The closest I get to any sort of formal worship is bowing my head each time I enter the ocean in Hawai’i. There are three things I bow my head in gratitude to in these moments. Auntie Rell is one of them.
The other two are the gift of surfing and that inexpressible gulf between my experience of life and any precocious conceptualization of self I might have at any given moment. This is the precise gulf that allows me to feel that strange unity of being the activity of surfing in the ocean brings.
The only space that nears a shrine in my home is not dedicated to trophies or to any personal accomplishments. It is a photo of Auntie Rell at Makaha taken by Tom Keck that my mother gave me as a gift. It hangs in my living room, opposite a fish-inscribed bell made by a friend from the clay culled and carved from the deserts of Arizona. These are items that to me, signify an earthy humanity, a beingness that has not succumbed to steel and concrete. These items remind me of land and of water, and of what human beings might do with each, given creative license. On the one hand, clay is pulled from the deep, shaped, carved lovingly, then fired. These shapes are given the potential of sound, and where we have our bell in our home, it can only achieve such sound if the earth itself should shift, as California is wont to do on occasion.
On the other, there is the beauty of humanity dancing atop an ever shifting liquid ocean-scape. Caught in motion, as she is, all violent-soft droplets and blue-green foam caught in stillness, the precariousness of her balance is breathtaking. For those of us who know the experience, we recognize the fleeting moment captured by a talented photographer that can never be again. This image will speak beyond its birth many times over and will call silently to those attracted to the fleeting beauty of motion. This is the gift of professional photography that is so oft overlooked in the age of paralyzing instagramatics.
The reason Auntie Rell resides amongst my prayers in this quasi-formal worship is due to my parents’ relationship with longboard clubs in the 1990s. I fell amongst a rather special crew of human beings during this time that it took me years to appreciate. I was told so then, but it really began to sink in as Donald Takayama grasped my hand in a death-grip at Dale Velzy’s memorial at Dana Point in 2005.
Surfing is a young endeavor, one that allows us to interact with our legends, our heroes, and our greats in very intimate settings. It is not entirely unusual for a beginner to be in the same space as a pioneer or a world champion. Our activity still has a spirit that is, by and large, welcoming and mentor-based. Since it is an activity that takes years to learn, it is best to find a mentor to follow, even if it is on a session-by-session basis. Watching, observing, and mimicking is still the way surfing is best learned. Videos and live-feeds have upset this slightly but there are still too few of these to make a massive impact. It is still the day-to-day line-up that shapes the beginner and intermediate surfer.
Experiencing the longboard scene, as I did, in the 1990s, I was exposed to a ridiculous quantity of legends. Unbeknownst to me, I was observing and learning from surfers who had received the craft from the Duke himself, or were revolutionaries in their own right. Did I take this for granted? Of course I did! Their skill, their stories, their mannerisms were worn by the time I was 11 and 12. I was already looking beyond, to the Lisa Andersens and Kelly Slaters of the ASP world tour. My parents tried their best to help me appreciate what I was a part of, but I hungered for more, competing in the NSSA and other amateur shortboard contests.
In the midst of this, I continued to do the longboard club contests. At this time, the Oceanside Longboard Club held a special invitational for Rell Sunn as she was going through her breast cancer struggle. I competed… as a win-hungry grom, but with a strange sense of authenticity linked to not wearing a leash (a habit that drove my parents nuts). I was one of the only girls/women to leave my leash on the shore and Rell used this as a conversation starter at a O’side Club contest luau one summer.
I was a completely self-conscious 15 year old, sitting on the hot concrete benches in the O’side amphitheater. She must have turned to her left and noticed me there, picking my cuticles as I was wont to do when nervous. She scooted up next to me and started up a conversation. I was in awe and socially awkward (a trait I carry with me still) but she delved right in, remarking on my choice not to wear a leash. The rest was a blur, but I remember her encouraging me. She looked with her earthy eyes into my eyes of sky and spoke some magic surfing Aloha to my soul, much as Uncle Donald did over the years. I can only imagine, now, as I write this, that they might have seen something that I did not yet realize. I had more interactions with Auntie Rell than this and each moment was marked with a gravity that has never left me.
When I go to Auntie Rell’s memorial website and see Bethany Hamilton and Carissa Moore named as sponsors, along with others, and look at how they represent surfing, to be perfectly honest, I am not surprised. Auntie had a way of getting you to understand your importance and your responsibility to surfing, not “the sport”, not even “the lifestyle”, but as an approach to living.
So, each time I visit Hawai’i, no matter which island I visit, I know I must express my gratitude to Auntie and each time Honu rises beside me in the lineup, I tap the water and give thanks. Haole that I am, with no compass to understand the depth of this heritage I have been gifted, that I have, in the past, played Games of Thrones with, I do what I can to show gratitude and humility for an activity that has taught me, and continues to teach me, more than I could have known.
I continue to strive to be a humble student, Auntie. I am sorry when I fail, and I know I do often. So often. I have such a hard time teaching because I know I am such an awful student. So now you have my confession as to why I don’t teach beginners how to surf.
I do remember your words, Auntie, and I’m doing.
Mahalo and thank you.
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