My friend Aaron arrived from Tokyo today to spend the long weekend with his girlfriend, who lives in Honolulu. It was a beautiful day, and they came round to fetch me at midday for a surf at 2 foot Log Cabins.
The waves were playful. Little wedges were peaking up and running off the reef into the shorebreak, serving up tasty rights and lefts. The water was a transparent, luminous blue, and you could see tropical fish swimming in the reef gulley’s under your feet. There were about 10 guys and girls sharing the surf up and down the beach, having fun and getting some turns in.
And then the metaphoric black cloud appeared. If this was a western movie, around now the cheesy guitar twang would sound, and there would be a shot of women and children running for cover on the main street. The sheriff might even have said, “Looks like trouble’s a brewing,” before he flicked his smoke onto the dusty street.
We were joined by a gang of 10 local beefcakes – all tattooed and gymed up, with Mohawks and big chains on their necks – and not one of them could actually surf. They were really just out there to shout about the bitches they were banging and the parties and the drugs, and to drop in on everyone who they didn’t know. They were trouble and were doing their best to make us and every other foreigner feel seriously unwelcome.
To prove that there is never a dull moment in Hawaii, one of the Brazilians who had been out there when we first arrived took exception to being burned on a little left and said so, and before anyone could blink, it was fight club - just without Brad Pitt this time.
It started out with a wolf whistle from their biggest member, who looked more like a troll than a human, and the whole crew of ten guys went straight into the beach. One of the scrawniest of the ten grabbed the Brazilian dude’s surfboard (screaming “wrong F+ckin beach bro!”) and started smashing it against a rock.
And then, with ten against one, they fought. The Brazilian held his own though, so the posse backed off and left it to their bro who had picked the fight. You could hear the smack of fist to face from the water, and blood flowed from eyes and noses. For a full 5 minutes, they beat the crap out of each other while the posse pushed them on, fuelling the fight by kicking sand and throwing rocks at the Brazilian, and at one stage the whistling troll climbed in and clubbed him on the back of his head with a rock.
Meanwhile in the surf, a few waves went unridden, a few waves were ridden and life quietly carried on because this happens all the time, so it's best to try and act like nothing's happening. Eventually the lifeguard arrived to break up the mayhem, and the crew came back into the surf pumped with testosterone and anger while on the beach, in a weird display of sportsmanship, the two exhausted fighters shook hands, fetched their boards (or, for the Brazilian, the remnants of his board) and then as the Brazilian walked up the beach, the other fighter came back into the surf to his bro’s.
It seemed to be over, but they weren’t satisfied.
Minutes later the Kona’s blew through, and everyone went in. The local crew were all on the beach now, behaving as before.
As a haole (white guy) it is accepted that if you look at the tough guy locals in the wrong way, you will get beaten up, such is the thuggery of North Shore localism. We walked up the beach to our car, heads bowed so as not to make eye contact, while they cat called Aaron’s girlfriend. We got to the carpark at the same time as they did, and changed out of our surf trunks as they wheel spun off down the Kam highway to find the Brazilian, just to make sure he never came back.
