I Almost Died Twice In Hawaii
Okay, so how difficult can surfing be? Very! Believe me.
There I was in Hawaii in 1983 and I was in prime physical condition. Years of hiking up and down the mountains of B.C. plus bicycling, whitewater canoeing, backcountry skiing and windsurfing. Man, I was buff. Hey, stop laughing out there!
Friends took my consort and I to a “private” surfing spot where just the locals went. As soon as we got there, I quickly ascertained why. There were several outcroppings of ugly black lava rock rearing up from the surf. “Don’t worry, Willie, I’ll show you how to go between them” piped up my newly appointed coach.
“Remember when we body surfed off Cape Cod?” I asked sweety. Which was an absolute riot. “I gotta at least try this” I said as she shook her head in disgust then asked me for our keys and all my money and credit cards in case I didn’t return from this latest misadventure. “Gee, thanks for your confidence in my athletic abilities, DEAR!”
I was so pumped as I windmilled my arms to paddle out to the surf. “Um, those waves look a lot bigger out here than from shore!” I yelled to buddy. He showed me how to duck under the first few then
turn around and hop on the board as The Big One caught it. That part was no problem. It was my steering that was the problem. I naturally headed straight to the beach only to be thrown off by the wave.
I lost track how many times I attempted it. My shoulders were getting quite sore from the paddling but I just had to carve one wave before I quit.
“Okay, Willie, this is the one. It’s got your name on it. You’re gonna surf this bastard!”, I convinced myself. I got up and tilted my feet and WHOA I was riding the wave! I beamed a big smile to my coach. Then, getting a wee bit cocky, I started to wave to sweety and friends on the beach. Big mistake as that distracted me a tad from the job at hand as I got tossed. And violently! I’ll never forget being somersaulted several times and seeing the razor teeth of the black lava rock race inches past my eyes ready to rip my face and body to bloody shreds for the sharks to feed on. I kept waiting for the tempest to cease but it kept going and going. My lungs were close to bursting and I fully expected to be smashed onto the rock.
Finally, I hit the shallows! I could stand but I cut my feet on the rock trying to stabilize myself and get my bearings. “Yee haw, I’m alive! Did you see that? I was surfing!” For all of a few seconds, but dammit, I can proudly say that I surfed.
As if that wasn’t enough excitement, I decided to try parasailing.
Almost died again.
Moored off of Wakiki Beach, was a large inflatable raft. The unsuspecting “victim” would stand in the centre, get strapped into a
parachute harness and, as two assistants held the parasail, the “victim” was to run towards the edge of the raft as the boat sped away. The wind would fill the sail and pick up the “victim” who was then pulled around the bay for some panoramic views for a few minutes, then a gentle landing on the raft. All for the low, low fee of US $ 100.00.
“Watta ya say, honey? Ya wanna go for it?” My consort was rather nervous about the whole thing but, gamily, she said, “If you go first I might follow”.
So I slapped down my money and we got shuttled over to the raft. As the boys were strapping me in, I noticed that there was not a spotter in the boat. “Um, guys, why don’t you have a spotter? I’m an old water skier and I refuse to ski without a spotter.” “Don’t worry, see all those mirrors? The driver can keep an eye on you.” “Oh, okay, I guess.”
One of the guys hosed down the raft so it wouldn’t get too hot.
Sweety was trying to be calm, but I could tell she was getting quite distraught. Okay, showtime! The guys held up the sail and I started to run to the end of the raft but I slipped as it was too wet and dove headfirst into the ocean just as the boat took off, which dragged me faster, and deeper, into the denizens and towards razor sharp corals. Water was being forced down my nose and mouth as I struggled to get out of the harness and direct myself up. Thoughts of sharks in the bay filtered through my panic state. It seemed to go on for minutes and just as I was nearing my limits before drowning, the idiot boat driver finally realized he had a tad more drag on than normal and stopped the damn boat. Milliseconds before I was about to be smashed into some ugly coral!
I surfaced spluttering and coughing up sea water, choking for air. As the boat finally reached me, I could hear Sweety screaming away on the raft. The driver hauled my near-dead carcass in and we headed to the raft. Sweety was apoplectic with grief, thinking I was a goner.
After I coughed up a few gallons of the bay, I turned to the boys
and pronounced, “Let’s try again, guys, but my girl is in the boat as my spotter!” This time it went perfectly. I was airborne! I quickly learned how to pull the ropes to move up or down and swing back and forth. I was a natural! Then the moronic driver started to slow down; to the point that my feet were mere inches above the surface of the water. I could see those nasty corals then, gulp, a shark!
I flashed both of my thumbs up! In water ski sign language, one thumb up is “speed up slowly”. I hoped pinhead at the wheel understood to speed up quickly as I was not ready to lose a leg to Jaws. Sweety relayed the urgent message to him and got me up again, then I signaled to return to the raft, where I made a perfect landing. The 21st Ariborne Regiment could’ve signed me up right then and there.
That was enough excitement for one day.
There I was in Hawaii in 1983 and I was in prime physical condition. Years of hiking up and down the mountains of B.C. plus bicycling, whitewater canoeing, backcountry skiing and windsurfing. Man, I was buff. Hey, stop laughing out there!
Friends took my consort and I to a “private” surfing spot where just the locals went. As soon as we got there, I quickly ascertained why. There were several outcroppings of ugly black lava rock rearing up from the surf. “Don’t worry, Willie, I’ll show you how to go between them” piped up my newly appointed coach.
“Remember when we body surfed off Cape Cod?” I asked sweety. Which was an absolute riot. “I gotta at least try this” I said as she shook her head in disgust then asked me for our keys and all my money and credit cards in case I didn’t return from this latest misadventure. “Gee, thanks for your confidence in my athletic abilities, DEAR!”
I was so pumped as I windmilled my arms to paddle out to the surf. “Um, those waves look a lot bigger out here than from shore!” I yelled to buddy. He showed me how to duck under the first few then
turn around and hop on the board as The Big One caught it. That part was no problem. It was my steering that was the problem. I naturally headed straight to the beach only to be thrown off by the wave.
I lost track how many times I attempted it. My shoulders were getting quite sore from the paddling but I just had to carve one wave before I quit.
“Okay, Willie, this is the one. It’s got your name on it. You’re gonna surf this bastard!”, I convinced myself. I got up and tilted my feet and WHOA I was riding the wave! I beamed a big smile to my coach. Then, getting a wee bit cocky, I started to wave to sweety and friends on the beach. Big mistake as that distracted me a tad from the job at hand as I got tossed. And violently! I’ll never forget being somersaulted several times and seeing the razor teeth of the black lava rock race inches past my eyes ready to rip my face and body to bloody shreds for the sharks to feed on. I kept waiting for the tempest to cease but it kept going and going. My lungs were close to bursting and I fully expected to be smashed onto the rock.
Finally, I hit the shallows! I could stand but I cut my feet on the rock trying to stabilize myself and get my bearings. “Yee haw, I’m alive! Did you see that? I was surfing!” For all of a few seconds, but dammit, I can proudly say that I surfed.
As if that wasn’t enough excitement, I decided to try parasailing.
Almost died again.
Moored off of Wakiki Beach, was a large inflatable raft. The unsuspecting “victim” would stand in the centre, get strapped into a
parachute harness and, as two assistants held the parasail, the “victim” was to run towards the edge of the raft as the boat sped away. The wind would fill the sail and pick up the “victim” who was then pulled around the bay for some panoramic views for a few minutes, then a gentle landing on the raft. All for the low, low fee of US $ 100.00.
“Watta ya say, honey? Ya wanna go for it?” My consort was rather nervous about the whole thing but, gamily, she said, “If you go first I might follow”.
So I slapped down my money and we got shuttled over to the raft. As the boys were strapping me in, I noticed that there was not a spotter in the boat. “Um, guys, why don’t you have a spotter? I’m an old water skier and I refuse to ski without a spotter.” “Don’t worry, see all those mirrors? The driver can keep an eye on you.” “Oh, okay, I guess.”
One of the guys hosed down the raft so it wouldn’t get too hot.
Sweety was trying to be calm, but I could tell she was getting quite distraught. Okay, showtime! The guys held up the sail and I started to run to the end of the raft but I slipped as it was too wet and dove headfirst into the ocean just as the boat took off, which dragged me faster, and deeper, into the denizens and towards razor sharp corals. Water was being forced down my nose and mouth as I struggled to get out of the harness and direct myself up. Thoughts of sharks in the bay filtered through my panic state. It seemed to go on for minutes and just as I was nearing my limits before drowning, the idiot boat driver finally realized he had a tad more drag on than normal and stopped the damn boat. Milliseconds before I was about to be smashed into some ugly coral!
I surfaced spluttering and coughing up sea water, choking for air. As the boat finally reached me, I could hear Sweety screaming away on the raft. The driver hauled my near-dead carcass in and we headed to the raft. Sweety was apoplectic with grief, thinking I was a goner.
After I coughed up a few gallons of the bay, I turned to the boys
and pronounced, “Let’s try again, guys, but my girl is in the boat as my spotter!” This time it went perfectly. I was airborne! I quickly learned how to pull the ropes to move up or down and swing back and forth. I was a natural! Then the moronic driver started to slow down; to the point that my feet were mere inches above the surface of the water. I could see those nasty corals then, gulp, a shark!
I flashed both of my thumbs up! In water ski sign language, one thumb up is “speed up slowly”. I hoped pinhead at the wheel understood to speed up quickly as I was not ready to lose a leg to Jaws. Sweety relayed the urgent message to him and got me up again, then I signaled to return to the raft, where I made a perfect landing. The 21st Ariborne Regiment could’ve signed me up right then and there.
That was enough excitement for one day.
posted by Musings from Idle Acres | 5:24 p.m.
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