The Maui Effect (Man-Made Trilogy #1)

Steep and Deep

Dane

The morning started with the usual rituals, while ‘Iwa still slept. Dane woke up at 3:00 a.m. and couldn’t fall back asleep, so he climbed out of bed at quarter to four, brewed an oversized pot of coffee and stretched his body. Yeti rose a half hour later, meditated, then drank a mushroom tea that tasted like dirt. No one else ever touched it. Kama rolled out of bed late, on Hawaiian time, chipper and ready to take on the world. Hope buzzed around with her checklist, organizing and ordering everyone around in a loving way.

Dane had been nervous to bring ‘Iwa into the mix for this trip, and he hadn’t even told anyone until they were already on the way. Too big a risk. He dropped the news when they were about to pull out of Yeti’s garage.

“By the way, I have to make a stop at SFO,” he’d said.

No questions asked, they all knew exactly what was going on. Kama grinned, Yeti nodded once, Hope rolled her eyes, and that was that. Having ‘Iwa in California had given him the same kind of high as pulling into a stand-up barrel on a sheet glass day.

Fog pooled under the street lamps as they made their way to Pillar Point Harbor, turning the morning an eerie yellow. The boat ramp buzzed with trucks and boats and skis, and hordes of amped-up surfers in wetsuits and beanies, coffee flasks in every hand. Each vehicle that rolled in had board bags or boards stacked high on its racks. Rainbows of expensive fiberglass. Dane had brought a 10′2″, his trusty big wave gun, with a 9′8″ as backup, in case the waves were smaller than anticipated. Both mint green, his signature color.

Until they made it out in the water, there was no way to tell what the waves were doing. A consistent roar came off the ocean, stirring up sea spray, adrenaline and stoke. It coated everything—boards, jet skis, cars. Jeff and Hilton showed up soon after they arrived, and Dane introduced them to ‘Iwa, who was wrapped head to toe in Patagonia he had handpicked at their headquarters in Ventura. Jacket, beanie, fleece, even a wetsuit—but that was for later. One of the perks of being an ambassador.

“Take good care of her and keep her dry. She has tropical blood,” he told them.

‘Iwa laughed. “You forget I swim in ice water streams high on a volcano.”

“Not the same.”

Hilton and Jeff were two top surf photographers, and Dane felt lucky to have them on his team. Nowadays, in the remote places they were riding waves, you brought your own. The XXL was a different beast than the pro circuit with its staff photographers and hundreds of freelancers. And the XXL judges took their job seriously, with help from researchers at Scripps Institute for Oceanography. They weren’t just looking at the photograph or video; they took into account tides and sunlight, something called wave setup phenomenon, the height of the surfer, and a whole slew of other fine details. Last year, the analysis explaining the winning wave had been fourteen pages long.

Dane gave ‘Iwa a hug, leaning in and pressing his forehead against hers. “Wish us luck.”

No matter how many times he did this, the fear remained.

“E ho‘oikaika nō,” she said.

A puff of steam came from her mouth when she spoke, and he felt doubly blessed by her words and her warm breath.

“Be ready,” he said.

A crease formed between her eyes. “Ready for what?”

“To ride on the ski with me later.”

She nodded him off. “I’m fine in the boat, Dane, really I am.”

“I didn’t bring you here to leave you on a boat with two other guys all day. I promise, you’ll love it.”

The look on her face said otherwise, but she smiled and said, “We’ll see.”

In the world of big wave surfing, there were heavies among the heavies, and Mavericks was the West Coast’s saltwater bad boy. A monstrous green slab of heavy water. Some waves were in a league of their own, a surfer’s paradise or worst nightmare, depending on a number of variables. Swell direction, wave height, wind speed, water temperature, marine life (aka sharks, especially great whites), coastline topography (aka deadly rocks), which all conspired to enlighten you or rip you to shreds.

As far as Dane was concerned Teahupo’o in Tahiti took top honors in the heavy department. In a weird twist of bathymetry, the water sucked out so you were actually below sea level when on the wave. But the wave’s hollow barrel and crystalline water somehow made it doable. If any wave was a freak of nature, Chopes—as everyone called it—was it .

Then you had Cloudbreak in Fiji, which would be the world’s most perfect wave if it weren’t so shifty, with a razor-sharp living reef waiting for you, jaws wide open. He had the scars on his back to prove it. Dungeons in South Africa, with its double ups, unpredictability and shark-infested water, was Dane’s least favorite. Hold-downs there were legendary—long and dark and vicious. One of his favorites was Waimea, big wave surfing’s original darling, but now Waimea had become so crowded it was almost pointless to go—unless you were in the Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational, which only ran every few years.

There were also a few outliers. Cortes Banks was in a realm all its own—one hundred miles off Southern California, waves seemingly formed out of nowhere. An ancient island called Kinkipar had left behind shoals surrounded by deep, deep water, and those shoals caught giant swells that were sometimes rideable. If anyone dared. Dane dared once, and watched another surfer nearly drown under the mountain of whitewater. The boat ride back to shore took hours. Knowing CPR was a given; they were all certified.

As Mark Foo once said, “If you want the ultimate thrill, you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price.” In 1994, Foo had paid the price—at Mavericks.

Nazaré was another outlier. The newest initiate. The one now looming large in Dane’s psyche. The next frontier, waiting to be ridden. But right now, he was at Mavericks, and Mavericks demanded his full attention.

There was always a moment of boiling anticipation as they approached, before the wave came into view. Thunder reverberated through his teeth, letting him know the ocean meant business. The sun was still trapped in the fog and sea spray. It was hard to see anything through the veil, and they gave the boneyard—rocks on the point—a very wide berth. Several boats and skis had beat them out and were circling like vultures, but with visibility so low, it would be suicide to attempt to ride.

“What do you want to do?” Kama asked.

“Wait.”

Yeti and Hope were close behind, but the boat broke away, and went farther outside and into the safety of the channel. The last thing anyone wanted was to be caught inside when a freak set swung in. But it happened. Dane had seen it more than once. Yard sale in the impact zone. Dangerous for everyone.

Nineteen minutes later, the sun burned through the clouds, thinning the fog and dropping pools of light on the ocean’s surface. At the same time, a set moved toward the break. Dane and Kama both stood up on the ski to gain a better view.

Then Kama said, “Ho-ly shiiiiit!”

A mountain range on the move.

Dane felt a squeeze in his chest. “Damn, looks like she’s awake.” He glanced toward the boat and waved them farther into the channel. Not that he needed to, because Captain Lenny had already seen what was coming. “Easy, biggest swell of the season.”

They watched wave after perfect wave hit the reef and jack up into A-frames and barrels big enough to drive a school bus through. The only two guys in the lineup had scratched for the horizon when they’d seen the set, and were now sitting in the channel, no doubt shitting their pants. Explosions of whitewater turned the whole inside into a white and frothy cauldron. That was actually the name—The Cauldron, just inside the Corner, where boils and whirlpools and riptides would readily drag you across the bottom or pull you into the abyss given the chance.

“Ready?” Kama asked.

“Roger.”

Dane threw his board in the water, jumped on, crossed himself and grabbed the rope. Slow and even breaths through his nose dropped him into the space where he noticed everything and nothing all at once. Water droplets on his board, a pelican skimming the glass in front of him, the pungent smell of broken-up kelp.

Mavericks was a right-hand break, but the occasional hellman would go left, if the opportunity arose. Lefts were out of the question today. Within minutes, the two guys from the channel, legends Jeff Clark and Peter Mel, came over, as did Yeti and a couple north shore O‘ahu guys. The big wave brotherhood was small enough that most of them knew each other or at least of each other.

“Any Outer Bowl action?” Dane asked Peter.

“Not yet.”

Whenever they were paddling in, Yeti had a penchant for sitting outside and deeper than everyone else. He usually caught fewer waves, but was more discerning and only took off when all things aligned, which meant he rarely wiped out. The difference in danger levels between Mavericks and Waimea or Pe’ahi was all in the cold water, and if you weren’t used to wearing a wetsuit, it could feel suffocating and restrictive.

But none of these things were going through Dane’s mind. A set was coming in, and all his senses heightened. Not as big as the last, but still big. Jeff took the first wave, a steep one with a spooky face, Peter took the next, and Dane got thirds. Dusty and Mark were screaming “Go, go, go” as Kama pulled him up to the high point, then dropped him into a near free fall, several stories down. Thank God for the oil slick conditions, or his nose would have caught a bump and sent him. He made a sweeping bottom turn, then came back up, picked a line, just trying to stay ahead of the cracking lip. Next thing he knew, he was on the shoulder, wave over, legs burning, his whole body smiling. A series of calls, whistles and yells came from the channel and the lineup.

That’s how it was there—every wave, every guy. Either cheers or groans, depending on how things went.

And so it went for the next few hours. As the tide dropped, the waves hollowed out and became more consistent. Dane and Kama switched places a few times, then Hope and Yeti switched. There were now about twenty-five guys out. Most knew what they were doing, but a cocky kid from Brazil who kept taking off way too deep got slammed by the lip, broke his leash and was dragged inside. Dane could see him stuck in the froth and getting pulled toward the rocks.

“He’s in trouble,” Kama yelled.

Dane waved down Yeti and hopped on, leaving his board with Kama. Dane climbed in front with no objection from Yeti. They all knew Dane was the guy you wanted driving the ski when things got really hairy. The kid’s head was bobbing around like a coconut. Dane drove in as far as he could safely, keeping one eye on the kid and one eye on the surf. Then the kid’s head went under, and stayed under. If Dane and Yeti went in, they risked getting slammed into the rocks themselves, but if they didn’t, there was a good chance the kid would die.

Full throttle, they beelined just inside of where he had gone under. Come on, come up! But the kid didn’t come up.

“Outside,” Yeti said calmly, as if announcing Dane’s tea was ready.

Dane turned to see the first wave of the set about to break. That meant they only had seconds to get out of there. Whitewater thundered on rock. Spray shot fifty feet in the air. Fragments of light fell around them. Everything went quiet, and he heard his mother’s voice. You are never more alone than in the ocean, and yet the ocean is always with you. Best friend, worst enemy. Murderer. Savior.

He arced a quick turn, and as he did, he saw something red just beneath the surface up ahead. The kid’s wetsuit. Then a head popped up.

He slowed. “Grab him!”

You could tell by the dazed look on his face, the kid didn’t know which way was up. But Yeti knew the drill, leaned down and scooped the guy onto the sled behind the ski. All in one fluid motion. Dane punched it as a wall of whitewater came at them.

“Hold on!” he called back to Yeti.

There was no way through it, so he turned in and headed toward the cliffs, then skirted along toward a narrow gap of calm between the chaos. They were feet away from the skull-crushing boulders of the boneyard. Yeti remained silent and stoic in the back, lying on top of the other guy to keep him on the sled. The next line of foam was bigger than the last. This time, punching through it was the only option.

He thought he heard Yeti say “Fuck.”

Yeti never swore.

For a moment, Dane felt a sickening inertia, as though the ski might go over backward, but they made it over. A hard landing, then they were in the deep green water of the channel. Dane slowed to a crawl.

“Is he okay?” he asked.

“Seems to be, but I don’t think he speaks English.”

Yeti slid off the Brazilian, who rolled over and lay on his back, arms out. He was shaking. Whether from nerves or cold or injury, it was hard to tell.

“That red wetsuit probably saved your life,” Dane said, resisting the urge to tell him how reckless he’d been.

At the boat, ‘Iwa and Jeff stood on the side waiting and helped Yeti transfer the guy aboard. Jeff wrapped a blanket over the trembling kid, who nodded his appreciation. These were the kinds of experiences that stayed with a person and shaped the way you approached surfing and life. Hopefully, it would be a valuable learning experience. School of long hold-downs.

Dane shook his head and smiled at ‘Iwa. “Another day at the office.”

“You guys are a little bit crazy,” she said, cheeks pink from the cold.

“So I’m told.”

“I will admit, I’m a little bit in awe.”

Yeti turned off the ski and they floated alongside the boat. “Big waves are spiritual. We’re hardwired to be drawn to them.”

Dane was with him on that. It was the only explanation for why he kept throwing himself into life-ending situations time and time again. Kama and Hope came by with Dane’s board, then took off back to the lineup. Dane and Yeti joined them after downing an energy bar and one of Yeti’s power dirt mixes. Coffee, cacao, coconut butter, cinnamon, oat milk and a few secret ingredients he swore turned you into a Ninja. This one tasted miles better than the mushroom one, and had a kick.

Back in the crowded lineup, a new pulse had arrived, bumping up the size considerably. Dane had had plenty of good rides, but none big enough to be a contender for the XXL Big Wave Awards. Yeti turned around and gave him a glance, and Dane nodded. Without a word, Yeti drove them to the Outer Bowl, prepared to wait however long it took. One other team joined them, but kept their distance. Above, the sun crawled east to west. Dane took in every nuance in current, checking his place between the big satellite disc on the hill and Mushroom Rock.

Then, a mammoth appeared on the horizon. When it approached, the wave was much farther out and bigger than anything else that day. Yeti towed him out toward the wall of water, which was now standing up like a mutant.

“This one!” Dane yelled.

Yeti turned. “You sure?”

There was probably something ungodly behind it, ready to clean them all out. “Now or never.” Yeti whipped him in and Dane took the high line, speeding ahead to avoid the lip. The rail of his board carved into an olive green face, high as a cliff. Immaculate, deadly. Every pore in his body was firing.

This was not the kind of wave you fell on if you wanted to live. But if he did fall, he knew Yeti was there for him. A brotherhood of trust. The board hummed beneath his feet. Somehow, he managed to make that section and continue into the Corner, where all the other skis had scattered like sea lions from a shark. In pure survival mode, Dane crouched as low as he could, feet turned into gnarled old pines, rooted to the board.

And then he was out.

In the channel.

He threw his arms up, not claiming, but in prayer.

Wanting more.

The law of the ocean.