Yin and Yang

Every morning I sit on my lanai and look at the trees across the street. I drink coffee and observe my thoughts. I gaze upon God within me and within nature. I accept that I am fully accepted. Meditation is a big part of the reason I came here and I can feel these slow mornings changing me.

In the beginning I thought a lot about these islands. What makes this place so mystical? It seems to be life concentrated, like plucking an orange from the tree and tasting fruit for the first time. Hawaii is not a place you go to, it’s a place that goes through you. Suddenly, you find yourself immersed in something thicker than you’re used to. 

It’s not just the typical pleasures of tropical beauty, but what’s behind it all, the feeling it gives you, like you’re touching something you can’t quite comprehend. I’ve wondered if this mysterious energy is simply the present moment so nakedly displayed that it feels unfamiliar and magical. The islands slow you down enough to see it. If this is true, then reality is the place where opposites collide; where the divine mystery touches the earth, where all things exist in unity, the good and the bad, Yin and Yang, swirling around as one; and me, and us, and God somewhere in the middle of it all, just being.

The trees I stare at every morning from across my lanai.

This polarizing clash is everywhere. Rainstorms are illuminated with intense rays of sun. The ocean is serene and calm in the summer and wild chaos in the winter. An underwater wonderland of tropical wildlife can be pleasantly enjoyed until a Tiger Shark comes along. A surfer in the barrel is above water and underwater at the same time. The days go slow but the years go fast. One can feel in the center of the world and on the outskirts of civilization, satisfied yet empty, important and meaningless, included and exiled, all in one breath.  

I’ve experienced it the most in the ocean. The swirling dance between fear and fun. 

Surfing is supposed to be fun and for my whole life it has been. I’ve been genuinely scared only a handful of times and most of these fears weren’t warranted at all. It was the beginning of fear, more like my preference to remain comfortable was threatened. I hardly spent any time underwater. 

I came here with the utmost respect for the ocean and my experience has proven to be as intense as I had anticipated. It seems everything I’ve learned about the ocean in California doesn’t apply anymore. It’s different here. 

Hawaiian waves are open ocean swells which travel unimpeded for thousands of miles from the North Pacific. The energy is pure, raw, and angry. They seem to come like banished orphans with the willful determination to maintain the reputation of their home; Russians, Alaskans, Japanese. 

Where I surfed in California, the paddle out was easy, like walking through the front door of your house. Here, most breaks require a long paddle out and careful attention. When you finally do make it out, the beach seems like a really long swim away. You feel like you’re out to sea. 

The current is a major issue. If and when your leash breaks, you usually have to swim into the impact zone because the channels rip out to sea. This threat is so real when it’s big that at sundown the lifeguards take a lap on the jetski to try and find anyone treading water, victims of a broken leash.

Paddling in can be just as difficult as paddling out. Often times right thing to do is to get washed in by paddling into the imapct zone, which is not something I think I’ll ever get used to. Obviously the best option is to catch a wave, ride it successfully, lay down and ride the white wash in. It sounds so simple…  

Basically, the standard session has become a lot more complicated. Before paddling out on a big day, or a medium day, it’s wise to understand a few things. What’s the best way to paddle out? What’s the interval of the swell? What are the kilojoules doing? (If the kilojoules are doubling in three hours, that’s must-know information.) What’s the current doing? What’s my plan if my leash breaks? What’s the best way to paddle in? Where are the lifeguard towers?

Once you understand the risks and decide to paddle out anyways, then you find yourself amongst the waves, where the North Pacific nomads are either breaking over shallow reef or in deep water. Would you rather take a two wave hold down or smash your face on the reef? 

The waves move fast and break hard. They have serious velocity and inertia. Most good waves in California required two to four paddles. These waves require at least six to eight. Full commitment is an absolute necessity. When you go, you have to go with all your heart and be damn sure you’re over the ledge before you stand up. The drops are vertical, sometimes inverted. The pros make it look so easy. It’s not.

I get caught inside every session. The clean-up sets get everybody. The only way to avoid it would be to sit fifty yards further out than you should and eliminate any chances of catching waves. If you’re in the zone where you can catch waves, you’re in danger of the clean up set. It’s coming and wants some quality time underwater with you. 

My initiation to these waves has been an initiation to real fear. Not the fear of fear, but “there’s a bear standing in front of me” type fear. When the forerunning swells started showing up in early October, every time I paddled out my heart was in my throat. I was hyper aware of the activity on the horizon and anytime a hint of a set came I scratched out of danger like a scared little mouse. 

It’s a weird contrast, paddling out with green and blue life blossoming all around me, orange clouds and rainbows, yet my brain is telling me I’m going to die. One moment I’m seeing heaven and the next moment I’m imagining drowning, which isn’t hard to do: end of the session, rising swell, broken leash, a five or six set waves on the head… blackout.

The first time I paddled out in double-overhead surf I was queasy. It looked like the magazines. A rifling left barrel. Deep teal water, light offshore. Big and pumping. It was beautiful and terrifying. The fear eroded any confidence in my ability. I kept looking down at the jagged slabs of reef under my feet as I questioned if I could even make the drop. 

I felt like a bum.

I got on the internet and stumbled onto North Shore-resident-Australian-big wave-legend Jamie Mitchell’s podcast called Late Drop. I learned that “you don’t rise to the occasion, you fall to the level of your training.” Waves of consequence are a mental game precisely because it’s a battle against fear. I knew I needed to start taking training seriously. My paddle was weak. My breathwork was adolescent. My mindfulness and ability to stay calm was mere theory. But above all, I knew that I needed experience. I had to just keep paddling out.

My first time paddling out at Sunset was a bright Hawaiian day with the midday sun illuminating blue water. The forecast said ten to twelve feet. Sunset is known for broken boards, two-wave hold downs, drowning and the best wave you’ve ever had in your life. I’ve heard stories about pros during contests who come stumbling up the sand with that thousand yard stare, out of breath, serenely uttering, “I almost died out there.”  Sunset is every bit as hostile as its reputation. If I wanted to really humble one of my California buddies, I would take them here. I have a few friends in mind. 

Breaking two hundred yards out, the wave is a wide arena of wild peaks. In general, it’s a sometimes makeable bucking bronco of a right hand point break with multiple peaks, sections and personalities. It’s a manic depressive monster with rogue sets that are known to definitively erase the lineup.

The inside bowl is heavy, what surfers call a “slab” because of the square block of reef it breaks over which produces an abnormally powerful wave. This is the barrel section, which like the rest of the place, is a 50/50 chance. Elation or pounding.  

They say you don’t surf Sunset, you survive it. I think surfers are most attracted to it mostly because it’s a real litmus test. It will reveal the truth about you. But also because it can supply the best wave of your life. If you manage to suppress the fear, paddle deep and take off on the outside, snowboard your way across a huge, smooth open face, find the guts to pull under the lip on the inside slab and make it out of the barrel, you’ll feel like you should be nominated for a life-time achievement award. At least that’s how I imagine it will feel when it happens to me. 

I unloaded my board out of the truck and put the fins in my 7’1 Cole, white with highlighter yellow trim, quad set-up for speed. Sandpaper was rubbing my guts as my friend Evan gave me the rundown. (I haven’t asked him, but I’m pretty sure Evan was Special Forces, judging by the way he seems to have absolutely no fear in the meanest conditions. The guy successfully surfed XL Haleiwa after the lifeguards explicitly told him not to. Only pros were out.) “Wait, this is your first time surfing Sunset!? Haha! Okay so, you paddle out here. Don’t sit there, you’ll get cleaned up. Sit over there on the corner. Watch out for that rock coming in. Umm… when you think you’ve caught the wave, paddle four more times. Uh, oh yeah! If you do get cleaned up, just relax, it will eventually let you go, but it will let you go. If your leash breaks, swim for your life to the impact zone, literally swim for your life.” 

 I paddled out in a fearful trance. My only goal was not to get caught inside. I sat on the edge corner of the West bowl as instructed, which was the safest spot on a northwest swell. Evan was sitting in the exact spot he told me not to sit. I think he likes getting caught, it’s a part of the thrill for him.

I sat there for a while feeling quite out of place and finally worked up enough courage to go on a wave. I saw one with my name on it, a total babe with her eyes on me. Instinct took over. I committed and started digging. I knew I had it. I paddled an extra four strokes. As I was getting to my feet, I noticed someone was already on the wave to my left. It was too late to pull back. I stood up, flew down the double overhead face, solidified my balance for a bottom turn and then flew up and punched through the crashing lip.

I looked back over my shoulder, hoping it wasn’t a Hawaiian. It wasn’t. It was an Australian: Big Wave Legend Jamie Mitchell. My heart sank. 

When he came back out, I paddled over to him to apologize.

“Fuck, sorry Jamie,” I said, “Didn’t see you at all.”

“Ah it’s alright mate! I reckon I was pretty deep on that one. You’re all good mate.” 

“Alright, sick, thanks,” I said.

“It’s pretty pumping out here eh?” he said.

“Yeah, pretty sick on the sets,” I said, counterfeiting confidence.  

I got two more, then noticed Jamie had gone in and got a bigger board. That was my cue to go in. I figured he knew something I didn’t. I paddled in. 

I felt like a bum again. It stuck with me, the feeling of losing the battle with fear. I knew I was being too tough on myself since it was my first time ever surfing the place. It took courage to paddle out and I even made a few waves. I got three! But I knew I wasn’t charging. I was timid and lackluster. The lack of confidence, the inability to cross over into full ocean warrior mode and to calm my nerves enough to where I could have fun, haunted me. My ego had been bullied.

The next week a giant swell came in. Sunset was maxed out and Waimea was thirty feet. The outer reefs were firing. My friends were out there and I wasn’t because luckily, I had to work. I wouldn’t have paddled out anyways. 

The big swell threw me into an obsessive compulsive inner-battle. It wasn’t just the fear of dying, it was the fear of failure, the fear of being a coward. Am I a big wave surfer? Do I have what it takes? Am I willing to walk down this road? I violently wrestled with my ego, a state of mind in direct opposition to the blissful spiritual awakening which had brought me to Hawaii. I could barely sleep.

I was afraid and my ego was threatened, but I wasn’t going to give up. I found a new reservoir of grit and bravery to continue battling the ocean. My next few sessions were back and forth. A good fight. 

I got my ass kicked at Haleiwa. Paddled out, immediately caught inside, fought the current for twenty minutes, got cleaned up by a set, and went in without catching a wave for the first time in my life. 

I gained confidence at medium sized Rocky Point, a very shallow barreling wave, when I finally said “fuck it” and pulled under the lip of a big closeout. I slightly grazed the reef. Nice to meet you.

Then I surfed scared again at Gas Chambers on a messy, relentless short period swell. There were double overhead bombs heaving over the reef. They would have been the best barrels of my life, but the drop seemed impossible. I wanted nothing to do with it.

The day after this opening season XL swell I wasn’t planning on surfing, but I knew I needed a breakthrough. I needed to pick a fight with my fear. I decided to paddle out at an infamously heavy right hand point break. The day before, semi-trucks inside the barrel were referenced. This day, it was still pretty big. Way overhead.

I played Metallica on the way over, “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” As I walked up the point I set two intentions: stay calm and have fun.

This particular wave has an inside section and an outer section. When I told my landlord where I was going to surf he gave me some advice, “Surf the inside. Don’t go up the point. Don’t be a hero. You’ll pay for it.”

I decided I had to go to the outside section.

I paddled out alone, inhaling through my nose, breathing with my diaphragm, and slowly exhaling through my mouth. I found my third eye, embraced the present moment and repeatedly thanked God for the opportunity to truly feel alive. I saw the beauty in the ocean. I saw myself lucky for being a surfer in Hawaii, in pumping conditions with no one out. Just me and God. If I die, I die.

I caught five waves. Double overhead perfect rights. I was flying down the line so fast that my fins were humming. I’d never gone that fast before. Fear completely left me and I started to get my mojo back. I wanted to get a bomb, so I paddled deeper up the point and sat further out than I had been. 

Then it happened. Here came my bomb, but as soon as I saw it I knew… I’m caught. This wave was the very thing I had been so afraid of. A strange sensation washed over me from the imminent reckoning of my exact fear. It was almost a relief from not being able to run anymore. “Well Zach,” I joked with myself,  “we’re about to find out exactly how well your training has been going.” 

I paddled towards the wave slowly, hyperventilating to get out as much CO2 out as possible. The wave detonated thirty feet in front of me. In one fluid motion, I stood up on my board, sucked in a survival breath and dove headfirst. The last thing I saw was pure white as the white water consumed my entire frame of vision like an avalanche. 

The feeling of that hold down was completely new to me. For years I had thought about what it would feel like. I can tell you now. It feels like the chainsaw ride at the fair where you’re just spinning around and around, except your little cabin falls off and gets punted around on the freeway. It’s the feeling of being completely powerless. The ocean has you. 

After who knows how many flips, it released me. My leash pulled my leg up so I swam that way. It took me six full strokes to break the surface, just in time to take a few breaths and do it again. 

I knew I needed to paddle back out against my will, so I did, and I ended up catching one of the best waves of my life. As I showered off near the parking lot in pure elation. This is why we do it. I realized I wouldn’t have had this feeling if it wasn’t for the humiliating fear and defeat of prior sessions. The yin and the yang, working together.

I’m learning that life is all about remaining calm and accepting what is. Everything is in union with the present moment. It’s all a part of it, it all belongs. The fear and the fun, the suffering and the joy, the good and the bad; all of it is the experience of being. When you’re on the wave, when you’re riding in the barrel, you’re fully engaged in the present moment, not judging or trying to change anything, just in awe, accepting the harmony between danger and bliss as you ride the razor’s edge. That’s where I want to be.