ABOVE: A bodysurfer dives in at Point Panic, on Oahu's South Shore. By law, Point Panic is bodysurfing-only—no boats, kayaks, surfboards or bodyboards allowed.
You know the waves are firing when the parking lot is packed by 7, and cars are lined up on the street. The regulars who've snagged a spot in the lot forgo a surf check and change on the fly. Towel around his waist, Roy rummages in his trunk for fins while Wayne slathers on a second coat of sunscreen. It's early, but anticipation buzzes through the crowd as regulars hug, shake hands and bump fists. "How is it?" someone calls from the far end of the lot. Darren, his dreadlocks and shorts still dripping from a dawn patrol session, gestures to the horizon, where blue swells roll toward shore. "Time fo' get out dea!" he laughs back.
In the waters by Kakaako Waterfront Park on Oahu's South Shore, Point Panic glitters, a crown jewel among the world's great bodysurfing spots. The dredging of nearby Kewalo Basin in the 1920s created two peaks: Kewalos on the Diamond Head side of the channel and on the Ewa side, the slow, peeling right-hander called Point Panic (or just "Panics"). Some say the name expresses the fear of surfers losing their boards in the pre-leash era or their terror at the prospect of colliding with the looming rock wall. Others credit the Surfaris' 1963 song "Point Panic," which followed their breakout hit, "Wipeout." However it got its name, there's no disputing that Point Panic is the ultimate stage for elite bodysurfers pulling off mind-boggling maneuvers: flips, belly spins, "el rollos," cutbacks, planing and—the pinnacle—barrel riding.
Bodysurfing, or kaha nalu, is a traditional Hawaiian form of wave riding. (Kaha means "to cut or soar"; nalu means "wave.") Using only their bodies, bodysurfers glide, dip and cut across a wave's face like a bird on the wing. Unlike hee nalu, or surfing, which was initially reserved for Hawaiian alii (royalty), bodysurfing was available to everyone, a true sport of the makaainana, the common people. Today it continues to be the most accessible and, some say, purest form of wave-riding, requiring nothing but fins (if even those).
Like surfers, bodysurfers have home breaks, gravitating toward spots like Makapuu, Sandy Beach and Point Panic. Erin Figueroa demonstrates her total commitment to Point Panic.
Point Panic's high-performance waves have consistently produced bodysurfing's elite for over fifty years, with young guns Kealii Punley (left) and Wyatt Yee (right) representing the new vanguard.
Foamball churning behind, Conrad Morgan finds the sweet spot.
Renowned for producing the sport's elite, Point Panic attracts bodysurfers from around the globe eager to test their mettle. This past summer, nearly a hundred bodysurfers from six continents descended on Point Panic at the first International Bodysurfing Association World Tour Finals. For many it was a chance to ride waves they'd seen only on YouTube or social media. Bodysurfers aren't always the most well heeled of athletes, and travel to Hawaii isn't cheap. A few days before the finals, a group of Peruvians, having scraped together only enough for airfare, pitched tents near the break. That same day, Australians fresh off a twelve-hour flight raced down the shoreline promenade like schoolchildren set free for the summer, their luggage bouncing behind them on the pavement. Panics regulars watched bemused as the giddy visitors pulled on their trunks, grabbed their fins and jumped in. Mayhem ensued, as if the keys to a bodysurfing Disneyland had been handed over. The visiting bodysurfers ricocheted all over the break, flinging themselves into every wave.
No one noticed as Uly, one of Panics' local legends, quietly descended the seawall to the water, fins casually slung over his shoulder. He slinked like a panther among the bobbing bodies as he made his way to the outside. From land a whistle pierced the air—a signal that something big was on the way. Uly stroked into position, pivoted and launched into the wave's most critical section, spinning his body in sync with its unfurling tube. The lip chandeliered over him; seconds later he emerged from behind the curtain and executed a nearly impossible 360-degree spin on his abdomen—a piece de resistance, an immaculate ride. Without so much as a glance back, Uly swam back to the seawall and climbed out.
The crowd whooped, splashing and cheering. "This is how it's done! This is how the Hawaiians do it!" With a single wave, Uly had delivered a master class in what Point Panic and its riders could do.
The point's heliotrope tree is a gathering spot for regulars like Darren Reyes, Jarrett Liu and Gene Lehano (seen left to right) to watch waves and talk story. Seen from the water, the tree marks where to sit in the lineup.
Tough wave. Tough crowd. Point Panic's reputation as a break for heavy-hitters (both in waves and personalities, like that of Kaleo Garlasa, seen above) belies the strength and love of the community surrounding it.
Alvin knows. At nearly 70, he knows this coastline well, having spent decades bodysurfing and diving for tako (octopus) here. He knows when Panics will turn on and from what direction the swell will hit. He knows where to sit in the lineup to catch prime waves. Alvin does not know smartphones, however, which means I must contact him the old-fashioned way: by landline. He responds to my rambling voicemail asking him to explain what makes Panics, well, Panics, not with a disquisition but an invitation: "You like take one dive?" he asks in his pidgin-inflected English. "Mo' bettah you see what's under da water."
We meet on an October morning. Autumn is the offseason, and the parking lot is empty save for a retiree strumming an ukulele and a construction worker on a smoking break. Along the promenade, the ocean sloshes against the rock wall, its surface muddled by brisk easterly trades.
"This whole area was one dump before," Alvin says, gesturing to the grassy hills of Kakaako Waterfront Park. The park's users and the residents of the new, glossy high-rises nearby are mostly unaware of this. In pre-contact days, Kukuluaeo (a Hawaiian stilt bird, or "to walk on stilts") was a desolate, soggy stretch of coral rubble and mudflats. By the 1920s it had become a dumping ground, a reeking wasteland between bustling Honolulu and burgeoning Waikiki. Every day for the next fifty years, garbage trucks hauled loads to the incinerators amid clouds of flies swarming over the spillover trash mounds. The landfill closed in 1977, and over the next twenty years, the site was cleaned up and transformed into a park.
"It was jus' one dirt and trash place," Alvin says of Panics' post-landfill, pre-park era. There was no parking lot. "People wen' drive their cars right up to da point." There also were no stairs, and the seawall was little more than a rocky ledge tilting haphazardly out toward the reef; bodysurfers had to carefully time their entry and exit. Today the concrete stairwell where Alvin and I gear up provides safer access—though getting in and out can still be hairy on a big day.
A bodysurfer catches a gem during a late-season swell, before Panics goes quiet during the winter months.
Today it's calm, though, and aama crabs scatter on the breakwater's boulders as we slip into the water. We cruise past a school of oama (juvenile goatfish) on our way out to a green buoy marking the edge of the channel. Connected to a concrete sinker by a chain, each link the size of man's palm, the six-thousand-pound buoy bobs placidly. Once, though, during a historic swell in the 1990s, a colossal set dragged the ten-ton sinker into the lineup. "It's still there," Alvin shrugs. "They wen' cut the chain and attach it to one 'nodda new sinker in da channel."
We leave the channel and head back to tour the reef. The coral here is unexpectedly shallow, only six or seven feet. The wave starts making sense: A shallow patch of reef accounts for the way a wave from the southeast pinches; a divot in the middle portion splits the wave into two sections on a straight south. And though the reef generally produces a rolling right, subtle differences in the reef topography create a variety of waves: a ripping longshot that dumps into the channel; a wide, sloping shoulder wave; a hollow, compact barrel; a double bowl.
Alvin leads me farther out, to a spot dubbed "Alvin's Corner." The wait for a wave here is long, lonely and often fruitless. Yet Alvin seems to score a lot of home runs because he knows what to look for. He points to an urchin-filled crevice, no different from the hundreds of others we've already passed. "Dis makes one boil," Alvin says, referring to pockets of trapped air that get forced upward when a wave passes, creating visible turbulence on the surface. A boil often indicates where surfers might find unusual wave formations. This one signals Alvin's favorite: a jaw-dropping freighter of a wave that thunders through the break.
"I always look fo' da bubbles," Alvin chuckles. "And yah, well, now you know, too."
Elite bodysurfers like Ulysses Matthews often prefer the element of surprise in the water. "You can tell more or less what a guy is going to do by how he sets up [the wave]," says Matthews, seen above. "I want to make sure that for my style, you're not going to know what my next move is."
When Garlasa arrived at Panics in the late '80s, he quickly realized it was a different beast compared to other bodysurfing spots like Sandy Beach. "I couldn't catch anything!" he remembers. But after trying a handboard, he got his first taste of gliding—and he was hooked. Today, Garlasa is widely admired for his ability to get the most out of every wave.
Sam—Wela to friends and family—is a Panics veteran. Like many local kids, his initiation into bodysurfing began with whomp sessions in the shorebreak at Sandy Beach, getting pummeled in exchange for a three-second shot of adrenaline-fueled glory. Sam had heard the lore about Point Panic but wasn't ready for what he saw when he got there as a teenager in the '80s: beautiful tubes, wide-open faces unfurling and feathering into the channel—a world of opportunity compared with Sandy's meat grinder. "Guys would take off and hold their line, disappear in the barrel, then make 'em out," Sam recalls as we sit under the shade of a heliotrope, planted nearly three decades ago during the park's renovation. Together with the buoy, the tree is now a Panics icon. Out in the water, bodysurfers wring last rides out of a fading, offseason swell. "Before Panics," Sam says, "I nevah saw anybody ride waves like this."
The learning curve for bodysurfers swapping shorebreak for a reef break can be steep. In addition to the constant swimming and bursts of sprinting and kicking, Panics requires knowledge of the wave—when to launch, when to stay high or pull into a barrel, when to hit the eject button. "You tink you good? Try comin' over here. You gotta learn how to tread water, then you gotta learn how to catch the waves," Sam says. "This is the place I actually learned how fo' ride."
Sam, like many older regulars, was in the lineup during Panics' heyday between the 1970s and early 2000s. Back then it was a maelstrom of rock and ocean and ego, all colliding into a rollicking good time. Aside from the threat of crashing into the seawall, bodysurfers dealt with unruly wakes and exhaust from the parade of boats going in and out of the harbor. Bloody aku (skipjack tuna) heads would drift into the lineup, courtesy of the fishing boats en route to the now-shuttered Hawaiian Tuna Packers cannery. Cleaning their catch as they headed in, the crews dumped their scraps into the channel, attracting sharks. And then there was the competition: Prior to the 1993 Hawaii Administrative Rule designating Point Panic as a bodysurfing-only zone, tensions among surfers, bodysurfers and boogie boarders added territoriality to the mix, as riders clashed over which discipline should take priority.
Kaha nalu, the Hawaiian term for bodysurfing, means to cut or to soar, like a bird, across a wave.
At times even friendly rivalries among bodysurfers got heated. "Everybody had one crew," says Jay, who started riding Panics in 1986. He ticks off a list. "The Papakolea boys from up da hill; Big Merv and the Kalihi guys; the Sandy's guys; Wela, Kaleo and Pedro; me and my friends Rob and Chad—the three of us against everybody!" he laughs. They postured, talked smack and heckled each other from the lineup to the shower to the parking lot. One crew of heavyweights liked to establish their presence by covering their faces with towels and T-shirts. With only sunglasses visible, the so-called "Toweliban" would saunter along the rock wall in full view of those already in the water, their message clear: The big dogs are here. "This place used to be like the Wild West," Sam laughs, shaking his head. "Almost every day, get one scrap."
Like other micro-communities that have emerged around storied breaks like Makaha and Kaiser Bowls, Point Panic has its hierarchy and a code of respect that helps to maintain order; its high-caliber wave requires it. Regulars were tired of outsiders, upstarts and amateurs who lacked not only the etiquette but the prowess necessary to survive Point Panic—without a lifeguard tower, rescues are up to the locals. "I never did get in one fight over waves and stuff, but I did have to save a lot of people," says Pedro, who's spent over four decades bodysurfing here. "Beginners go out there and test themselves, but you know, when they get too tired, they don't know how to come in and they get caught in the current."
Between the '80s and early 2000s especially, those who flouted the unspoken rules or disregarded the pecking order were swiftly corrected. Newcomers sitting on the peak would set off a ripple of glances among the core crew that said, "We ain't giving this guy a wave." A newbie refusing to stay on the inside would get burned at takeoff or outright dropped in on. Egregious transgressors would be chased out of the water, sometimes facing a posse throwing rocks down from the seawall. (This salvo could be avoided by taking the long swim across the channel to Kewalo.)
Gaining entry into the Point Panic community still isn't easy. Neophytes must learn etiquette fast or risk being vibed out—or worse, forced out. Being an experienced bodysurfer is no guarantee: Acceptance at Point Panic comes down to respect. "Here you always goin' get your locals, they goin' watch you," Sam says. "And if you can prove to them that you can ride one wave and you cool, then you know it's OK. But get some guys that gonna take a long time—years fo' let you in."
When a Panics swell is bombing, plan for an all-day affair. Philip Kitamura lays on extra sunscreen before an extended surf session.
In summer, when Point Panic offers its seasonal bounty, a colorful panoply of bodysurfers converges in the lot: attorneys, carpenters and garbage truck drivers; architects, mechanics and musicians; those who work in loi (taro patches), construction and even US Congress. (When he's not in DC, Senator Brian Schatz swaps his power suit for surf trunks; at Panics he's simply a local haole in the water.)
My own entry into the Point Panic world came at the behest of my cousin Kealii, who knew I needed something to buoy me during a rough time in my life. When he suggested I join him at Panics, I demurred. I knew about Panics' tough waves and even tougher, tightknit community. But Kealii insisted. "Eh! Everybody! Dis my cousin!" he yelled at the top of his lungs when we got to the lineup. Those around me nodded solemn hellos. Kealii saw my anxiety: I was a stranger in a strange land. "No worries, cuz," he reassured me, as if he already knew that Panics would offer a soft landing place and eventually a home, as it has for so many others.
"There's striation in the lineup," says Steve, a contractor whose time at Point Panic began nearly fifty years ago when he would tag along with his waterman father. "You've got people from every walk of life." On any given day you might spot Steve, a.k.a. the Vanilla Gorilla, powering his imposing physique into waves. Brown Dolphin and the Asian Monk Seal surf as gracefully as the creatures they're named for. Barrelcuda Bill torpedoes through tubes, while Coach remains composed under pressure, ready when the reform wave rolls through. Then there's Doc, with his surgically precise wave-reading skills, and Mr. Smooth, so called for doling out spinner after spinner with barely a splash. The list goes on: Ray-Ray, Chinaman, Pocho, Hot Sauce, Big John, Little Sean.
Point Panic personified: The break's homegrown legend, Honey Boy.
No moniker, however, reverberates across generations as much as Honey Boy, a Point Panic legend known for his ability to transform any wave into something beautiful—sublime in artistry and athletic grace. I'd met Honey Boy only a few times, but I knew he was exalted; you couldn't ignore the excitement his presence sparked. He was kind but reserved and spoke little about his bodysurfing days, like a king who had no need for boasting.
Honey Boy had been a core member of the OG Papakolea crew, the undisputed ringmasters and rainmakers of Point Panic between the 1970s and early 1990s. Back then there was no surf report to call, no web site to check. The crew would simply look down from their houses in Papakolea, a Hawaiian Home Lands neighborhood on the hill. If you couldn't catch a ride down, no problem—you'd hitch on one of the garbage trucks headed for the dump.
Bodysurfers young and old studied Honey Boy's every move—his bottom turns, his stalling tactics, the way he trimmed on a wave or threaded a barrel. Sam worked for months on a barrel maneuver that Honey Boy made look effortless. "I kept trying and trying, and one day I finally pulled it off—I felt like I'd won a gold medal. Honey Boy just nodded his head and said, 'OK, Hawaiian, now do it all the time.' He was in another dimension when it came to bodysurfing. To me he is bodysurfing personified." Pedro agrees: "Honey Boy was the poster boy of Point Panic."
Though many of Honey Boy's contemporaries at Panics have passed, their names are immortalized on a handmade plaque under a plumeria along the walkway to the point. While Honey Boy doesn't come around much anymore, his legacy lives in the talent of the generation after him. "Honey Boy," one old-timer shrugs. "He comes and goes with the wind."
As Kakaako becomes increasingly attractive for residential and commercial development, the future of Point Panic is uncertain. From the water, bodysurfers watch the tower cranes—steel bellwethers of urban sprawl and stymied access to the break.
The sign at Point Panic inspired a T-shirt design that included a playful riff on the bodysurfing-only rule: "Violators may be subject to cracks in the parking lot!"
But for now Point Panic remains a refuge for bodysurfers and home to a community whose tough exterior belies its generosity and aloha spirit. So, when an offseason swell is forecast for Oahu's South Shore, the call goes out and the community leaps into action, eager for a parking lot potluck. Jordan arrives early before church to help set up the pop-up tents. Willy and Jarrett, old hands for get-togethers like these, come loaded with grills, coolers and everything else to cook for the crew. Soon the tables overflow with butter mochi and kimchi, trays of fried noodles, somen salad and gandule rice. Bodysurfers of all ages gather around, talking story. Mel, beer in hand, recounts his recent surf trip to the Mentawai Islands in Indonesia, where he was the only bodysurfer among surfers. Gene, pulling up in his blue classic El Camino, revs the engine for fun. In the shade of a car's rear hatch, wahine bodysurfers Elf and Delori prep for another round, sticking duct tape over the blisters on their feet from an earlier session.
While watching Barrelcuda Bill take off on a large set wave to cheers from those back on shore, a lone figure near the seawall catches my eye. It's Honey Boy. On his red scooter, Honey Boy could be any local braddah out for a Sunday cruise. In a white polo and walking shorts, he appears tan and youthful despite his longish graying hair. We talk about his childhood in Palolo, his initial foray into bodysurfing, his love for Panics. He humors me as I recount the tales of his skill. He chuckles, eventually conceding, "I could put on a show."
"How did you always know where to be in the lineup?" I ask.
"The seabirds," he says, scanning the horizon. "They dive down into the aku piles," or schools, "then come back and head toward shore." Depending on the seabirds' movement, he could gauge wave size and direction and position himself before anyone knew what was coming. No magic, just keen observation of nature and a connection to the ocean. I laugh at the simple beauty behind it and am reminded of the meaning of kaha nalu: to soar like a bird.
Finding a spot along the seawall, I watch the action during what's likely to be the season's final swell. The bodysurfers, scattered like confetti throughout the lineup, take turns stroking into waves and gliding across the faces. I can't hear their conversations, but the sound of their laughter skips across the water.
