st ory by Cimeron Morrissey photos by Linny Morris

» I ’ v e  j u s t  landeI’ma rwalking

n e d  a  s e c r e t  h a n d s h a k e .  It’s sunrise here on Oahu’s North Shore,
toward the ocean through a wild coconut grove. A radiant white-haired surfer, still
glistening from her dip in the sea, crosses my path. She glances at the 11-foot longboard balanced on
my head, then nods conspiratorially. It’s a Hawaiian surfer’s greeting that says: “You’re about to expe-
rience a rare joy that most will never know, but we do.” Just offshore, four women are bobbing in the
swells, basking in the secret I’m here to discover for myself. Five other ladies splash into the salty shal-
lows beside me. We’re all here because of the same reason: Queen Kelea. Hundreds of years ago, the
revered ancient Hawaiian chiefess surfed these same waters. Legend
has it that Kelea’s love for surfing not only attracted her king, but
also eventually drove her to leave him for one who lived closer to the
waves. I wonder what it is about Hawaii’s surf that has inspired such
devoted enthusiasm in women throughout the ages — and whether
a week at the Kelea Surf Spa will be enough to inspire me too. For
the moment, watching this tight-knit club of which I’m not a mem-
ber yet navigate the waves towering above them, all I feel is nervous.

New surfers
head out from
the Kelea Surf
Spa on Oahu.

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It’s been less than a year since her last chemotherapy
treatment and a little more than 10 years since her son
died. Yet here, in Hawaii’s warm water, all of that appears
to have washed away. “Surfing was the only reason I got
up in the morning,” she had whispered to me earlier,
looking out over the sea. “At one point, I couldn’t even
stand up, but I paddled out on my board, held on and
caught waves like it was a body board. I was so excited,
I’d be shouting ‘Yeah! Woo hoo!’” But I didn’t under-
stand. I kept asking how she had managed to surf while
suffering from the draining effects of chemo. “I can’t tell
you what it’s like,” she said. “You just have to experience
it for yourself. The world looks different when you’re out
surfing.” I grab my board, take a deep breath and jump in.
Senses heightened by the new and unknown, our
tribe of new surfers ooh and aah at the bands of pine-
apple sunlight stretching out through fluttering palm
fronds, the great green volcanic peaks standing sentry
in the distance and the skinny trumpet fish swimming
around us. Elenice Senn, co-founder of Kelea Surf Spa,
paddles behind me. “Some women who come to our
camp are afraid, but they give themselves an opportu-
nity to learn and they do it for themselves, just like Kelea.
She surfed for herself, and like her, women come here to
leave everything else behind and just enjoy surfing.” We
quietly skim across the surface of the sea, skirting an
outstretched shoulder of land covered with a feral forest
that’s layered as densely as a king’s feathered cloak. “Just
look around — there’s nothing like this anywhere else.”
I spot two enormous turtles swimming beneath my
board and nearly fall off when I crane my neck to watch
them. Gripping the board’s rails with white knuckles,
I look to the misty blue horizon to steady myself but
­teeter again when I see a bus-size humpback whale
shoot out of the water in the distance.
I’ve visited Hawaii more than 15 times. I’ve explored
hidden waterfalls to remote beaches. But being out in
the ocean at eye level with the water is a surprise.
In my daze, I’m caught off guard by a small wave that tosses me into an airy When she took to
cloud of whitewash. Holding my breath I plunge under the Pacific. My limbs go Hawaii’s waves,
Jeannie Chesser
limp at the eerie high-pitched song of whales that whistle and moan nearby, as found a respite
clear as if it were playing through headphones. I think of Kelea dipping her body from her battle
in the sea for kapu kai; my violent plunge is so different from the purification with cancer.
ceremony I am picturing Kelea taking part in. When the wave passes, I don’t
want to get up. Instead, I linger underwater as long as my lungs allow. Maybe to
become a real surfer, a true wahine, I need to keep falling in. | surf with pros >>

D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 9 islan d s . c om 43
 » I’m looking for real surfers. 
A mere mile and a half from my beginner’s lesson at the Kelea Surf Spa is the world-
famous Pipeline break, the proving ground, the legendary hollow wave that draws
the best surfers from around the globe. But right now the water looks flat. Still,
I count 80 people tightly bunched together beyond the break vying for a chance
to tame a demon that’s not there. Nearby, a multitude of long-lensed cameras
strapped to idle photographers are waiting. For what, I don’t know.
Amid the men furiously jockeying for position is a single pink rash guard. As the
woman wearing it rises and falls with the swell, I feel as if I’m sitting on my board
beside her instead of here on the solid beach. When I turn my gaze farther out on
the ocean, I see a liquid monster rise up to
become the size of a house in an instant, its
sheer vertical wall sucking all the water from
the shallow coral reef below. The pink-clad
surfer digs her arms into the swelling water
and outraces the men beside her. The guys
pull back and shout, “Go KK!” She weight-
lessly flies down the jaw of the beast and
disappears behind its teeth that threaten to
pulverize her. When the wave chomps down,
I gasp and feel the rush in my gut. My own
morning surf session is still fresh in my mind.
Then the wave spits her out the side of its
mouth and shoots her toward shore.
The cameras, quiet before, are now fir-
ing. I finally realize who is wearing the pink
rash guard: 31-year-old pro surfer Keala
Kennelly. I recognize her from Blue Crush, a
2002 hit movie about female surfers, which
was set here on Oahu’s North Shore. Many
credit the film, and Keala, for the current
boom in women’s surfing. Her name is
strikingly similar to Queen Kelea’s. But
Keala’s version of surfing seems like a dis-

k r i s t i n s c h o lt z / c ov e r e d i m ag e s / as p / g e t t y i m ag e s
tant relative of the sport that the ancients
Pro surfer Keala practiced with 25-foot solid-wood boards. Keala’s name is appropriate; she is
Kennelly (above and the new version of Hawaiian royalty. I request an audience with her. She agrees,
opposite) is often the
only woman facing and soon we’re sitting down at the local surfer bar, Shark Cove Grill.
down some of Oahu’s Noisy roosters walk past our table with puffed chests, followed closely by a group
fiercest waves. of male surfers still wet from Pipeline and Waimea who boast loudly about their
best rides of the day. When they see Keala, they grow silent, take a table nearby and
lean in to eavesdrop. “After Blue Crush, you saw a big boom in women’s surfing and
a big increase in the number of women in the water,” she says. “That movie made
the statement that surfing is not just for the boys, and a woman’s place doesn’t have
to be on the beach watching. Surfing can change your life, and so can this place.
And that’s open to women of all ages now.” The men raise their eyebrows and
snap upright in their chairs. I feel like taming the ocean. | catching the wave >>

44 D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 9 islan d s . c om D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 9 islan d s . c om
 » Maybe these girls — with their color-
coordinated outfits and luxurious agendas
— will also channel the restorative
powers of surf.

The beauty of
­Hawaii’s surf
culture: From
hip boutiques to
perfect breaks,
surfing is queen.

46 D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 9 islan d s . c om D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 9 islan d s . c om 47
 » My surfboard shatters
the smooth water.
As I paddle out, Maui’s Honolua Bay becomes a million glittering ripples. I
see exactly what Queen Kelea probably saw when she surfed these Hawaiian
waters: the knotty heads of old turtles that pop up for air, rainbow-striped par-
rotfish swimming past white coral and the limitless expanse of an empty ocean.
I glide past three young women with manicured nails that match their brand-
new rash guards in tropical fruit colors: bright guava pink, juicy papaya, ripe banana.
They’ve come straight from the spa and shops at the nearby Ritz-Carlton, Kapalua.
“Hey, no need to rough it when you go on a surf trip with
the girls,” one of them says, grinning. They’re luxe take
on surfing seems like a far cry from Queen Kelea. And
yet, maybe not. These are the same waves that compelled
the queen to leave her chief; they enabled Keala Kennelly
to initiate a revolution in women’s surfing; they helped
Jeannie Chesser get out of bed in the morning when
everything seemed hopeless. Maybe these girls, with their
color-coordinated outfits and luxurious agenda, will also
channel the restorative powers of surf.
I paddle out farther to a local man in his late 50s, and
he welcomes me with a slow smile and that all-too-familiar
nod. I ask him if he minds sharing the waves with me. His
shoulders relax as he sits up on his board. “Everybody out
here is part of a community,” he reassures me. “Surfing
is part of everyday life here.” What a wonderful gift the
Hawaiians’ ancestors have passed down. While we wait
for the swells with our slumped backs and swirling legs,
we compare the rounded contours of Molokai’s spine with
the whales that slowly rise from the water.
Then I feel the sun warm my back as the ocean lifts me
to the sky. A wave pulls me up its face, and in one motion,
I push myself up and pull my feet underneath me. The
intensity of the experience roots me to my sur-
roundings: I feel the ocean’s energy beneath Plan
my feet and water dancing down my arms and your
trip
legs. The whooshing sound of the crumbling p. 8 8

surf fills my ears as an almost magnetic connection binds

me to the swell. With a rare certainty, I can feel that
every tingling molecule of my being is perfectly synchro-
nized with nature and Hawaii at this exact moment. I’m
surfing. Laughing with abandon, I too soon fall back-
ward into the welcoming embrace of the warm water,
happy that I finally know the secret shared by surfers Hawaiian women
throughout the islands and the ages. As I later walk back have surfed Maui’s
to shore, my board tucked firmly under my dripping arm, Honolua Bay for
generations — and
I pass another surfer. I give her a nod, a knowing smile. will for years and
Hawaii will never look the same. islands.com/hawaii waves to come.

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