DECONSTRUCTING MECCA: A Geological Breakdown of Oahu's Fabled North Shore

Rock formations at Waimea; beautiful but only under the right conditions.

This unparalleled access, as much as anything else, has made it Mecca. It’s also responsible for the tsunami of imagery that the North Shore has produced over the decades. Since the earliest days when pioneering surfers like Greg Noll handed cameras to their girlfriends and said, “Catch this, honey,” no surfing coastline has been easier to film. At Waimea, surf movie progenitors like Bud Browne, John Severson, and Bruce Brown used to shoot sitting on the hoods of their cars. Sunset Beach’s parking lot still offers one of the best angles and even features shady palm trees. And Pipeline? Generations of portly surf photogs have made the short stroll down from Ke Nui Road to Ehukai Beach Park carrying their tripods and Sunset Store cornbread. Combine this orchestra-pit access with the fact that the rising sun and trade winds don’t hit until well into mid-morning—and when the sun does peak up from behind Pupukea Highlands it provides perfect front lighting—and you’ve got the surf-shot version of a photo booth. This front lighting, in particular, cannot be underestimated, the North Shore having served as a photo studio for the major surf publications for almost half of a century. Entire surfing careers have been based on North Shore front lighting, entire businesses dependent on the front-lit f-stop that has been featured in more advertising campaigns than any other shade in the sport’s palette. Without the North Shore’s particular lighting there would’ve been no Surfing Hollow Days, no Five Summer Stories, no Free Ride. No Pipeline Masters, and in turn, perhaps, no professional surfing circuit. Following the first successful Stubbies Pro in 1977 there was never another good day at Burleigh for a pro contest, and without the North Shore carrot dangling in front of those early pros’ noses, do you think they would’ve slogged their way through Sydney, Rio, and Nijiima slop for very long? No, the North Shore is what it is not only by virtue of being the easiest place to find waves like the North Shore’s, but also because it’s the easiest place in the world to be seen riding waves like the North Shore’s. It’s all about the vantage. In the 1970s it was Bernie’s house at Sunset, in the 1980s it was Lopez’s house at Pipeline, in the 1990s it was Benji’s house at Off the Wall and today it’s the Volcom house back at, well, what used to be Lopez’s house. But as much as the waves themselves, since guns were made out of wood, the North Shore scene has always been about being seen.

If you doubt this, ask yourself why so little of Hawaiian surfing—actual Hawaiian surfing, other than six weeks in November and December—finds its way into the surf media. Very little Town, no Waikiki, no Eastside, no Westside, no tandem, no canoe surfing, no paipo boarding, no Molokai, hardly any Maui, no Big Island, very little Kauai (scary locals and the Irons Brothers not withstanding); no China’s Contest or Buffalo’s Big Board or the Makahiki Games. In short, very little at all of what makes up the essence of Hawaiian surfing.

It’s almost as if the North Shore is its own island, detached and floating free from the rest of the Hawaiian Archipelago; from the rest of the sport, when judged by any curve we know. Like a fifth season of surfing, winter on the North Shore, with its amazing amalgamation of weather and surf conditions, will always stand out from the calendar year as more than just big swells, but as a major geological, meteorological, and sociological event. An annual event that, when you really break it all down, is unlike anything else out there.