Reno Abellira's article about his 1974 Smirnoff Pro win originally ran in the March 1975 issue of Surfer. This version has been slightly edited.

The kona weather finally broke. A gnarly northeast swell was coming in with an exaggerated push to it. Totally flushing through the outside peaks at Sunset, the waves would then reform and double up on the notorious inside wall, quick-forming into some interesting hollows. From the lineup, one could see things beginning to kick in. The upper cloud layer began to move in the right direction, and visible on the outside was a white-capped wind line as it whisked around the Kahuku corner of the island. Yeah, the trades are back! Maybe this would help lift everyone's rain-drenched spirits a little. Eddie, Clyde, and BK must be developing surfer’s night vision, as they squeeze in those last ones past the afterglow of sunset.

Missed the Smirnoff report-in meeting, but the waves have gone down anyway. No contest, and the waiting game commences. Guess I’ll catch up on some shaping. Been trying to do more surfing than shaping. Find it very difficult, near impossible in fact, to surf full-on for hours and then shape boards with as much fervor. The surfing feels the improvement, but with those lapses in rack time, orders get backed, people get bummed, and I don’t like thinking about it in the water. On with the dust mask, and the planer whines.

Despite the economic recession, there seem to be a lot of boards made and sold on Oahu. The country shapers are all doing good business, perhaps filling a vacuum Dick Brewer has made with his $300 price tag for guns. BK has made himself a milling machine that whips out precisely-foiled blanks and is doing his own glass jobs too. Mike Diffenderfer is back from Kauai, once again shaping on the North Shore. A good percentage of surfboard work is dedicated to Jesus, as a lot of guys have coupled their devotion to waves with devotion to the Lord.

The influx of new bodies in the water has not been as proportionately radical as in previous winter seasons. For sure, the waves are crowded, but this seems to be as much due to the ranks of younger guys who drive in from Town and are pushing into bigger waves, more so than visitors floundering in the lineup. The living costs out here on the North Shore have never been higher, and even surfers are into some kind of support for themselves, everything from ding repair, to punching time at the Kuilima Hotel, to picking puka shells. Of which a phenomenon in itself has occurred. Once semi-deserted beaches from Ke Iki Road to Sunset now resemble Coney Island, as throngs of puka-mad pickers pack the sands daily.

The most obvious new faces came from Down Under. Probably because they arrived in consecutive planeloads to get cheaper tickets. Their surfing is all eager aggression, but the standouts seem to be the guys who paid dues in previous winters. Rick and Paul Neilsen came right after summer to settle in. Ian Cairns landed a few weeks ahead of the pack and proceeded to rip Rocky Point. Terry Fitz is still into winged boards and some new, spacy bottom concaves. Rumors are rampant that Nat will appear for the contests after a France jaunt. The most glaring absentee is Michael Peterson, said to be waiting for the Hang Ten contest in February. Hmmm, seems like another page in the annals of Aussies in the Islands may be turning over.

At 8:00 this morning was surf was still flat, but within an hour it was 6 feet, then 10, then 12. This was the fastest I had ever seen it jump. By noon, Sunset was too big to ride and was in a heavy wash-rinse cycle. The ocean never ceases to amaze me with her moods.

Cruising down Kam highway to pick up a new board from the glassers, and I'm anxious to pass a convoy of Army trucks spewing foul, black diesel exhaust. I finally pull out and get an eyeful of helmeted, semi-leering faces icily cradling their semiautomatics. The conflict in Vietnam is pau, and now it seems the military has stepped up their training maneuvers again! Almost daily, locust-shaped helicopters 

menacingly against beautiful skies, and a part of the country’s rural feeling dies a little. As I finish the pass, I'm wondering if these Army dudes resent the freedom surfers have—then flash that it’s all voluntary now, isn’t it? Just then a chorus of whistles and wolf-calls break out as the troops give unanimous approval for a string-bikinied lovely on her way to the beach.

Ah, yes, there seem to be a lot more ladies out here this year than in past times. One of the benefits of wave watching is “spocking” the lithe, curvaceous forms that stroll the sands. Most of them just lay out soaking rays, but quite a few are venturing out to the surf. In fact, there’s going to be half a dozen girls in the Smirnoff this year, one per heat. The vibe among the male contestants has a macho tone. Lots of “no mercy!" grunts, and “they better not get in the way and shoulder drop!" etc. Woe to the guys who lose to a lady, though. The girls are provided with a separate incentive, with a $1,000 going to whoever gets the highest heat score.

It’s been four days since the Smirnoff waiting period began, and the surf finally looks like it’s going to do it. A ten-foot north swell began wrapping into Sunset along with what seemed to be a separate west swell. Most takeoffs were from the point, with an occasional sneaky West Bowl set, the latter being harder to get into unless one knows the subtle signs and intricacies of the west peak's "saddle.” It takes five years to get it reasonably wired, and it will still catch you inside a lot! By evening, the two swells are crisscrossing in giant swaths, but the west starts to loom heavier. Just before dark, I see Jimmy Lucas from Kauai shredding heavily. Jimmy has plugged into the contest circuit this year, receiving invitations to all three pro meets—his presence is long overdue.

Next morning, sure enough, the stands are being knocked up and Smirnoff officials are gathering in the dusty clearing between the Kam highway and the shorebreak. The surf has gone down some since last night. Some of the sets would peel nicely from the point, while others shifted in from the west. It was less than optimum Sunset, as the outside rarely connected all the way to the inside wall. Still, meet director Fred Hemmings began calling heats, while judges perched atop the stands, and a buxom Ms. Smirnoff mingled the crowd, passing out complimentary key chains that read, “It Leaves You Breathless.”

The first heat has the longest if not the best waves. Cairns and Clyde dominated that one. Watched some of the second, and thought for sure Rory’s lines had gotten him through, but learned otherwise later. Didn’t pay much attention to the third heat, as I was worried about which board to ride, but recall Laura Blears-Ching catching some nice rides. My heat next, and the waves are getting a bit strange: Hakman, Armstrong, new U.S. Champ Ricky Rasmussen, Terry Fitz, and a girl named Sally are in it. The waves are as weird as they looked from the beach. Terry gets his chin drilled into the deck of his board in an inattentive moment, caught inside before the heat even started. Jeff and I are jockeying around each other like tacky glue between fingers, both of us managing to pick off the bigger waves, which by now were dumping straight across the inside wall, making high performance a hard task. I'm stoked to make the cut behind Jeff. Terry gets third and advances, too, but isn’t happy with his throbbing jaw.

The contest runs for two more prelim heats in deteriorating conditions. The only memorable surfing comes from Mark Richards, a young Aussie, the only one to get in as an alternate. Fred makes a wise move and decides to call it off. Laura is the high-point-getter amount the girls, and wins the $1,000. Eighteen guys are left. The pressure eases off for a while.

It’s a heavy thing, this psych-up for the contests. The mechanics of two and three sessions a day, looking for that edge. Trying to wire a fade that doesn't squirrel when you take it deep. Making sure your punch off the bottom feels satisfactory—you don't want to be nursing it during the follow-through. Getting the roundhouse to click in with a precise snap.

Your body works into a rhythm until the repertoire is almost automatic. But it isn’t a mindless, robot state; you still have to converse with the wave, read its face, while the mind projects where the body should be the pre-instant before it goes there.

Then you've got the constant mental analysis of your equipment. Top riders have no less than four boards to suit the range of North Shore waves, most sizes ranging from 8'6" down to 7'. A world of curves meld into rocker, rails, belly, flats, vee, outline, fin depth and rake, thin and thickness, edges hard here, soft there. Speed is still of the essence. No board is perfect, there are always limits—but push until until you find that separation point, the edge, where the wave lets you know where the flaws lie. Too high in the lip? Pitched out into a freefall! Rails a little too hard? Dig one at the bottom and stop! Fin a little too small? Spinout and swim! Go for the tube and the curtain closes in front of you! Sometimes it’s the board, sometimes it’s you. And sometimes the energy is there, all factors correlating, and the impossible is pulled off.

Very few of the guys surf alone when tuning up. The buddy system seems to promote that positive, go-for-it state of mind we want to be in. Pushing each other in and out of the surf, keeping your friends pumped and generally stoked, swapping replays of that unreal tube ride, etc. Your objective eye is a little larger when you can discuss the other guy’s trips, styles, boards and approaches with someone else who is watching. It’s easy to get locked into those heavy surf raps that to the uninitiated ear sound like any other jocks’ banter, but it helps channel that emotional energy during the contests.

Been surfing Rocky Point and Kammieland. Some fun hotdog waves, but nothing overhead. This is the third day in a row I’ve heard the surf is coming up. Everyone keeps saying it’s going to be big, maybe 20-foot. Tomorrow should tell.

The next day, it still isn’t here yet, but now the reports are more dramatic. Giant Aleutian storm, 2,000 plus miles northwest. Surf some fun Sunset that afternoon at 8 feet. It has a really nice direction. The ocean has that "feel’' to it.

The moon is getting full against clear skies.

At midnight, I go out to watch the most perfect Sunset Beach I have ever seen. Fifteen-foot peaks horseshoe one after the other into a flawless 12-foot inside section. I’m mesmerized. Go home and crash into a restless sleep.

Wake up just as Jimmy Lucas comes screeching up the driveway. Jimmy has his big gun stashed under my house, and I know what he's thinking before he says anything. The air is thick with salt mist. I glance across the empty lot to Velzyland, and all I see is a churning mass of white water. I jump into Jimmy’s car, and we go to check the Bay. He already drove by earlier, and is hyped as he describes the size of the sets. As we drive into the lot, I see Jeff scrambling into the water. It's only seven o'clock, and already the radio is blaring that the Smirnoff is on at Waimea. Cars are beginning to line the lookout points on either side of the Bay. Hemmings is pacing back and forth along the grass behind the lifeguard tower. Off to the side, a huddle of Aussies have gathered around Mark Richards, spellbound in their midst. All the contestants began to assemble around Fred, who is hyped and has a slightly ironic smile as he talks about some earlier sets. He asks our opinion about heat length. No one says much—all eyes are fixed on the waves. It’s big all right, big and mean. Saw two incredibly huge sets where a couple of guys tried to take off, hit a chop, spun out and free-fell in the same breath. Boobie is out on his 12-foot board, and so is some crazy kid on a six-six or something. It’s still misty, but the wind is coming straight out of the valley, and I wonder if I'm shaking because the wind is cold or if . . . .

I tap Jimmy's shoulder and we split back to my house for a granola fix, and pull our boards from under the house. Jimmy has a 9'4" Hanalei special that Wolfman shaped for him. I’ve got a 9'1" pintail I've ridden in big Sunset, and a new 8'6“ winger roundpin.

By the time we return, boths sides of the Bay are packed with cars and the park is brimming with people, like some huge karmic calabash bowl at the mouth of this still-beautiful valley. Hemmings is on the PA system calling names for the first heat. The surf is still choppy, the wind a balmy light offshore. A few guys are still going for last-minute warmups, alongside the hardcore Waimea regulars, including Kimo Hollinger, Mike Miller, and Jose Angel. Peter Cole was out earlier and is in behind the judges’ stand advising Fred on the wisdom of even holding the meet. Distinctly overheard Peter mention "suicide" a couple of times, as he gestures out to sea. Fred inhales deep from his cigarette, and just then, as if to reinforce Peter's counsel, a set appears way 

 out there, blotting the horizon. Two minutes later it sweeps into the Bay. Like wild horses lunging up, each wave peeling furiously into the middle of the Bay, from the left and the right, stampeding toward the middle. It's a full-on closeout set. Everybody is scratching frantically for deeper water of, some in time, others too late, and as the last wave grinds up onto the beach there the Bay is filled with boards and bodies, like so much flotsam.

The set sufficiently freaks everyone on the beach, and Fred calls a quickie contestant meeting. The boys vote for a postponement.

The next few sets are a bit more feasibly sized, and as the the wind picks up it begins to smooth out the choppy faces. Kimo Hollingergets a hooting ride. The first heat is called again. I don't go out for a warmup surf, telling myself that a lost board on the rocks could mean a folded hand. My previous experience at Waimea would have to put me in good stead. I had first seen live Waimea in '67, a good decade after it was first ridden. By that time the mini-gun era was getting started, and the heroes were Eberle, Sutherland, Van Artsdalen, Hemmings, and Peck. The board of choice was a Brewer's “414” gun. On the beach this morning, I noticed every available 9-foot plus RB was perched in readiness. Ian, Hawk, Jeff, BK, and Owl all had one. Jeff, however, was riding his roommate’s 9'4". In a wry twist of fate, Owl had broken Jeff’s beautiful 9'6'' Brewer model ultima on a Waimea swell two weeks earlier. Owl was heard lamenting, “I broke the best board in the Islands.” Jeff was not stoked, to say the least.

The surf is still a little bumpy as the first heat paddles out. Halfway through, it was apparent that Clyde’s local knowledge is pushing him to the fore. Ian seems to have trouble putting it together with his first-try board, getting nailed for a long swim. Hawk gets some clean drops, but his board looks a taste long. Bertlemann gets two heavy drops before a third sees him go weightless and spin out halfway down the vertical face. Mark Richards, apparently out of shock, gets some good bottom turns. Clyde tries a late one (although at this size, all the takeoffs are late) deep in the peak. He barely stands as the lip lifts and pitches him into a beautiful impromptu swan dive, barely beating the lip behind him. Clyde gets first in the heat, with Sam second.

By the time the second heat paddles out, the surf has cleaned quite a bit, and the sets, although consistent, seem to be tapering in size. BK opens with two aggressive drops. Boobie and “Twinkle Toes” prone into some precise takeoffs. Owl not looking like he's plugged in, losing his board a couple of times. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the surf peaked this morning and is starting to drop. I don't know whether to ride my 8'6" or my tighter-turning pintail. I may be able to pull off a few more S-turns with a shorter board. This place is so fickle. What can you predict about a break that can lie flat when Sunset is totally closed out? For sure, I’ve watched Waimea go down faster than I’ve seen it come up. Which board?

A lot of people would like to see Barry take this heat. He strokes into his third wave, his board flutters slightly before the fin pops out. He plummets with his back to shore, his board frozen under tons of falling lip, gets flushed, and if that's not enough, he's taken back over and mauled again. Two bright red halves of board wash into the beach. Bummer.

It’s getting near the end of this heat, and I’m still not sure what board to ride. Slip the jersey over my head. Jeff, Lopez, McCaul, Fitz and Smirnoff amateur champ Buzzy Kerbox are walking to the lava boulders near the point. I follow behind, with a board under each arm. I make a decision and start to wax the 8'6". Then someone lets out a bloodcurdling war-whoop, and I look up to see a huge set pour through, once again walling the whole bay. Contestants are scratching for the horizon and channel. Oh, God, it’s big! Owl is the only one who spins around in a vaguely valiant attempt at catching one. No way. Four monstrous waves charge through unridden.

I switch to waxing the pintail. Decision made, my fear feels a bit tempered.

Paddling out to the lineup, previous heat still underway, we sit on the fringe of the turmoil, awestruck. Another set. Surreal. Looking towards Sunset Fire Station, I imagine barns and fire engines dangling dry inside the cavernous tubes that explode on the point’s backside. Peter Cole paddles for one, while Jose Angel, Ricky Grigg, and Kimo Hollinger are hooting wildly. The wave dwarfs Peter’s 11' plus board as it swiftly passes his paddling attempt. The lineup boil is at least 200 feet inside of where I'm used to seeing it. I ask Ricky what he’s lining up with on the bigger sets, and he says the old church tower and some ironwood trees behind and above it on the hill. Waimea is confusing at first because, when sitting there, the tendency is to line up with the beach, which is straight in, but in reality you are closer to the point and the church tower lineup that Ricky pointed out is the right place to take off—provided, of course, that you can resist the urge to paddle for the horizon.

Another set. Each wave is three or four times thicker than its height, focusing on to the point, jacking up sheer and vertical; the trough goes square as it hits the shelf, and when it unloads, the flash is Niagara.

The flag goes up on the beach. We're on. McCaul picks up the first one. Once again, Jeff and I are jockeying tightly. Gerry pulls off some radical backside drops, while Terry carves but is connecting mostly with smaller waves. Some of the waves have this peculiar shape just at the top, allowing you to get a little planing speed at the top to get down onto the face. Another set. The Boston whaler hits it even further outside the lineup, resembling a tiny plastic replica, as each swell let it up and then down. Kimo Hollinger grabs the first wave. I pull out of one I sense Jeff has got, although the spray is in my eyes and we’re paddling rail-to-rail. I turn around and see Jose paddling for the third wave. I spin around, on his inside, and yell out to let me have it. And now whenever I have a San Miguel, I'll remember that elevator ride to the chasm below, thinking it’s all over, as I flutter down, then not knowing what to feel when my fin caught finally. I ease off the shoulder in relief. Jeff gets another, and Gerry gets gobbled by white water on the next.

Half an hour later; we're back out for the finals. Boobie, Peter, Sam, Jeff, Clyde and myself. The whole thing is pretty much of an adrenalized blur for me. Everyone was jockeying tightly, and at first it looked like Clyde and Sam were pulling off the bigger, cleaner sets. A lot of waves now had that slope which made getting in easier, but by this point, we were edging deeper into the peak, trying to read hesitation in each other's faces and movements. From the side, I saw Boobie drop into a big one, and thought he might have made the wave, just before glancing inside to see the two halves of his 9' 10" explode out the back of the wave. He wrenched a muscle in his shoulder, but gamely slides onto his other stick and paddles back out.

Jeff was now getting his fair share of rides, along with Sammy. Peter's board looked a little short, and he was limited to the medium-sized waves. I remember stringing three clean ones together about three-quarters of the way through the heat. On my last wave, I was over and outside of Clyde and Sam, who are both paddling out. I kept stroking as Clyde, twenty feet inside of me, suddenly whips his board around and is just about to paddle for it, too. At first his eyes narrow at me, then they bulge was realizes I’m committed, as as the waves looms up he turns and scratches over the top. I get to my feet, the wave loops over, and all I feel around me is air. I got into a fetal ball and don't go up until a second wave passed overhead, my lungs bursting. Hit the surface and gulp down a couple mouthfuls of foam that is three-feet thick around my head. I’m right on the shelf when I dive under the next wave. Thank God, this one sweeps me along the point, avoiding the rip that is running fast toward the diving rock on the far side of the bay. Still swimming, my heart sinks when I see Jeff rip into a long, beautiful wave.

My board gets Swiss-cheesed on the rocks. I try to paddle out on my other board, but it’s too late; the flag goes down and the final is over.

The worst part of a contest is the milling sea of faces saying, “you ripped, but Clyde had . . . ’’ or “too bad you didn’t make that last drop . . . .’’ I knew it was going to be close; the waves just didn’t allow any of us to dramatically outshine the others. But in the back of my mind, I could see Jeff's last wave. As the results were being announced, it was almost as heavy a rush as being out there. I edged Jeff out for the bigger pie piece. The difference is a half-point.

I tried to get Mr. Kammie to give me a bottle of champagne, but he didn't go for it. You know how thrifty Chinese can be. I bought my cases of beer at the Sunset Beach store instead, and drove up to Pupukea for turkey dinner. We watched the sun go down as the moon began to shine in fullness, then got really absorbed in the contrasting, blending banks of pastel blue and pink in the eastern sky.

SMIRNOFF 1974: "IT LEAVES YOU BREATHLESS," BY RENO ABELLIRA

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