Mastering Pipe: The World’s Best Surfers Try Not To Vomit In The Ocean
Photos by Sam Hetherington also (somehow).
Having never stepped foot on the island of Hawaii and yet understanding and appreciating its significance to surfing, being invited out to the Vans Pipe Masters was an opportunity and honour I would never refuse.
Photographers and filmers were usually the ones invited out on behalf of Monster Children, of which I am neither, but like all good stories sometimes you just have to be thrown into the deep end for something beautiful to happen. I rolled into Honolulu on the 6th, a day earlier than I was suppose to be here, without accommodation sorted for that night because I fucked up my flight booking. It was the deep end from the start. Luckily some pals were already up on the North Shore and said to roll in. I picked up my car rental and if there was ever a time in life that I would pray this would have been it. My driving glasses were at home in Aus and I was on the other side of the road. Bind ambition or something like that.
As you drive from Honolulu up north, from hustle to jungle, the vibe softens, but then quickly picks back up again as you catch a glimpse of the ocean peaking through the driveways. The reason why you’re here. Chickens are rolling around, kids hanging out the back of trucks, boards are being jammed like Tetris into tiny cars and overall excitement hangs about. I park on the dirt road and find myself out the front of an enormous house. I can understand now why the locals are being pushed out of their homes but am quickly aware that I am just as much a part of the problem and vow to make sure I heed all the advice Naz told me about coming to Hawaii. One of the boys finds me out the front. ‘Take your shoes off, come on inside, we’re up top.’ The third-floor balcony overlooks the beach, in a perfect vision of Pipeline and Backdoor. I’m handed a Coors Light and just stare out to the waves. Insane. The guys have already broken six boards today. Welcome to the North Shore. The rest of the night is spent catching up and meeting the crew already in town. Always a funny time when you’ve been on emails and interviews with most of them but never in person but that’s what makes these kinds of trips so special.
Day one of on-the-clock I check into Turtle Bay Resort. This is hands down the fanciest hotel I’ve ever been to in my life and it shows with the goofy grin on my face. I have a meeting with the Australian team back home and make sure to set my computer up so they can see the view. They wish me luck and tell me they’ll talk in a few days. I’ll be on calls and meetings all week I tell them. Righto Sammy they all laugh in unison. A friendly warning of what is to come. That night is the heat draw at the Vans house. Here I run into other surf media friends and what’s left of the Australian crew that I didn’t see the night before. It’s strange but oddly wonderful watching the comp guys roll in next to the free surf guys. Some of the surfers talk about tactics, what time the event will start as to which heat number they want to be in. Shaun Manners says he wants the meatiest heat, a claim he backs up when he slaps his name next to last year’s winner Balaram Stack. The Florence brothers stack up in the same heat, as do Coco Ho, Frankie Harrer and Laura Enever. Something they’ve been wishing for all day they say. The North Shore magic already starting to play out. The anticipation gets the better of all of us. Most peel off to Turtle Bay for Mai Tai’s, but a group of us head back to safe lands of the mansion. I’m immediately handed a fist of mushies. I politely accept. Melting, laughing, watching. I get home at 5am. I think.
The opening ceremony kicks off which is just a roulette of who is still awake from the night before and who was lucky enough to maybe get three hours of sleep. Nevertheless it’s beautiful. Everyone makes it through without vomiting. Thankfully for just about everyone involved the comp is on hold for today. Free day to recover. We’re invited to a BBQ at Steve Van Doren’s house right on the shoreline of Sunset. We eat, chill, hang and dream about what it might be like to live in a place like this. It’s first early night ready for the comp to kick off tomorrow.
An 8am start on the sand with the men's kicking off first. Having watched on the bustling crowd of Pipe on the first day I arrived I can see now why an event like this must be something pretty special to be invited to. Perfect Pipe with only four people out? You’re kidding. Everyone is on fire, the beach is packed, the surfing is immaculate. There is a photo snagged of me between the Stab and Wasted Talent boys. I joke I’m the rose between two thorns, but we all know there is an underlying respect and gratitude of why we are here. Mikey Feb steals the show with Backdoor sections in my opinion. Actually nah, everyone does. It’s a big day in the sun and we’re all pretty blasted. We head back to Turtle Bay for a nap and a freshen up ahead of Harry Byrant’s premiere of Motel Hell. Having been to one back home in Australia, I knew we were in for a big night. It was also the last night the Quik boys had their mansion so of course a send off was in order. I strategically jump in with one of the other media girls who is offering a lift. She complains she’s already got two fines and doesn’t laugh when I make a joke about Jeeps, of which she is driving. There’s a lot to be said about the reception of all the surf films at the moment, and this one no less. Everyone is absolutely hyped, an ode to Dave Fox and all the cameos of the surfers involved. This translates directly to the night’s vibe and tenacity of people wanting to party. We each find our way back to the mansion. I somehow snag a lift with strict orders to bring back at least a case each of beer. We oblige and then some. For the most part, the parties at the mansion have been of the smaller Australian and South African crew and Quik boys on the Island for filming but we arrive to a house full of strangers as well as the Vans skate team. It is a melting pot of talent, dehydration, friends and beer. By some miracle, I jump in an Uber at 3am with some of the Vans skate guys who are staying at Turtle Bay as well. We part ways at the elevators and tell each other to drink a glass of water. This is where friendships are formed.
Day two of competition. The waves are smaller, a parallel representation of my tolerance for alcohol at this point, and yet everyone is still throwing down of which I feel pressure to do. I’m sunburnt by 11am and hoping a liquid doctor will fix me up. Holly Wawn is doing the world’s best job as a commentator, putting all of us severely hungover media to shame. We peel off around 2pm to check out the Skate Jam at Bonzoi Skate Park up the road. Curren Caples, Rowan Zorilla, Elijah Berle and Noah Carson are putting on an impressive show of skating not just because of the 4000 thousand degree heat but because I know that they are as hungover as me. An early call off of the surfing for tomorrow arrives by text. Pizzas arrive, another case of beer. Here we go again. We try to find shade in the carpark as hundreds of kids run laps of the park. SVD invites us back to his house for another BBQ where we load up on poke and free beer. With the Quik house moved out, it’s off to Turtle Bay for Mai Tais, a drink I have been actively avoiding. Somehow I get through two. Or maybe it was three. The bar shuts at 10:30 so we move outside to the Stoop. Nothing screams surfers and skaters on tour more than a group of people hanging outside a five star resort on a patch of grass with cases of beer and a boom box. A bunch of us pile into Curren and Rowan’s room after we too late realise hanging on the grass isn’t appropriate. Despite working for a magazine that covers skate, I know absolutely nothing about the sport, and yet I am humbled to find they are much the same as the surfing friends I have grown up with. Sure from the outside it looks like all they do is get paid to skate or surf (and party) but their drunken conversations reveal the enormous pressures they have to perform and grappling fear that it can all be taken away from them in one stupid move. I feel lucky in my position to be a part of this world without the camera being pointed at me and retire for the night immensely grateful to be here.
Tuesday. Or is it Monday. Honestly not sure at this point but it’s a day off. A BBQ at the Vans house in the evening is the only thing that gets me out of bed, as it is for everyone else by the looks of it. An early night’s sleep with finals forecasted for the next day.
It’s an early start on the beach and everyone is finally well rested. The women run first, with the waves picking up consistently with each heat. The calibre of surfing is indescribable. At this point I’m just impressed at even being able to paddle out. A reshuffling of the heats with the rising swell sees the women’s final run earlier in the morning. Moana Jones-Wong takes the win, with Molly Picklum in second. Then it’s back to the boys with celebration beers cracked already. Harry Bryant scores a perfect 30. One for the Aussies. The waves peak but the wind is chaos. John John wins, of course. The Hawaiians are well deserved champions of their home break. The rest of the night? Well, it was three separate parties. A notable stop at Lei Lei’s, with Mason Ho happiness at an all time high from a fresh yes from popping the question. Then onto the Volcom house and a house party. I watch on as eighteen year olds are beside themselves as the likes of Coco and Ivan roll in to have a beer. The night ends with Shaun Manners putting some cowboy song on the speaker at the Vans house. I dip out quietly, knowing I have to be up early in the morning to return my car in Honolulu but mostly because I don’t want to say goodbye and admit this whirlwind of a week is finally at a close. Naz said visitors to Hawaii have a bad habit of taking more than they give. I feel guilty now because I came here with just a suitcase and leave with more friends, memories and a hangover than I thought was possible from a week. All I have is this silly little story and a couple of film photos to show for it. Next year I’ll remember to bring presents. I hope I get invited back.
A special thanks to Vans and personally to George Pedrick, Tom Cole, Robin Pailler, Holly Wawn, Naz Kawakami and the countless other legends who made this trip so memorable and for giving me a place to sleep.