take me all the way in. This hadn't happened my entire session. The waves would slow down to white mush, only to stop where the waves usually re-build over a sandbar to continue the ride.

At this point, the waves were nearly impossible to detect. The only thing you could see was a black lump on the horizon building up and moving closer. There was no way to tell how big the waves were, or how steep, or even if it was beginning to break. All I could think of was "shit, I need to make it over that thing" and started racing towards it as fast as I could. It was too late. It was already too big and steep that it was breaking right on top of me, with a guy dropping in that I could barely see. He obviously couldn't see me either, because he was dropping in right in my direction. I rolled off my board to the side, and luckily, the wave didn't smash me too hard. As soon as I was submerged in the dark ocean, I scrambled frantically to get back on my board. But before I could catch my breath at the surface, I saw another black lump hurling towards me. I frantically tried to get myself positioned on my board and start paddling, not only to try and catch this wave in, but because the black water set my senses on edge. Again, I couldn't tell where I was positioned for this wave. I couldn't tell how big it was or how steep. But I knew I needed to at least try to catch it, because I didn't want to wait another 10-15 minutes out there on the black sea for another set.

I could hear it coming. The energy around me was electric. My heart was pounding - my thoughts raced in circles around my head. I started paddling frantically in the direction of the shore. The rumbling became louder. Finally, I felt the wave pick me up. I popped up on my feet, and to my amazement, I begin racing down this wave, and I can't see anything but the lights on the beach and their glimmering reflections on the water. It was so exhilarating that I literally screamed "WOOOHOOO!!!!" as I shot down the face. I can only imagine what it sounded like to the surfers that were still out there, now far behind me. It didn't slow down into white mush like every other wave I had caught that day. I glanced behind me only to see it re-building over the sandbar. The white water came crashing down with a deep BOOM and catapulted me forward. I kept my stance, moving subtly up and down the board to increase speed or slow down to make sure I kept up with the wave. Finally, as the wave slowed down, I dropped to my knees and started shoveling water behind me with both hands to keep myself going. My best wave of the day was in complete darkness, and I made it... almost.

When the ocean finally became still again beneath me, I still had to paddle in about 50 yards. My shoulders were on fire, adrenaline seeping from my pores, my stomach in a lose knot because of the limbs I had to dip back into the black water, one after the other, to get myself to the beach. During the day, I would normally take my time paddling back to the beach, because I'm always exhausted from each session. But this time, I paddled as quickly as my body would allow, without resting or giving my mind the chance to think about some gray torpedo lurking below. Finally, I made it to shore. I hopped off my board, quickly wrapped the leash around the tail, and scrambled up onto the beach. I looked back out to the horizon, where I had just come from. I couldn't see the surfers that I knew were out there, and I thought to myself "I was just there" ... the only thing I could see was the occasional white flash of a breaking wave, and wondering if there was a surfer riding it. With that, I ran up to the showers, rinsed my board off, and walked home among the bustling Friday night streets of Waikiki. The smile didn't leave my face the whole way home.