Rough day on the motu with my big brother.

For four years we had talked about a rendezvous aboard Swell, but the timing had always been wrong. Then suddenly, there was my beloved big brother descending the steps of the plane right before my eyes!! Not only had he made the trip on ultra short notice, he’d managed to bring me a jib sail and heaps of goodies in a rolling bag so big I thought the rest of the family might topple out when I opened it.

We eased our way into a carefree trip around the islands. I had managed to incubate an ear infection while teaching the local kids to paddle on my surfboards in the polluted water near the boatyard at the annual boatyard holiday party, so I needed to take it easy the first day or so. But after a couple quiet days, I thought we’d better get going, seeing as I had only 10 days to show him some of French Polynesia.

And so we were off, navigating inside the lagoon to the other side of the island. The sun lit up the greens and turquoises from a cloudless sky and we grinned at our good weather fortune. My mind flashed to the new chain that was all tangled inside the chain locker. I looked down at the depth gauge: 125 feet. Perfect… we’ll let a bunch of chain out to let it untwist, then pull it back up again. In my ear-achy, slightly hurried state, I failed to properly think the procedure through as I wrenched off the bolts that held the chain cap to the windlass. With the cap on, I couldn’t get the chain to come out of the locker because it was so twisted underneath. And so, without further thought, I removed the cap and proceeded to release the chain with the clutch of the windlass. Without anything to slow it now, it ran out quickly and fiercely. As I reached in to tighten the clutch wheel, it jumped off the windlass entirely! I instantly realized what was about to happen and panicked, crying out above the thundering sound of the chain. My brand new chain was roaring, unchecked, like a runaway locomotive to freedom in 125 feet of water! I hadn’t secured the end to the boat, as I had meant to splice it to the rope as soon as I had a chance… I cried out again in despair.

“Let it go!!!!!!” James yelled back. Together at ages 9 and 11, we had witnessed our friend, Ian, lose his finger to an equivalent incident. Visions of Ian’s severed finger in a pool of blood kept me from really trying to grab my precious chain. Instead, I tried fruitlessly to stand on it to stop it. Then suddenly, the entire 300 feet had run out and silence fell over the scene.

I stood stunned for a moment in disbelief, then ran full-till to the GPS to mark the exact point of the accident so that, hopefully, we could recover it. James hugged me and I apologized, and we circled while deciding what to do next. I called my diver friend, Manuelle, but she was away on vacation for a week and with my ear infection, I couldn’t…

“Leave it.” I convinced myself. “It’s going to be there next week and I don’t want to compromise my time with James.”

And so while James navigated us south through the lagoon, I rushed to rig up another anchor with a short piece of old chain and splice a thimble on the anchor rode. By the time we arrived at our remote destination, it was nearly sundown. We made our way through a tight passage in the coral to a perfect patch of sand in eight feet of water. Despite what felt like a tragedy, I had only a pulsating blood blister on the bottom of my foot. I was nearly sure that I’d recover the chain, and so we cooked up fei bananas and toasted to being together while the blue moon rose over the whispering palms of the remote motu islet. Moonbeams illuminated the shallow lagoon, bopping and leaping and twirling across their sandy underwater dancefloor. And I did my best to rejoice in the moment rather than dwell upon my stupidity…

Sun setting as we go into the third round effort to properly align Swell’s engine.

And so despite that Jesse had probably hoped to spend his brief pass through town out enjoying a blue lagoon somewhere, I had no choice but to tackle the engine repair before my brother arrived the following day! We pulled off the stairs to survey what we were up against…

The engine was definitely high… way too high!? How could the mechanic have thought that it would work like that? Never mind that now, he was on vacation and there was nothing to do but try to fix it. I begrudgingly pulled out the tool boxes from under the nav station and we got to work. We loosened the bolts and I attached the main halyard like usual to the engine and raised it off the mounts to remove the small spacers that the mechanic had inserted to hold the engine off the place where it had been ever so slightly touching the engine pan. (Which the mechanic believed to be the reason I had broken two sets of motor mounts in less than three years.) I lowered the engine down again and we tightened it all back up and started the engine. Could it have really been that easy?

No… still much too high.

“Now what?” I pondered.

“We could cut out a piece of the fiberglass just under where the engine is touching?” Jesse suggested.

“Brilliant!” I agreed, “Hmmm, how? Too tight for the hand saw, chisel? Hmm… the dremel!!”

And so we set to carving out the area where the body of the transmission slightly touched, then put everything back together again.

Still too high!?? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Apparently, the new motor mounts had been aligned higher than the old ones… careless mechanic!!!!!

And so, what were the options? Drill out the motor mounts so that the engine sat lower? But that meant drilling through ¾” steel and wait… my drill batteries were both dead.

Hmmm…

“We could remove the spacers under the mount feet and cut them in half?” Jesse suggested.

“Brilliant!” I thought. “They’re aluminum. That’s soft enough we can cut them with a handsaw!”

And so we commenced attempt number three, raising the engine and removing the mount feet. We had to pull off hoses running between the water tanks and reach into the awkward little holes to access the nuts of the mount feet. Next, Operation Score and Saw commenced. By scoring the 4” plate at the middle and holding it in my vice, we sawed slowly through the plate, taking turns as darkness fell and mosquitoes nipped at our ankles and backs. I went for headlamps and some bananas and bug spray.

It was nearly 11 p.m. when we finally got everything back together. But it was PERFECT! The shaft was centered beautifully in the v-drive, and the engine wasn’t touching the hull at all… we’d done it!! Covered in aluminum shards, dripping sweat, and scratching at fresh bug bites, we high-fived as the engine spun smoothly in reverse at the dock. YAY!!! The next morning I thanked Jesse profusely for his help as he got in line at the airport. Less than 15 minutes later, my big brother James came into view on the tarmac.

Well, well, well….I made it back to Swell yesterday evening after a ridiculously fun 2 weeks in Hawaii. Since my three week trip turned into almost 5 months away from Swell, I guess its only fair that she found some new company while I was away. It’s a more cuddly and personable creature than Swell’s prior uninvited guests: ants, cockroaches, wasps, and geckos. Ah drat…its a rat!!! Sifting through the turdpiles and half-munched remnants of my new crewmate…despite the mess, it sure feels good to be home!!! Back to work, love Liz

Here is a bit of everything from the last two months on the Presqu’isle… between my engine woes, the WCT circus, my recent submersion in a writing assignment (check out the upcoming October issue of Surfer’s Journal), a bout with Dengue fever (or Beamish flu?), a last minute haul-out, and the Ahuna-Marotta wedding in Hawai’i… well, blogs have gone by the wayside… so here goes a brief recap:

Swell ’stuck’ at George and Marika Riou’s waiting for broken motor mounts: nightly dining French style, permanent dish and lawn-mowing duty, views from the tree house, life as Georges’ favorite conversation piece. Yoga with Nina! Treat of all treats! Tahitian, Haere Williams, wins the trials for the one and only WCT wildcard… the local spirit is rich as lait coco: Marara Boys tailgate concerts, full moon and full voices to celebrate with traditional Tahitian songs and Hinanos. I shimmied with The Shimmies!! Chonny, Gideon, Andy, Josh and Indy, thanks for being the coolest ‘yachties’ ever , ha! Miss you guys!

Meet Prisca Aramu: The lovely 27 year old Moorean charger who conquered the reef and became the only girl of an 8 child family to love surfing, now she’s best Tahitian surfer girl around, stylish and poised, smart, environmentally-concerned… I found a girl to surf with! Thanks for our adventures around the Presqu’isle and to the east side! Birthday dinner with Mick and Jon and Mark and Marika and Georges: thank you for being my family abroad!! Between the Riou’s and the ‘Quik Euro’ dinners I forgot how to cook, Jasper’s Quik Euro crew teaching baby pigs to swim for their next ad campaign? Jasper, Jerome reported you all for animal cruelty. Julien Wilson is as talented and humble as a radical young surfer could be. Good waves for 4 weeks straight, but the Billabong Teahupoo Pro waiting period begins, and it goes FLAT… Kelly certainly knew where to be… Me, ‘dead in the water’, still disabled at the Riou mooring waiting for my new motor mounts… Happy birthday, Mr. Knox! What a legend you are… Marika makes the best chocolate cake in the world, just ask Mick Fanning, go for the middle piece… Dinner at Josh and Celeste’s with the Transworld brothers and deep-diving, bomb-charging Healy, Prisca and I in the Ripple spectating and rubbin’ elbows in the Teahupoo sunshine, Parko such a treat to watch.

Herve comes through with the motor mounts. Just go back in you stupid engine mount rubber foot thingy… uuuuuuuuuuuugh. Good idea, Georges, I’ll use your car jack upside down against the ceiling to push the rubber boot back into the hole. Too much force… frustration… BAM!!! An eyeful of pressurized car jack while trying to realign the engine… OWWWWWWWWWWWW, blood is running down my sweaty stomach. A trip to see the nurse, 5 days out of the water and a bandaged blackeye while the entire surf world is here. Had it been an inch higher I might have really had to wear a pirate patch!

Luckily, I found installation success with the help of Grillo before the eyebolt that attached the mooring line to the cement block decided to come unbolted. While hanging my laundry at the Riou compound, I look out… “Uh, where’ my boat? No dinghy either… popped it the prior day and it’s on the Riou lawn with the patch drying… there goes Swell drifting away across the lagoon again!? Mick Fanning and Taylor Knox leap into action… rescue delivery on the jet ski… That’s it, I’m dropping my anchor in the bay around the corner…

Shucking pahua with Heinui and friends for Teioro, Sunday Tahitian meal. The WCT waits on a wave… and after all that… BOBBY wins!! My hometown hero!! Santa Barbara pride far from that curve of coast, Bobby Martinez smokes em’ at the Billabong Teahupoo 2009!! Yeah yeah yeah! Anchored in my own sand patch after goodbyes, time to crawl into the writing cave… who’s this? Natural Mystic? From S.B., too? Yeah, so you got a fancy catamaran, and a bigger dinghy, and a cooler torch, AND rosin core solder… but I got sauce! Natty Mystic, you boys serve up a fine meal and much more… pamplemousse raids, handstand contests, and barefoot dock slappin in the Teahupoo Marina, thanks for watching out for me. Beamish flu or Dengue fever, still not sure… and then a mad dash to the haulout yard and the red-eye flight to Hawai’i for the Ahuna-Marotta wedding. Thank you to all of you who made this stretch of time unforgettable… now it’s off to California to raise some Swell-fixing funds!! I will be giving a brief slide show at the Ventura premiere of the ‘Dear and Yonder’ surf film at the Ventura Patagonia store at 7pm on July 18th. Come and watch!

HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO ALREADY CONTRIBUTED TO HELP HEAL SWELL!!!

Blogs will be intermittent until I get back to Tahiti…

It was the last weekend of the locals’ two-week vacation and there’d been lots of action around the marina lately. My empty refrigerator had inspired a ride down to the ‘Snack’ which had turned into a spontaneous gathering of many who’d been in the Teahupo’o line-up lately. I rolled back to Swell on my no brakes, rust-bucket close to eleven at night. The moon was full and silhouetting the ridgeline. A few of the younger local kids on their way home helped me lift my bike over the closed marina gate.

Upon my arrival back at Swell, I was welcomed by a drunken duo of local guys, maybe 19 or 20 years-old, sitting at the end of the dock. I greeted them in a friendly tone, but finally withdrew when it was obvious that they were well into the bottle of rum they were passing between each other. I asked them repeatedly if they wouldn’t mind just moving to the other end of the dock. I even escorted them halfway, explaining that I was going to sleep and their music was too loud. They stumbled alongside, but seemed to hover back magnetically as I wandered back towards Swell. The night air was stiff and hot, but I shut the door of the companionway from the inside, just to deter any drunken desire they might have to enter Swell.

Not sure what else I could do, I put in my earplugs and crawled into bed. I thought about shutting the hatch above me, but the heat of the night was stifling and I could hardly stand the thought of cutting off my only source of fresh air. Despite that I could still hear their muffled antics, I drifted quickly into dreamland.

I’m not sure how much time had passed when I woke to a shuffle above me and slurred whispers. I opened my eyes to see the black silhouette of the smaller kid’s head peering down into my hatch!

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I hollered. I leapt to my feet and crawled out the hatch to see them stumbling off down the dock. One of my ‘eight Tahitian dads’ had been woken by my cry. Claude leapt from his fishing boat and hurried to head them off at the end of the dock.

The boys had untied my stern line, probably in order to pull the bow in and get a peek into my hatch without climbing aboard. But when that wasn’t enough to see in, the smaller of the two had stepped over the lifeline and onto the deck.

Claude grabbed the little one (his nephew, in fact), shaking him thoroughly and then sent them off down the road. He motioned to me that it was okay. I retied Swell’s stern line and crawled back into bed. I didn’t sleep well the rest of the night and made plans to head back to George’s mooring the following day.

It’s another morning in the Teahupo’o marina. There is grass growing out from the cracks in the rotting wooden planks. Some are missing completely; the water pipe below the dock nearest Swell is cracked and constantly spewing freshwater into the sea. But the sky water spews constantly, too, so maybe that’s why no one around here seems to think the cracked pipe is much of a problem. A cup of tea, a scan of the reef, and a bit of yoga. It’s bigger again today and I can see Raimana’s boat tied to the buoy in the channel, trailed by a flotilla of other smaller boats all in a line like baby ducks.

I load up and head over. There’s a funky morning bump and the thickest crowd I’ve seen yet, but Josh motions wildly for me to paddle out, so I tie my ‘duck’ in the back of the line and go sit amongst the chaos. After a half hour, I finally scrap to catch one small wave then paddle back to my ‘duck’ and doze off under my pareo.

“It’s not the time,” I tell myself. “With sets like today, I know I don’t want to be battling for the inside waves.”

Waking from my nap, I find that the crowd has thinned and it’s actually beginning to glass-off. The sets look bigger, but Raimana is here. Just his presence makes me feel safer.

As I paddle back out, a flock of guys paddle away at once. The sun breaks through the clouds and there are only five locals out, including Raimana. I stroke into a wide one on my own, then sit in the channel for a while just to watch this natural wonder of a wave — the power and beauty and colors — just look at that wave!! Raimana’s voice interrupts my awe.

“Liz, come here. Sit here, beside me. No, THIS side of me,” He directs, pointing me to the inside of him. “You ready? Relax, take deep breaths, it’s okay.”

But I already felt surprisingly calm. He sensed it. This was the biggest I’d surfed it yet, but I’d made some of these drops now and he’d already taught me how to catch the west ones, and okay, here we go, here comes a set!

Michelle Burrez caught the first one. His little brother was on the second. The third rolled in and Raimana called the boys off.

“Heeeeeeeeeeep! This is yours, Liz. Paddle, GO, PADDLE HARD! TOWARDS THE REEF!” He yelled. I did everything he said, totally committed. Got under it. Made the drop. No tube but a big roar… and in another instant I went launching out the now familiar exit ramp.

“Good.” He said as I paddled back, unable to contain my smile. “Now come here again. Sit here. I gonna push you this time. A bigger one.”
I followed his instructions. “Let’s move out. Okay, a little more. Little more… more. THERE.”

We were sitting way west and way outside. I couldn’t imagine how we were going to catch a wave there, but I certainly wasn’t going to argue with this Tahitian waterking. I felt a bit more nervous now.

“Breath. Don’t worry, you’ll get in early,” he cooed.

I felt selfish, like he should get a wave before me, but I’d seen how patient he was. He’d wait for nearly an hour sometimes and give all the other waves away, and then stroke casually into the best wave of the day, get frighteningly barrelled, and then paddle back to his boat. It seemed like he truly enjoyed sharing and teaching, and I appreciated every moment of his advice and direction and encouragement. I knew this was a RARE moment, with his guidance and the small crowd. I had to embrace this chance.

And then it came. A big west set wave. The mere sight of it almost took my breath away. My stomach dropped…

“Okay, now, NOW, this one! HEY GUYS, HEY, IT’S LIZ! Okay, girl, turn your board, turn your board, paddle past me to the inside. THE INSIDE! NOW GO GO GO!!”

I DEFINITELY hadn’t caught one this big yet, and I was DEFINITELY afraid, and I DEFINITELY needed to make this drop or there would be harsh consequences, but I put my trust in Raimana, put my head down, and paddled like hell.

He followed closely behind, until the mass of water surged up below us. I felt his hand press against the flat of my foot and with a strong shove, he launched me over the lip of the beast–I could NEVER have caught that wave on my 6′4″ without his push. I hopped to my feet before the drop was too critical, with a locomotive of water behind me. When the wave sucked vertical, I held my rail and ‘bonsai’-ed down the face, the lip grinding down behind me. It crashed in a thunder and rocketed me across its deep blue face. I made the safety zone, drifting for a few moments in total shock and then again came my uncontainable smile. I couldn’t believe it!! That was incredible!!!!! I paddled back up to thank him. He could see the gleam in my eye. I couldn’t explain my gratitude, but I’m sure he felt it.

Raimana, thank you from the bottom of my surf-loving heart, I’ll NEVER forget that wave!

*He continued to push me into sets until the crowd came back out… I returned to Swell glowing brighter than a Christmas tree!

Just then, Greg Long and Twiggy “Grant Baker”, two of surfing’s big-wave heroes, paddled out for the sunset session. Twiggy, the cheerfully fearless South African, quickly caught a wave. Andy and his ’sea nymphs’ still frolicked in the impact zone. I felt a pang of anxiousness.

“You should take those girls in,” another guy called to Andy. “They’re getting tired and if a set comes they could drown.” His words seemed to materialize as he spoke them. All of a sudden the horizon leapt. A massive black face rose demonically in front of us. It was twice the size of any set that had come through all afternoon. It grew mountainous, shifted and then pitched a neck-breaking lip across the line-up, catching nearly all of us inside. I scraped for the horizon, knowing I wouldn’t make it. I looked back to see where the girls were just before I ditched my board and dove as deep as I could. They were in the worst place possible. I swam down into the darkness. I was far enough out that I didn’t take a terrible beating on the first, and surfaced in time for a breath before the next wave rolled over me. As I forced my body to relax through the series of underwater acrobatics, all I could think about was the girls. The board yanked on my ankle but then suddenly went limp. My leash had broken. The foamy water surged and spat and it was tough to get traction in the foam as I came up, boardless. Everyone was in a panic. Miraculously, my board popped up not too far away. I swam frantically for it and someone gave it a shove my way before the next wave grabbed us again. I held on.

Panic rose from the frothy mess of boards and surfers. A piece of a broken board floated by. Everyone looked for the girls. Twiggy, having had caught a wave just before the set, popped up on the inside after a long hold down. As he reached for his board, the head of one of the girls popped above the foam for just a moment before she was sucked back down. He tossed his board aside and dove, feeling for her limp body in the swirling aftermath of the set. He found her and hauled her back to the surface. He called to Greg in a tone that denoted the gravity of the situation. It was clear that these two had been in this kind of situation before. Twiggy handed the first girl over to the only boat on the shoulder and they quickly strategized to get inside and find the other girl. It seemed like an eternity passed while everyone scanned the surface for the other girl. Andy was all the way in on the reef, walking in panicked circles. I was sure she had drowned. I felt sick and speechless.

Then suddenly someone called from the other side of the line-up. “She’s here!!” He cried. “She’s okay!” She’d somehow been dragged way up the reef and was being helped back over by another surfer. A few minutes later we were all back in my dinghy. Andy tried to play it off like it was no big deal. Twiggy and Greg paddled back out. Neither sought appreciation for their efforts. Like superheros, they just turned back into their humble selves after the emergency had been diffused. I shuttled Andy and his half drowned harlots back to the point in a cloak of grave silence. We all get away with a few bad choices at that age; I certainly did. But I decided that from then on, Andy could find another water taxi.

A few mornings later, I had the pleasure of sharing a full two hours of dawn in solid, glassy, Teahupo’o with Greg and Twiggy and Josh with his water housing (and swim goggles). Aside from the spectacular sunrise, the unforgettably perfect waves, and the most radical rainbow I’d ever witnessed, I pushed myself a bit harder that session, knowing that in the event of a mishap, I was graced by the presence of a big-wave superhero rescue team. Thanks for the encouragement, guys, hope you cleaned up at the XXL awards! Blessed be the unsung heroes of this world.

Surfing, sailing and environmentalism; Captain Liz Clark’s lifestyle is envied by many. In 2006  Clark set out on her 40-foot sailboat, Swell, on an adventure to circumnavigate the globe. She documents her travels on her iWend Ambassador blog, describing all the details of her adventure from crazy surf moments to the more tedious hours spent fixing her boat.

In this podcast, Clark reads her story “Voyage of Swell, Part 1″ first published in Volume 2 Issue 2 of Wend. Thanks to Keen for sponsoring this podcast where Liz relates the trials and tribulations of her first 2,000 miles at sea.

Listen here on the page or download and slap it on your iPod.

Happy listening!

Podcast: Download

Session after session I gained confidence at this beastly wave. In the afternoons the crowd would thin and the circus of photographers and spectators would run off to find food and shade. With just a few locals out I began to sit deeper and understand which waves I wanted and which I DEFINITELY didn’t. One afternoon when the swell was coming up, I didn’t catch a single wave. After scurrying over the top of a few frightening sets, I respected my limits and paddled back to the dinghy. Just to paddle and feel the sea’s energy was enough on that day.

A week passed in a blur of adrenaline. As much as I tried to do other things I could focus on nothing else. I was behind on blogging, coming down to the wire on my visa/customs time in French Polynesia, it sure seemed like there was a lot of water in the bilge again, and I hadn’t really made any sort of ‘plan’ about what the next few months held. But the wave and the challenge had hypnotized me; I was lost in a Teahupo’o fog.

One morning as I floated in the channel after an early session, a long time California transplant circled by me in his dinghy. “I sprung a leak,” he declared. He was up to his ankles in water INSIDE the little rubber boat.

“I got patching stuff if you need it?” I replied. Later that day, he came by Swell. We hauled the outboard off his holey old Avon and lifted it up onto the dock to dry out. The engine was giving him trouble too, symptoms: decelerates after giving it gas, then stalls… hmmmm sounded familiar… probably the carburetor.

“Oh, I’ll just take the engine to the shop,” he said, “I don’t know a thing about outboards.”

“Let’s just open up the lid and see how easy it is to access the carburetor at least!” I retorted. It was RIGHT there. “I’m not guaranteeing I can fix it, but it’s worth a try, we’ll have to leave the boat here to dry, though, and patch it later.”

“Can I get a ride out with you to surf this afternoon?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure?”

“Is it okay if a few of my girlfriends come with us and sit in the boat?”

I felt a pang of selfishness, knowing I was going to be tangled into his afternoon courting gestures.

“Okay, that’s fine,” I conceded, somehow sensing trouble. That afternoon, we picked up his gorgeous harem at the point–three stunning, bikini-clad teens and headed out around the reef.

The swell was on its way down, but there the occasional solid set that kept me at full attention. I caught one of my best waves yet that afternoon, and forgot all about my foreboding feeling as we surfed into our second hour. Then suddenly the girls appeared in the channel where the wave dismisses the surfers into the flats. They hovered there for a while, and then Andy went over and gave one of them his board. She paddled back to the dinghy, while he swam with the other two up into the line-up.

I was too busy concentrating on picking the right waves and not getting smashed by a set to worry about the swimmers that were now past me, frolicking and giggling their way up along the line-up. The whole thing made me nervous. But Andy knew this wave better than anyone out there? He knew better than to bring the girls into the impact zone at Teahupoo? Apparently he’d become a bit overwhelmed by the beauty of his sea nymphs and his better judgment had gone out with the ebbing tide. They had been treading water in the line-up for a solid ten minutes now. I waited in angst as we were due for a set.

There is MUCH more energy on the reef this morning. Its thunder is like a constant itch. I can’t focus. I’m scared again. I want to go, but I don’t. I want to catch a big one, but I don’t. The jet skis buzz by and a flash orange boat loads up across the way with a French pro and his photog posse. I’m scared. I go inside. Lay down on the settee bench”¦take a few deep breaths”¦I’m up again. Eat a banana. Put on some sunscreen. Lay back down. Close my eyes. Open them. Sit up. Shuffle through some bikinis. Gather more stuff than I would need for a two week surf trip and finally make my way over to the circus that’s gathered at Teahupoo*. Teahupoo* is doing what it does in the pictures today. It’s big, it’s barreling, it’s beautiful, and I’m, yes, scared. There’s a crowd of maybe 15, not all THAT bad, and I sit a while and watch the guys take off from way inside, boldly set the rail, and slingshot through the perfect water vortex. They make it look SO easy.

I paddle out. I’m scared. I hang at the edge. I realize the crowd factor is tricky. No pressure, I tell myself. I wait. It’s perfectly glassy. I drift up the line-up and then paddle back down. And wait. And watch. The boys paddle around me like I don’t exist, but my uncertainty is visible.

Raimana, the king Tahitian waterman, stands outside on his stand-up paddleboard–calm and content and poised–as he strokes easily into a thick set at the west bowl”¦I hold my breath beholding his steep drop just in front of the explosion of whitewater…but there’s no need, I can tell it’s like a Sunday stroll in the park for him. He paddles back up, calling the sets and running the line-up like an auctioneer. I wait and watch. He’s brought a 13-year old local charger, Keoni, today. Observing his every order to Keoni, I watch his tight adherence to Raimana’s words”¦the trust between them is clear. I catch a small one and paddle quickly over to the shoulder. Raimana calls Keoni into another west one. But this time there are two and I am left alone with the second…the other’s are too deep.

Raimana has seen me surf before. I introduced myself at the pass a few miles down. He’s seen me waiting here, but I’m not sure if he’s sure that I’m sure if I actually really WANT one of these waves. But suddenly I really DO. I’m NOT scared. The wave is all mine if I want it…

“Go Liz! GO!!!!!! Paddle in!!!!!!! TO THE REEF!! To the reef!!!!! GOoooooooooooo!” I paddle with everything I have, just barely getting under it. It curdles up under me, thick and bottoming out. I’m late but here we go! I don’t even think”¦anymore as my body switches over to muscle memory. I am air dropping with my rail in hand. There’ water in my eyes and a lot of foam but I somehow recover from the drop, momentarily hear the foamball, and go rocketing out the other side. I survived! And who could guess what I want now…MORE!