"Tarzan at Waikiki," by Dorian Paskowitz, ran in the Summer 1993 issue of Surfer's Journal. This version has been slightly edited.

Since 1935, San Onofre surfing beach has been the meeting place for surfers up and down the California coast—from Tijuana Sloughs to Steamer Lane in Santa Cruz.

Friday and Saturday nights were always gay ’ole times, with Hawaiian guitar, Tahitian dances and no small amount of boozing. But come Sunday morning, it was serious surfing for the true beach rats—like us guys from Mission Beach.

The Second World War, the take-over by the Marine Corps, and not being able to sleep on the beach anymore changed much of that. What hasn’t changed though is surfing. San Onofre to this day is one of the most consistent surf spots in the United States.

It was on one of those surfing Sundays in 1939 that I met Don Smith. Now that’s not the same Don Smith who rides at San Onofre today—who at 85 may well be the oldest regular surfer in the world. This was another Don Smith—an “only occasionally” surfer from up around Hermosa Beach someplace.

One thing the two Don Smiths had in common, though: both of them were short men, not very much over jockey-size. Put one on the other’s shoulders and you still wouldn’t have a basketball player.

“So, you’re going to Hawaii,” Don said to me. “I’ve got a brother named Gene who’s over there. He’s been in the Islands some time now. Maybe you could say hello to him for me, I think he works as a beachboy at Waikiki.

I assured Don Smith I would say hello. And as summer came and went, I’d remembered tiny little Don Smith and reminded myself I’d promised to say hello to his brother, Gene Smith, when I got to Hawaii.

In September, I bought myself a closed steerage ticket aboard the SS 

—25 males to the space—and got to Honolulu in time to catch the last summer fun.

Real quick I found a job at the MacDonald Hotel on Punahou Street, working for another tiny little man by the name of Lum, tending desk and working the switchboard.

I signed up for three courses at the University of Hawaii, including Dr. Charlie Moore’s course in Philosophy and Mr. Fujimoto’s “Quantitative Chemical Analysis.” He taught this complex subject in pidgin English and I couldn’t follow what was going on half the time.

Then, and perhaps most important, I found a place to store my surfboard at Waikiki. In that way I could go down to the beach early in the morning on the trolley which ran along Kalakaua Avenue, surf ’til I had to go to school, and come back, sometimes by just hanging on the back of the trolley, surf ’til sunset and then go to work at the MacDonald, which was near the Honolulu Tabernacle.

I met Freddy Beckner, who bartended downtown at the Blaisdell Hotel and who would have given me free drinks if I drank; and Frank Donahue, who let me in free to the King Theatre to see movies once a week. They were both good surfers and lived right at Waikiki in a grass shack for $15 a month.

Surfing all the time at Queen’s and Canoe’s, I also met some of the soldiers of fortune who came to Hawaii as beachcombers and went on to become wealthy merchants—like George Brangier, a Frenchman. George was a dapper man with a thin mustache, and he would always slick the sides of his hair back soon as he stood up on his surfboard heading for shore, no matter how big the wave was. Later on, he became a founder of Kahala, the big aloha shirt business.

The most exciting part of my social life was meeting and befriending the famous Waikiki beachboys. There was Duke Kahanamoku, who wasn’t really a true beachboy, but did take some parties out in the outrigger canoes and some of the girls tandem on his over-sized surfboard. His brothers, Louis, David, Bill, Sam, and Sargent—I got to know them also.

Then there was Chick Daniels and Turkey Love and Panama Dave and Willy Whittle and Curly, as well as Sally Hale, who was the captain of the beach.

Waikiki Beach was ruled in those days by the hotels, with their manicured beaches, and easy access to world-renowned breaks like Queen’s, Canoe’s, Popular’s, and Public Baths. 

Waikiki Beach itself was a relatively small strip of sand. (Would you believe some of it imported from California?) Its main event was the absolutely magnificent lineup of surf breaks which stretched from Diamond Head to Honolulu Harbor. Historic big days would loft swells well over 20-feet high, breaking far out to sea near the steamer lane. 

On the beach, the surfing focal point was the very exclusive Outrigger Canoe Club. The Outrigger sat beachfront, no Orientals allowed, and was the zenith of social prominence in the Islands. This was the home of beachboys and the center of Hawaiian water sports activities like outrigger canoeing, surfing, and paddleboard racing—not to mention the volleyball courts and a lot of serious drinking under the shade of the Hau Terrace.

Agatha Christie, Jack London, the Prince of Wales, the King of Persia, as well as Rudolf Friml, Doris Duke, Otis Chandler and Jim Arness—all suited up in the Outrigger Club's locker rooms to “go surfin’” at Waikiki.

The person I admired most in this ongoing carnival of surfing and Hawaiian ocean sports was Duke Kahanamoku. He was like a great Hawaiian chief but gentle, modest, and a truly beautiful surfer.

But after him my favorite was young Steamboat Mokuahi—a lifeguard in front of the hotels.

“Old" Steamboat was a short, leathery man with crinkled gray hair at his temples. When he stood beside his son, also nicknamed Steamboat, it was like Jack standing next to the the Giant. The younger Steamboat was over six-two, thick and smoothly muscled, with calves as large as most men’s thighs. Old Man Steamboat was a seasoned general in the ranks of those who led at Waikiki, while young Steamboat was a handsome warrior, slow to anger and pressed into a service he managed well and with joy among the high and mighty who visited Waikiki.

In the morning, Steamboat would paddle his two-man canoe from the Outrigger to his water station, 40 yards off the beach, where he would climb the unshaded platform, sit all day without hat or sunglasses, watching the swimmers and surfers. In the late afternoon he'd climb down, paddle in, pull the small outrigger up high on the sand, then shower and dress and go home.

This he did day after day—and I guess no day did he speak over two dozen words to anyone. Unlike his dad, Young Steamboat was a quiet man—very much like Duke Kahanamoku, who “The Boat” silently revered.

If Steamboat was a young bull, my next favorite among the beachboys was an ox, and that is what he was called—Ox. Not “the Ox,” just Ox. His head was enormous—a massive, fleshy crown which looked very much like the headpiece of an ancient Hawaiian idol carved from the trunk of the coco palm with its heavy browns and burly lips. While not more heroic than the huge Steamboat, Ox was taller, broader, and heavier—over 350 pounds. As a renowned canoe captain, with his enormous steering paddle, Ox was as agile as a surfer on a board.

The beachboys knew how shamelessly I admired them and how much I looked forward to surfing or skin diving with them. So it was not too long before they called me by name to fill out the missing paddles in a canoe party. I was not the only surfer from the mainland who admired and respected the beachboys so fully, of course; many of the great surfers, including Tom Blake, Peter Peterson, and Whitey Harrison felt the same way.

But where was Gene Smith? Many times I asked myself this question because Don was so sure that Gene had some connection to this privileged group. But maybe Don was wrong. After all, it seemed very unlikely any 

—a white man, and a newcomer at that—would be allowed a place in this Hawaiian fraternity.

Weeks and months went by. My face became familiar around the beach in front of the Outrigger. I was even allowed to store my board in their locker space. 

I had been in the Islands about three and a half months, when one day I was talking to Captain Sally Hale at his small station near the beach entrance to the Outrigger locker room. Suddenly he was staring at something behind me, way up over my head. 

“Hiya, Tarzan,” Sally said, forgetting about me. “Where ya been, we haven’t seen you around for quite a while.”

I turned to look. Here was a giant of a man, at least six-foot-five, with massive shoulders, and a jaw like a sprung steel trap. 

I moved off to one side, out of earshot, so the two of them could talk. This Tarzan never smiled once. Then he turned abruptly and left, Sally watching him carefully.

“Who’s that guy?” I asked Sally, “He’s taller than Ox.”

“Yeah, Gene Smith, everybody calls him Tarzan. I don’t know if he likes the name, but it stuck.”

Suddenly I saw Don Smith at San Onofre. Tarzan, or Gene, was almost twice the size of his brother, or so it seemed. “Boy, there’s a combination,” I thought to myself.

It didn’t take Tarzan long to get back into the swing of things at Waikiki. I’d see him paddling a canoe—not steersman—or surfing at Canoe's or just stalking up and down the beach like a man possessed. He'd hardly talk to anyone, and always had an unfriendly look on his face.

Frankly, I was afraid to just walk up and say, “Gene, I know your brother, Don, and he said to say hello." So I let it go for a while.

One day after after he passed by, I turned to the surfer I was sitting on the beach with, “Keone, what about this guy, Tarzan Smith?”

“Well, do you know anything about him?”

“I know he paddled a surfboard all the way from the Oahu to Kauai—90 miles, with no islands in between."

Another time out in the water I asked another surfer if he’d heard of Tarzan Smith.

“Hell, yes,” he said, “everyone on the beach knows Tarzan. He used to be a cop on the Honolulu City and County Police Force. But they say he got pissed at another cop and flung him right through a plate glass window. Almost killed the guy. So they canned him.”

I kept asking around. There was a lot of talk about Gene getting thrown into jail for brawling. And every story played on the number of big Hawaiians it took to subdue him and get him in the paddy wagon.

Several weeks later, I was talking to Jimmy, one of the kids who hung around the Outrigger, and I brought up Tarzan's name. The story he told me explained just why Gene was so mad all the time.

“Evidently it all happened right after he got to Hawaii. Gene thought he’d just go down to Waikiki, get a job on the beach, rent some of his surfboards and maybe give a few lessons,” Jimmy explained. 

“It didn't work like that at all. Guys got killed for less at Waikiki. You don't just muscle in on the one all-Hawaiian profession—the beachboys’ 

“Well, Gene didn’t see it that way. He kept at it. Then one night, walking home from the Kalakaua Bar, a bunch of Hawaiian guys jumped him. They beat the bejesus out of him, broke his ribs, kicked him in the face, almost fractured his skull. Put him in the hospital for weeks. Who these guys were—nobody ever named names. Everyone just went back to their daily chores knowing one more 

 had been taught a lesson. Nobody—but, nobody—was in on the beachboys’ concession, except them’s that come up the ladder the hard way, rung by rung, doing errands as little beach rats, to get stew and rice from the Oasis Inn, then 'raking beach' in front of the hotel for a few years, finally helping paddle canoe loads. After that, and only after that, you got cut in. Finally—when you started at 14 and you’re now past 25—you can take a formal exam for Canoe Captain. And if you pass, as only few did, then you can say you’re a full-fledged beachboy with all the privileges that went along with the title.

“But to just walk up the beach and hustle surfing lessons or board rentals? No way. That’s what Gene Smith found out the hard way."

“When Gene got out of Queen’s Hospital, everybody thought he’d pack his bags and go back to the Mainland. But no. He nursed himself back to health—surfing a lot, paddling for miles on end, and walking, walking, walking; Gene loves to walk. He got back into better shape than he was before he got beat up.”

Jimmy finished his yarn there; it was hard to tell, but it seemed like he  admired Gene. 

Not long after that, Oscar Teller, the old veteran from the Tavern Side of Waikiki who loved to ride big Castles surf on his old beat-up paddleboard, told me the rest of the story.

“Gene finally came back down to the beach, as if nothing had happened, even though you could still see some of the scars on his face. He didn’t accuse anybody of anything, made no complaints, and even said hello and passed the time of day with some of the very guys who’d done him in.

“He behaved himself. No hard feelings showed, no boards were rented, no surfing lessons were 'cockroached.’ Gene was a tamed giant, or so everyone believed.

“Then slowly and systematically, one at a time, Gene Smith beat the shit out of every one of the bunch that had ganged up on him. A few of the guys were hospitalized and one almost died. After that, the situation calmed down. People began calling him “Tarzan.” He rented boards, took visitors out for surfing lessons and helped paddle canoe on loads booked for the beachboys from the Outrigger Club. Nobody hassled him.

“Tarzan became the only haole beachboy.”

When you live on the fringe of violence, sooner or later you become a partner to it. And that is exactly what happened to me during the next several months that I lived the surfer’s life at Waikiki.

By the time that I mustered up the courage to introduce myself to Tarzan Smith, I had become an accepted face to the old-timers at Waikiki.

One Saturday morning when Tarzan was varnishing his board in front of the canoe shed at the Outrigger, I walked up to him. "Gene," I said, which surprised him, me calling him by his real name. He looked squarely at me. “My name’s Paskowitz,” I went on, “and your brother, Don, told me to say hello.”

He kept looking straight into my eyes. “Where’d you see Don?”

“At San Onofre last winter,” I explained.

He thought for a moment, as if he were filing away a useful bit of information. Then he continued with his work. “Mahalo,” he said, not looking up.

“You’re welcome,” I replied and then left.

From time to time after that, I’d pass him on the sand on Waikiki Beach. I’d say, “Hi, Gene,” and he’d nod, no smile, and off he’d go. Never said a word to me.

And then one Saturday, after a long session at Queen’s with the Kekai brothers, I came in looking for a place to get out of the wind and warm up. I found it behind a waist-high pink wall separating the grass from the exclusive beach site at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Of course, I wasn’t allowed in there, not being a guest at the Royal, but Chick Daniels and Panama Dave—the two guys who watched over that area of beach—didn’t care. I wasn’t doing any harm. I always looked presentable, even in just boardshorts, and I was mannerly and kept to myself.

All of a sudden I saw Tarzan coming, taking long, fast strides as if he were late to a meeting, and looking madder than usual. When I said, “Hi, Gene,” he didn’t even turn his head. He seemed hell-bent for election, as my dad used to say.

This time I didn’t have to ask someone for an explanation. I knew exactly what was troubling him. The scuttlebutt was all over the beach.

Two weeks earlier, the City and County of Honolulu had put on a big Hawaiian watersports festival at Honolulu Harbor—canoe races, swimming races and a big paddleboard race. In addition to the cups and medals, the winner was to get a free trip to California to compete in a national paddleboard championship in Santa Monica. The festival was a great success—except for one thing. Tarzan had paddled his heart out—he wanted that chance to get back to the Mainland—and won, with Jack May getting second. I believe Turkey Love was third and one of the Kahanamoku brothers was fourth.

Gene got the big trophy, but somehow Jack May, even though he finished runner-up, was chosen to go to the Mainland and represent Hawaii.

No one really knew why that switch was made, but a lot of people felt that the city fathers weren’t about to let someone as belligerent as Tarzan Smith represent Hawaii. Their logic was, I assumed, “we’re choosing somebody to personify the Islands, not just to be in the race, so we’ll choose a friendly part-Hawaiian fellow, like May, to typify our sportsmen.”

Gene didn't see it that way. He was furious, as only he could get furious.

As I sat there at the Royal Hawaiian in the bright warm sun, with the blue water of Waikiki Bay glistening in front of my eyes and feeling like a million dollars from two solid hours of surfing, I could not possibly imagine that wheels had already been set to turning which would make me a partner to Tarzan’s fury and plans of mayhem.

Here he came back along the same beach path, more determined than ever.

What I didn’t know is that he had called a meeting in his room at the Waikiki Tavern and Inn to once and for all have this Mainland trip business sorted out. In fact, at that very moment, May was already in Tarzan's room, waiting for him to return. But whoever Gene was looking for hadn’t been found.

The giant strode by, stopped, turned to face me, and bellowed, “Paskowitz, come with me.” I didn’t even know he had remembered who I was, much less to call me by name.

I jumped up and fell in behind him, having to jog-walk to keep pace as he headed down the beach, past the Moana Hotel, and onward toward his room at the Waikiki Tavern.

At the Diamond Head end of Waikiki Beach, just before you got to Kuhio Beach and the big banyan tree where Robert Louis Stevenson would sit in the cool shade and read to the beautiful and frail Princess Pauahi, there leaned and creaked a very old building of faded, chipping green paint—half tavern, half inn. In its day it was something special, and, as a matter of fact, unbeknownst to all, in the years to come, once again it would ring out with prosperity and customers before finally being swept away by the demands of tourism. But on this day it was a haven for beachcombers, those down on their luck, and the heavy drinkers that were the warp and woof of the Waikiki beach crowd.

The Waikiki Tavern and Inn was so close to the water that high-tide waves would sometimes splash water into the first floor rooms. I myself, before it was razed, occupied one of those rooms and often had found damp seaweed on my floor when I woke at dawn to check the waves.

On this particular afternoon, the most important feature of the Waikiki Tavern was that Gene “Tarzan” Smith lived there, as did Ox and Turkey Love.

Tarzan bounded up the stairs, with me just behind him. He turned in the dimly lit corridor to his room, kicked the half open door and, feet wide apart, made this explosive, and to me, horrifying statement: “Okay, you bastards, we’re gonna to get some answers right now or we’re going to kick the shit out of someone.”

I was struck dumb by his blatant use of the word “we’re,” but at that instant he pulled me inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it with the key that was in the door. Thanks to a beneficent almighty, he left the key there where it was.

It took me just one terrifying instant to realize what I was into here. Almost 1,000 pounds of some of the most ructious and warlike men in the Territory of Hawaii—one or two well “oked up” on booze they had brought—were sitting around. Chick Daniels was on the bed, listening to a threat against their lives. A threat backed up by the fact that Tarzan Smith had me to help him clean them up—"them" being Ox, Steamboat, Chick, Turkey Love, and Jack May.

A thought quickly passed my mind: “How could a nice Jewish boy who meant harm to no one get into a mess like this?” I was now partner to an aggressive, hostile lunatic who was demanding a showdown. Now.

The next several seconds were critical for me. Here I was being asked to help put away five men—any one of whom could have torn me limb from limb, three of whom I had spent months making friends with. Steamboat was capable of destroying the room and all of us in it. Ox could have just stood up and started swinging and kicking with an ultimatum like that.

I looked over at Chick Daniels, he was a hot-tempered man and his beer-reddened eyes were glowing at Tarzan with rage.

"TARZAN AT WAIKIKI," by DORIAN PASKOWITZ (1993)

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