Teenage Wasteland 

Mike Chipko had his front teeth knocked out in a drunken bar fight of which he had little recollection. He got a denture to fill the spaces. Sometimes he’d take it out and flash a cheeky smile. Tan, ripped, and toothless, he looked like a jailbird. The running joke was that at localized spots, he should take his teeth out. He’d get any wave he wanted. 

We were on the North Shore, winter of ’87/’88. The swell was giant and stormy. Over cups of strong Lion coffee on the deck of our rented apartment at Ke Iki Hale, we decided to head to the West Side. 

The group consisted of Matt, Rommel, Chipko, and me. Three Cali haoles and an Aussie. “Maybe we should take a sliver,” said Matt. 

“Sliver” was code for acid. Matt insisted that a small amount, a sliver, was the perfect surf-enhancer. I’d never done acid. My sister, six years my junior, had beaten me to the punch. I was nineteen. It was time. 

We all agreed that the acid was a great idea, and that we’d gather our stuff and leave in a half-hour. 

“Just got to hit Foodland real quick,” Chipko said. He ducked into his rental car and drove off. In his absence, Matt fished through his toiletry bag for the acid. 

“Shit,” he said, holding up a ziplock bag. “I’ve only got one hit left.” He inspected it in the light. “We either scrap the idea, or split it into thirds and keep it a secret from Chipko. There’s barely enough for three, let alone four.” 

We went with the proposed division. With a razor blade, Matt chopped the little square of paper (a mandala print) into thirds and we dropped it on our tongues. 

When Chipko returned we were strapping the boards onto Matt’s beater Celica wagon, bought from a pot dealer up Pupukea Heights for $200 and a secondhand Allan Byrne six-channel gun. 

He hopped out of his car with a bounce. “Psyched for the acid,” he said. 

“Oh man,” said Matt. “I totally spaced. I left it at home.” 

Chipko looked at Matt, at Rommel, at me. Grimacing, shaking his head, he hissed, “You guys are so full of shit,” and stormed into the apartment. A couple minutes later he stormed out with his board, strapped it to the roof of his rental car, and screeched away. 

We started coming on right around Schofield Barracks. Or at least I did. I was seated in the back. “Baba O’Riley” by the Who played on KPOI. At the dramatic “Don’t cry…” part, tears welled in my eyes. 

By the time we got to Nānākuli, all was revved-up: the shimmering turquoise water, the sweet-smelling warm breeze when Matt rolled down his window, the punch of orange Gatorade that we passed between us. 

Matt said something we couldn’t hear, his right hand gesturing conductor-like. Rommel turned down the music. “What’d you say?” 

“Just a little tingle,” said Matt. 

The first spot we checked was Maili Point. I knew it from a surf mag in my teens. Graffitied on a cinderblock wall lined with palm trees: “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here.” 

Jacked-up 4x4s filled the red-dirt parking lot. Across the reef, sparkling double-overhead lefts peeled. There were many riders. 

“Out there,” said Matt. 

“Out there,” trilled Rommel. 

By this time I was really feeling the acid. It kind of surged, kind of—as Matt put it—tingled. Pulling the boards from the roof, waxing up, smearing sunscreen across noses, fastening leashes, navigating slippery lava rocks, paddling for what seemed like forever to the lineup—it all required great effort and concentration. 

Stroking side by side, the water was balmy warm, the sun blindingly bright. The faster we paddled, the stronger the tingle, like you could control it. We followed the channel out and paddled across to the break. A set rose from that carpet of turquoise. The first wave heaved, wrapped. A barrel-shaped regularfoot on a bright-yellow longboard trimmed regally across it. 

The next wave was even bigger. There were many paddlers, and multiple riders, but as it took shape there were three. They were local-looking. They shared the double-overhead wall as if they’d rehearsed it. The surfer in the middle was the loosest— swivel-hipped, flaring arms. As he floated across the track of the husky longboarder in front it suddenly hit me: Chipko! Unmistakably motherfucking Chipko. I’d recognize that style anywhere. 

The wave got closer. As we paddled over the crest, Chipko stopped his dancing and looked us square in the eye. He flashed a smile. He’d taken his teeth out. 

[Feature Photo Caption: West Side check with (left to right) Allen Sarlo, Wes Laine, Jamie Brisick, and Mike Chipko. Photo by Jeff Divine.]