I nod, finishing the last of the haupia just as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. He outlines how the contest will unfold: it’s an independent surf event, with participants evaluated on technical skill, strategy, wave selection, and tube riding. Holden adds that this particular comp is judged on a scale of zero to twelve—not the standard ten—since it’s used by some of the higher-level organizers to scout talent.
Most of that flies over my head.
What doesn’t, though, are the waves.
I glance out at the ocean, at the line of surfers wading into the deeper breaks, and my mouth instantly goes dry. Here, near theshore, the waves had been strong enough to knock me off the board all morning—but those were nothing compared to what’s out there now. Out there, they’re massive. Towering. Churning beasts that look like they could swallow a person whole and spit out the splinters of their surfboard after.
I watched the girls surf close to the shore earlier and felt nervous enough. But this? This looks downright apocalyptic.
I must be staring, because I feel Holden’s eyes on me.
“He’ll be fine, you know,” he says softly.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he’s been surfing since he could stand. And he’s been handling the North Shore pipeline for years. This isn’t scary for him—it’s familiar. And he’s good.”
Over the speakers, the announcer starts detailing the dangers of the Banzai Pipeline—the way it barrels over a shallow reef, the precision it demands, the level of experience it takes to survive a wipeout.
I swallow, hard, and try to ease the tightness in my chest. This might feel terrifying to me, but it’s something my friends love. Something Theo is incredibly good at. If they trust it—and him—maybe I can too.
The number of people in the water is… staggering. Hundreds, probably. They’re scattered in clusters, forming teams of sorts, according to Holden—and from the way heads turn and cameras lift, some of them are clearly big names.
I watch as a few surfers brave the first massive sets. “Howdo they know whose turn it is?” I ask.
Holden considers for a beat, his gaze locked on where Theo and Nate are paddling out, both now wearing helmets. “It’s kind of a complex equation,” he says. “There’s a hierarchy out there. Locals or people who’ve spent serious time in these waves usually take the lead.”
Maya nods from where she’s lounging at the edge of our group. “Skill, confidence, and attitude count too. Some surfers know how to read the break better than others—and they’re not afraid to take what they want.”
I nod, absorbing it all. I’ve heard about Theo’s surfing from Kai more than once—how he’s just as cocky in the water as he is on land. But also how it doesn’t come off as arrogance, not really. Just ease. Like the ocean isn’t something to conquer for him, but something to move with. And now, watching him out there, I can see it—he moves like the whole lineup is his playground.
Two hours later, I have to get up and walk it off. Theo’s caught two waves—clean exits both times—and the crowd roared for him. Nate made it out once and wiped out once, which earned a round of cheers from my friends. Apparently, he “fell well,” minimizing the risk of injury.
It reminds me of how unsafe most water sports are. Scuba diving, for instance, isn’t covered by most insurance policies—not because it’s inherently reckless, but because the variables can multiply faster than the body can adapt. Similar risks apply to free diving, spearfishing, even some forms of research. But watching a girl pulled unconscious from the water—her body slack as they lift her onto a jet ski—pushes me out of my comfort zone entirely. I need a breather.
I walk toward the volcanic rocks on the edge of the beach. The announcer’s voice still reaches me, but it’s faded—background static. My chest tightens in a familiar, clinical way: sensory overload, likelycompounded by adrenaline. I toe at a tidepool to give my nervous system something to regulate against.
“You okay?” The voice is rough, male, and very familiar. I don’t turn to see who it is. I don’t need to.
“It’s scary,” I say. My toe sends a ripple through the tidepool, and I watch it disturb a hermit crab that’s minding its own business. “I’m annoyed I can’t just enjoy it.”
That part frustrates me most.
I turn to face him then—my parents always said it was rude to hold a conversation with your back turned. Holden’s looking at me with concern, yes, but also with something softer: understanding. Like he knows exactly where I am in my head, and isn’t in any rush to pull me out.
“I love the ocean,” I say. “Which is probably why I fear it too. Just a little. You have to, right? You’d have to be naive not to. It’s not exactly tame. Doesn’t matter how skilled you are or how much you know—it doesn’t care.”
He nods, not trying to contradict me. “You’re right to think that way.”
Right. He would agree. His entire academic career revolves around systems of unpredictability—storms, currents, atmospheric feedback loops. He knows intimately how indifferent the natural world can be.
“So how are you not scared for him?” I ask.
He exhales through his nose and steps up beside me, his shoes scraping against the rock. “Because it’s not randomness. Not really. Waves follow equations—wavelengths, periods, amplitudes. You know the physics.”
I nod. Of course I do. Energy transferred from wind to water. Fetch. Duration. Speed. All of it compounding, all of it observable—at least in theory. But knowing what builds a wave and choosing to stand infront of it are two different things. No amount of theory prepares you for a wall of water taller than your childhood home.
“Theo’s not reckless,” he says, gaze fixed on the lineup. “He understands wave mechanics better than most PhD candidates I know. Every ride is a calculation. He’s studied how to fall, how to protect vital areas on impact, how to read swell intervals. The risk is mitigated—not eliminated—but still.”
