Bruce Jenkins' "The Next Realm" was SURFER's December 1993 cover story, and the first full-length look at tow surfing.

Bill Sickler had the binoculars out one day last winter, checking a huge north swell from a hillside spot above Sunset Beach. He was watching Laird Hamilton carve out a slice of the future, and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

It takes a lot to impress Sickler. He was Jeff Hakman's roommate in the mid-’70s, and he’s one of maybe a half-dozen guys to consistently surf Waimea, Sunset and Pipeline at maximum size over the last 15 years. Bill’s idea of a leisurely afternoon is to bodysurf Pipe in wild, jagged conditions with nobody else in the water.

But this was a vision for Sickler, something entirely new. Hamilton was more than a mile out at sea with Darrick Doerner, Buzzy Kerbox, a Zodiac boat, and a Waverunner. They were towing each other into Hawaiian-style 15-foot waves, picking them up outside Backyards, S-turning their way across the unbroken face, then jamming at full speed as the wave began to crest. The rides were almost surreal, lasting a minute or more, all the way through the inside section at Sunset, and they defined a bold new direction in big-wave surfing.

“What Laird was doing just blew my mind," said Sickler. “He had built up so much speed, he was just flying at the point where you usually start your takeoff. He was getting around sections that were simply impossible to make. It was a windsurfer's capability being executed on a surfboard—I found out he was riding a 7' 2” with foot straps. He was cranking bottom turns where he was leaning so far over, the only thing in the water was the tip of that inside fin. Just flying, all the way into the channel. I talked to a couple of other guys who saw it, and it was like, we shouldn’t even be out there with that kind of surfing going on.”

Which is exactly the point. When it comes to tow-in surfing, you can appreciate it, study it, fantasize about it. But you won’t be out there. Not unless you can match the knowledge and ability of Hamilton, Doerner or Kerbox, who are risking their lives and equipment to find empty waves at spots you can't even see from the beach.

“If you want to try this,” says Doerner, “you’d better be able to swim five miles, hold your breath for more than two minutes in churning water, and ride the biggest waves of your life in the open ocean. You kids: Don't try this at home."

What Sickler saw last winter, as it turns out, was only a warm-up. Tow-in surfing doesn’t even begin until 12 to 15 feet, and for the guys at the forefront, that’s just a beginning. "We're preparing to ride some of the biggest waves of our time," says Doerner. “We’re just building up, getting our timing down on the rope, figuring the whole thing out, because one day a 30-plus set's gonna come in, and we're gonna be ready for it.”

It is a common belief in the big-wave community that waves in the 30-foot range cannot be successfully ridden. Greg Noll discovered that at Makaha in 1969, and while the equipment has changed radically since then, the physics remain the same. Whether it’s Mark Foo at closeout Waimea, Alec Cooke at outside Log Cabins or Brock Little at the Eddie Aikau contest, nobody has reached the bottom of a wave that big. "The unridden realm,” they call it. Even if you manage to catch a wave that size and get to your feet, there's simply too much water. The few people who have stepped into this realm have been blown into oblivion.

But now picture a three-man crew with a little help from the modern age. One man in a Waverunner III 650, towing in a surfer with about 30 feet of water ski rope. The third man in a 60-horsepower Zodiac, charting the sets and landmarks, ready to move in if the Waverunner goes down. Three rotating assignments, like friends trading waves at a secret spot. And most of all, that massive head start—something you could never accomplish with conventional paddling.

Is this cheating? Some people think so. “Either paddle into the waves on your own power or get the hell out of the water,” they say. Ken Bradshaw, always the hardcore traditionalist, said that for years.

But even Bradshaw has seen the light now. “We all know it's a whole new world at 30 feet, and this is the only way we’ll be able to ride that,” he says. “If you paddle out on a totally glassy day, maybe you could pick off a few on your own. But that's not the way it is out there. The winds are severe on the outer reefs, the lineups are constantly changing. This is the only clear-cut way to reach that next level. I don’t think it’s as challenging, because you lose two important disciplines: locating the peak and dropping in. But it’s just as satisfying.”

Hamilton never argued with Bradshaw's purist approach: “I can understand Ken's change of heart. You'd need a 20-foot paddleboard to catch a 30-foot groundswell in the open ocean. And even if you did catch the wave, you wouldn’t want to be riding it on that board. Hey, I’m sick of paddling. I've paddled from Molokai to Oahu, I've paddled the English Channel. How much can you paddle? I want to change, make surfing evolve, so we're not stepping back and watching skateboarders and snowboarders do all the progressive stuff.”

The choice of equipment is wide open. Doerner ripped the outside reefs last winter on a pair of Brewer boards, a 9’ 6" and 10' 6". Hamilton was given a new 10' 1” balsa board shaped by his famous father Billy, "and that may be the longest we need to ride,” says Laird. "It's a very modem 10' 1”, and the weight (28 pounds) gives you the stability to absorb shocks out there. I’ve also got a mini-version of that, an 8' 1" Brewer. It’s 17" wide and 2" thick.”

Then there’s the 7' 2" Hamilton used at Backyards, with the footstraps that have become his trademark. “As we look forward, it's gonna be essential to stay on your board,” he says. “When the big day comes, if I have a proper strap, yeah, I'll use it. Without a doubt. I’ve learned too much from my windsurfing. I feel naked without one now.”

The history of tow-ins dates back to at least the mid-’70s, when Jeff Johnson took his 24-foot skiff with twin outboard motors to Avalanche with a regular crew, including Flippy Hoffman, Roger Erickson, and David Kahanamoku. But the idea lay dormant for about a decade until Herbie Fletcher made an occasional foray to the outer Pipeline reefs on a Jet Ski. In 1987, on a dark, drizzly day that saw the Pipeline Masters called off, Fletcher astonished beach onlookers by towing Tom Carroll and Martin Potter into swells thundering in from the distant horizon. Potter, after S-tuming for what seemed like an eternity, got one tube ride through the inside section that people still remember.

"That was phenomenal," says Pipeline lifeguard Mark Cunningham. “I felt we were seeing the future that day, and I was almost afraid to see who'd be out there the following winter. But it never really caught on."

Which isn't too surprising. For one thing, state laws prevent the use of Jet Skis or Waverunners at nearshore Hawaiian surf breaks. As a result, this is strictly an outer-reef deal, and with very few exceptions, all invaders will be closely scrutinized. This is the province of water safety experts like Terry Ahue, Brian Keaulana, Mel Pu’u, and Dennis Gouveia, who handle Waverunners with sublime elegance in harrowing conditions.

“I've always felt this is the Hawaiians’ sport,” says Hamilton. "They founded it. If Terry or Brian ever told me to stop doing this, I would, because I’d know I'm hurting the sport somehow. It's a family, all of these guys who know their way around big surf, and it's all based on safety. If you blow it, you hear from the family."

The list of hazards is long and intimidating. These are just a few:

 “There are so many things that can go wrong with a boat," says Kerbox. "With a Zodiac or Waverunner, you're talking about a $10,000 craft you've got to be willing to lose. One little thing goes wrong, and it's a write-off. The boat is finished. And boats can be fragile things. You go down, too, if you don't know what you're doing."

Ahue was out on a 15-foot day when a mango seed got stuck in the impeller. "Suddenly I'm going at half-speed," he recalled. “I figured if I stopped it might not run, so now I’m chugging along from Laniakea to Haleiwa at half-power. And it was like, come on, mama, get me in now. The rip was just raging out of the harbor. I saw the buoy disappear—humongous waves coming. Somehow I got in. I guess somebody was lookin’ over me. And all because of a mango seed.”

 You essentially have to learn to surf all over again—from handling the severe torque of a tow-rope to figuring out 300-yard walls of water that will condense into a peak somewhere. “When people start going out there, they're going to see what they've gotten themselves into,” says Sickler. “And they’re not gonna like it. I know I'm not real fired-up to do it. My whole thing about surfing is having a little bit of control. When you're out there, you give that up.”

 Old hands like Doerner always carry a pair of fins in case they have to swim to shore. But that's small consolation if you’re miles at sea. Ahue once took Foo, Bradshaw and Clyde Aikau to outside Leftovers in what would be an all-time session: clean, perfect, tubing 25-foot waves. They hitched a ride out but surfed the waves on their own. "Maybe the greatest session I've ever had,” said Foo. But Bradshaw lost his board that day and Ahue, even on the Waverunner, couldn't find him. “I finally gave up,” Ahue recalls. “Clyde says, ‘No worry, he can make it,' but I was starting to freak out. Finally, we go back to the Bay, and guess who's sitting out in the lineup.” Bradshaw. He got to the beach somehow and hitchhiked back. But think about it: How many surfers could pull that off?

 A 50-horsepower Waverunner can outrun any wave, but it can’t help a surfer if he's caught in the impact zone. “There's so much wind out there, the amount coming up the face is double or triple what you’d have on the beach," says Kerbox. “It can blow you right out the top. So let’s say you don’t actually catch the wave. Now there’s three more coming, and the boat’s not gonna be there. You’re simply gonna get mowed.”

 While people like Ahue make the driving look easy, it’s actually the challenge of a lifetime in big surf. "You see all these guys wanting to buy skis, but nobody wants to drive ’em,” says Ahue. "They all want to surf. It takes a lot of experience to drive the ski—when to run, knowing your exit zones, keeping a cool head, timing your run through 10-foot shorebreak.”

 Kerbox and Hamilton were out once in a huge swell that closed out Sunset, but with Doemer in the tower, they felt they were being watched. They picked off few waves, came in and asked Doemer what he thought. "About what?” he said. “Were you guys out?" As Doerner says, “Something goes wrong out there, nobody's gonna be watching. You don't come home.”

Any other hazards? “Oh, sure," Kerbox laughs. "But we don't want to outline them all. Give ’em a few surprises.”

The ideal tow-in setup would have four surfers, two to each craft. But even with all that talent on the North Shore, assembling such a unit isn’t easy. “Laird, Buzzy and I are committed,” says Doemer. “We know each other so well, nothing is left to chance. We've got Kenny, Michael Ho, and Hans Hedemann as possibilities for a fourth man. And now Foo-dog getting into it. Those are all top guys. We’ve got everything ready at all times: parts, oil, gas and the time commitment, ready to go, crack of dawn. So if it’s just the three of us, fine. You can’t be dickin' around talking about it. Less talk, more action."

The commitment of Doerner's crew is especially impressive from this standpoint: Hamilton and Kerbox are both successful models. They could sit around the beach all day, picking off the odd Backdoor barrel, soaking up the adulation, while the cameras snap away. Doerner, meanwhile, has become perhaps the coolest source of big-wave lore. In the right mood and company, he can describe the Waimea experience in chilling fashion. He could fill up weeks with the interview requests he gets.

Instead, they have dropped off the surfing planet as we know it. “The crowds are just too much,” says the 36-year-old Kerbox, who lives near Velzyland. “I wait months for a good day at Backdoor, and everybody’s out there. I have to fight for a wave.”

Kerbox has just about done it all. He surfed Pipeline in the glory years with Gerry Lopez, Mike Armstrong, Rory Russell, and Jackie Dunn. He was a Top 16 surfer five times before quitting the pro tour in 1983. He has sailboarded waves at triple-mast size (use your imagination). “But this is a step up for him,” says Doerner. “It's like hotdogging on a bigger scale. He’s kind of trippin’ out, because he knows how special it is."

Hamilton has known Kerbox since the two were little kids, “and it’s reached the point where we don't even need to talk to reach a communication level,” Laird says. "We just look at each other a certain way, and it’s understood. The thing with Buzzy, in a real tight spot, you know he won’t let you down. And he’s got the desire.”

“Well, to a point,” Kerbox says. “I’ve always felt I could tow Laird into the biggest wave ever ridden. He's geared up for it. When the big day comes, I don’t know if I'm gonna get out of the boat (laughs). It’ll be like, 'Laird—you’re up.”’

There are those who feel that Hamilton, now 27, was born to do this. He grew up around his dad and Jose Angel in the Log Cabins stretch of the North Shore, before the family moved to Kauai. He has become the consummate modern surfer, combining the calculated determination of Tom Carroll, the big-wave guts of Richard Schmidt, the shallow-reef insanity of Shawn Briley and the progressive nature of Christian Fletcher. Hamilton’s act at maxed-out Backdoor raises even the most jaded eyebrows around the North Shore, and it represents just a small part of his world.

“He’s dynamic,” says Doemer. "Incredible energy. Me and Buzzy are riding the waves; Laird just casually plays with them. Like he casually plays with Backdoor at 12 feet. When he gets to be my age, he won't play like that no more. But he'll still be good. He's an animal."

Even in his skepticism about anyone riding 30-foot waves, Sickler says, “If there’s anybody walking around the North Shore who can do this, it’s Laird. The guy is so intense. I think he really wants to make a statement. He's sure getting enough practice, so I say, let the big waves begin. I don’t want to miss it.”

Doerner, in his quiet way, holds the whole thing together. That will be his North Shore legacy: The man who found inner peace in the worst possible situations, saving lives (Ross Clarke-Jones among them), soothing minds, and riding some of the biggest, baddest waves of all time.

“You can’t put a price on Darrick’s knowledge," says Hamilton. “Darrick studied with guys like Eddie Aikau, who passed things on to him, and he gets to pass it along to the ones who are deserving or have the desire. There's a humbleness about Darrick, a purity. If we want the next generation to be powerful, we should support the real teachers. I mean, no offense to anyone, but right now in surfing, they’re giving the men’s money to children.”

Darrick wouldn't mind hanging around the conventional spots, waiting for a half-dozen Waimea days a winter. He could handle that. But the North Shore hasn’t seen real Waimea since the historic 1990 Aikau contest. “The last time I rode Waimea was three years ago,” says Doemer. “Thank God this (tow-in surfing) came along. We get a lot of days when it's too big for Sunset, but not quite enough for Waimea. That’s perfect for us. You’ve got 50, 60 peaks between Kaena Point and Turtle Bay that are just firing, and no one’s on ’em. I caught more big waves last winter than probably the last 10 years put together."

Last February, an epic northeast swell hit Hawaii, a swell so wild that everyone from Jeff Johnson to Peter Cole agreed it was the biggest of its kind they'd ever seen. The direction was so radical, it came sideways to Waimea, almost bypassing it altogether. By 7 a.m., Hamilton had arrived in Honolulu from his home on Maui. An hour later they were launching the Zodiac off Haleiwa.

"We must have been two miles offshore cruising," said Hamilton, “and suddenly Darrick goes, ‘Stop.’ I go, 'Stop for what?' And he goes, ‘We’re here.’"

If Darrick says stop, you stop. They waited about 15 minutes. “I'm all young and impatient, thinking we’re too far out," said Hamilton. “Suddenly we turn around, and here comes a set. We were right on the peak. I said, 'I guess we are here. I’ll shut up, you just tell me where to go.”'

“I towed Laird into the first wave, on his 10' 1". I just got out of there as it was jacking. How big? You almost can't tell out there. Start at 20 feet, that’s for sure. We watched from the boat as this wave just reeled 200, 300 yards from behind, and we saw Laird pop out in the channel. We’re going, 'How was it?' And he goes, ‘That was heavy.'

“We towed Laird into another one—just peeling away, and all of a sudden this bowl just doubled in size and came over. Darrick looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think Laird made that one.’ He got pounded really hard. Went to straighten out, but the lip caught him. But he still had his board, ready to go to war.

“Now it was mine or Darrick’s turn I said, ‘Aw, Darrick, I'm not in a big rush. You go ahead (laughs). He was ready. He wanted one of the really deep ones, and he got one so perfect, lined up all the way, and he kicked out with a huge smile on his face. We got him into another one but the wave died out, and he got caught paddling back out. He had to dive under a 20-footer."

“Minors," said Darrick in the background.

"Now it was my turn,” said Kerbox. “Laird pulled me into a big one, I let go, just streaking, did a couple of turns, and all of a sudden the bowl popped up at the end. I went to straighten out, and the white water just engulfed me. Got completely annihilated. The most ferocious wipeout I’ve ever experienced, I came fighting up to the surface, got a breath, and these guys are in the boat with a smirk, going, ‘Well...how was it?'

"The great thing about that day is that I got another chance, another big set. I didn’t really know if I wanted to go. I was still kind of freaked out. But I figured, I’m on this. Just descended into the nether world. Dropped all the way to the bottom, turned, went up into the hook, and it lined up perfect. Amazing. The most memorable ride I’ve ever had in surfing."

The coming winter brings both promise and fear, perhaps the chance of new limits to be challenged. Dreading the worst—bad drivers, mediocre surfers—Ahue fears that things could get out of hand. And while drawing inspiration from the likes of Hamilton, Doerner, and Kerbox, we should also heed the words of Roger Erickson, whose 25 years of big-wave surfing have earned him the highest possible respect in Hawaii.

At a party near Pipeline last winter, Erickson was asked about the tow-in phenomenon. His look took on a fierce intensity. “Well, everything's okay until it isn't,” he said. “You're doing fine until you aren’t. I mean, I can come in through the rocks at Waimea with a broken arm if I have to. I'll do that, and somebody will be around with a tourniquet, and we’ll pull through it.

"THE NEXT REALM" BY BRUCE JENKINS. GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!

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