"An Alternative Viewpoint," by Kimo Hollinger, ran in the September 1975 issue of SURFER. Hollinger at the time was one of Hawaii's most respected old guard big-wave riders. In the mid-'60s he was a competitor in the Duke Kahanamoku Invitational, and later that decade he worked as a contest judge. By the early '70s, however, Hollinger views on competition had changed. This article was written in the aftermath of the 1974 Smirnoff Pro-Am, which is still regarded as a benchmark big-wave event.

 I was a freshman at the University of Hawaii, finished for the day, and on my way home. My car radio was on, the usual mixture of music and news, when the announcer mentioned that giant surf was at that moment hitting the north and west shores of the island. The mood I was in was immediately transformed from lethargy to agitation. I drove home as fast as I could, loaded my board on the car, convinced my parents that this was something they couldn’t miss, and headed for Makaha.

Once we made it through the canefields and could see the ocean, I knew that this was surf was unlike anything I'd ever seen before in my life. The 

 (sea mist) was so heavy in the air that my mother was positive it was coral dust from some road construction. We were coming through Waianae town when I noticed Buzzy Trent's car at the local market. We pulled in, and I found Buzzy, still with wet shorts on, buying groceries. I said, “God, Buzzy, don’t tell me you guys rode that shit.” He tried to appear nonchalant, and said, “Yeah, we got a few waves.” I almost collapsed.

We arrived at Makaha, and it was awesome. Nobody I was out, it was getting late, my mother's screaming at me, “You’re not going out, you’re not going out.” I didn’t.

That night, I called Paul Gebauer and made plans for the next day. We got to Makaha early in the morning. It didn’t look as big. As we were taking our boards off the car, Ethel and Joe Kukea warned us that perhaps it was too dangerous. (Paul was still in high school at the time.) Paul kind of looked at them, looked at me, and we hit it. We weren’t halfway out when a giant set came through. It closed out all of Makaha Bay. It was like we were at some spot we had never surfed before. All the breaks and lineups that we were accustomed to didn’t exist. The whitewater had mostly dissipated by the time it reached us, and we were able to roll it; but still, I wanted out. I’m sure that if I had been alone, I would have paddled in; but I didn’t want to lose face with Paul. Maybe it was the same with him.

When we finally made it to the lineup, I couldn’t believe how far out we were. Makaha Point was way inside, where normally it was outside or even with you. Buzzy, who was already out, screamed at me to stay away from him (I was on a 9'2" semi-pig Velzy; Buzzy was on a full-race gun). The rest of the crew, George Downing, Wally Froiseth, Pat Curren, Charley Reimers, and John Severson, just ignored us. I positioned myself on the shoulder, took a deep breath, and waited.

The waves came. We scratched for the horizon, and this thing I've always had deep inside me took over. It’s like the bell had rung, the butterflies were gone. I was in survival mode. How was I to outwit these awesome waves and these six or seven guys who wanted to ride them as much as I did? I took off in front of George and Wally. Unlike large North Shore waves, it’s possible to ride high at Makaha. I made a turn, and then it was down, down, down like it would never end. My heart was in my throat. I can’t remember if Wally was talking to me, steadying me. We made the wave, and as we glided over the shoulder, Wally smiled. George was probably thinking, “Damn kid, one more guy I got to put up with.”

The ice had been broken. Paul and I rode our share of waves that day, and also took some terrible wipeouts. Our boards ended up in the most ungodly places, like in front of some guy’s garage a mile down the beach towards Lahilahi Point. Another thing I’ve always had is the ability to immediately erase a wipeout from my mind, grab my board, and head out again. Later, after the wind turned onshore, and I was left alone out there. It was neat because I knew I was going in. I didn’t have to catch any more of those monsters. I could sit and just watch them roll by; these huge, beautiful, unridden waves.

As I reflect on that day, it seems that we all spent a lot of time gazing at the bigger sets, not wanting to disturb or contaminate their majesty with our petty human flailings. Nature is so beautiful, it knocks me out. George was in his prime and got the day’s best waves. Buzzy was talking about getting a boat and going out to Maile Point, and I thought he was crazy. John served notice (he broke a rib out there, and went on to become a successful publisher). The others rode well. Paul and I took up space, but we were happy.

On the beach later, we all jived each other, alone, no spectators, no cameras, six or eight guys, all of us dedicated and loving what we were doing. Paul and I were so proud to belong. It was great to be young and to feel unique. 

I woke up to the sound of huge waves. I grabbed a light and pointed it out on the water. All I could see was white. I went back inside and tried to go to sleep. It wasn’t easy. At the jingling of my alarm, I bolted out of bed. The ocean was in turmoil. As I loaded my board in the truck, an eerie feeling overwhelmed me. It said, “You are suicide-prone, you are suicide-prone.” I had recently suffered a big setback in my life, and it was like I was methodically preparing to do myself in. The feeling persisted as I drove down Kam Highway. Then, at Velzyland, I looked up towards the verdant hills and down towards the green pastures with cattle and sheep grazing, and then towards the ocean, which was putting on a fantastic show, like it only does on the North Shore, and I realized who I was and what I was doing. I was a surfer, and I was about to communicate with Nature, my God, in the ultimate way—riding big surf. I began crying to myself.

At the Bay, the crowds had begun to gather. I parked in the lot and took out my board. I asked Sam Hawk how it was, and he said, “good.” As I carried my board towards the beach, I pretended not to see the stands, the signs, the trucks, the workers, the roped-off areas. They were setting up for the Smirnoff contest. I tried to tell myself to be civil to these people, to mask my true feelings. I didn't want to cause a scene, for many of those people were, in other ways, my friends. As I waxed my board, Fred Hemmings came over. I joked with him. I like Freddy. I said hello to Rabbit Kekai, then picked up my board and hit it.

Something was wrong here. This was Waimea Bay, a spiritual place for me and those like me. What were they doing to it? I paddled out in total confusion. Just then a huge closeout set came through, and suddenly it was 1958 all over again. I was still far enough in so that I was able to roll the set, which must have closed out the Bay six times. I made it out and recognized Sam, Jeff Hakman, and James Jones. For chrissake, where were Jose Angel and Peter Cole? Then I realized why my old friends weren’t out. Sets began to pour in, and they were huge, even bigger than the one I'd rolled while paddling out. These waves weren't just closing out, but breaking top to bottom. Jimmy and I pushed over one that must have been 40-feet high. I was laughing so hard I could hardly paddle. What a ridiculous situation. What was I doing out there? I wanted in. But how? I vowed that I’d never surf anywhere again without checking it out first. Here I was, a guy who was supposed to be so concerned with water safety, about to start waving for help. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Gradually, the surf diminished, the wind went offshore, and it became rideable. The few waves that I caught were big, steep, and exciting. The line between a good wave and a terrible wipeout at Waimea at this size is very thin. That’s what makes it the place it is. As the conditions improved, the regulars made their way out. Everyone agreed that it was the best it had been in five, maybe even ten years.

As stoked as everyone was, we also all feared that they would soon start their contest. The consensus was that we would all stay out and screw ’em. (We didn’t.) The crowds were getting bigger, the traffic more backed up. Soon there were powerboats in the channel and helicopters overhead, and Fred started warming up on the loudspeaker. A horn blared. Flags were waving. The kids started paddling out with numbers on their bodies. Numbers! It was incongruous to the point of being blasphemous. I wondered about myself. I had been a contestant and a judge in a few of those contests when it all seemed innocent and fun. But it never is. The system is an octopus with long legs and suckers that envelop you and suck you down. The free and easy surfer, with his ability to communicate so personally and intensely with his God, is conned into playing a numbers game, losing his freedom, his identity, his vitality. And what is even worse, the surfers fall for it. I felt sick.

On one wave, Jose and I took off behind Peter Townend. The official boat came over to tell us to get out of the water. Jose was like coiled spring steel. I think the boatmen realized that they'd be getting into something more than they could handle if they tangled with Jose. They wisely backed off.

The guy I felt the sorriest for was Mike Miller. Mike was right on top of it. This was his time. Probably better than anyone else out there, he could have ridden it like George and Buzzy had done in the ’50s, like Eddie and Jose and Peter had done in the ’60s. But they wouldn’t let him. Ricky Grigg, another friend of mine, told Mike not to take off in front of Jeff Hakman. Jeff! Granted, Jeff is a hell of a surfer, but he isn’t the waterman Mike is. I couldn’t believe it. People telling us who could ride and who couldn’t ride. The squares had invaded one of our last sanctuaries, big surf at the Bay.

I asked you, the editors at SURFER, if I could write an article. I needed a vehicle to express the pent-up feeling that I've been holding inside me since that day. I would like to end thusly: A storm brews in the North Pacific; its high winds cause waves to move towards Hawaii. These waves hurtle towards the North Shore of Oahu, which because of its unique configuration, causes them to break bigger and better than anywhere in the world. A surfer trains for years to ride these waves. It is all he asks of life. Who the hell is Smirnoff or Hang Ten or the Duke or anyone else to tell him he can’t? God created those waves. 

AUWE! KIMO HOLLINGER'S ANTI-CONTEST MAGNUM OPUS

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