The Bosses of Southern Japan

Without intel, a guide, or any real sense of whether there will be rideable waves, we receive only one concrete piece of information prior to our departure from Hawaii: Make sure to “check in” when we land in Japan. Between organizing a crew, filmer, tickets, and forecasting, it isn’t until we’re halfway between Honolulu and Narita that I find myself remembering this piece of insight—and start wondering what it means. Shit. Am I supposed to check into an establishment? Is there a certain someone I need to contact? Is it a brand?

On most exploratory surf trips that possess a high risk of getting skunked, procrastination is usually not a product of laziness but rather a deliberate way to ensure maximum probability of scoring. Even if all the data suggests great waves, it’s not unheard of for certain surfers to shelve expeditions—some of them years in the making—should a feeling be off. Unlike travelers who book trips months to years in advance, those who are comfortable waiting until the last second are often rewarded with the potential for uncrowded, favorable conditions. 

Our crew is small: Bryce Baker, a connoisseur of alternative crafts in all sizes of surf, and Miles Frazier, a filmmaker, both from Kauai, both well trained in the art of keeping things Kauait. Their willingness to take an international gamble had put them atop a short invitation list of traveling surfers who’ve dedicated their careers to the score. 

Somewhere over the Pacific, I unbuckle myself from my middle seat, politely ask my neighbor if I can use the restroom, and make my way over to Bryce.

“Hey, I think we need to check in with someone who lives near the wave.”

“Who?” Bryce asks. 

“I don’t know.”

A seemingly small hurdle quickly grows into a much larger mental complication: Will this jeopardize our score, or much worse? I remember the uncles at the Ala Moana Bowls speaking of a strict regulatory process in Japanese lineups. Once, I even overheard an uncle say that localism in Hawaii is nothing compared to some parts of Japan. 

I decide I need to phone a friend—and fast. I think of the most connected surfer I know. I walk back to my seat and log onto Starlink. Scrolling, scrolling. L, M, N, O, P. Here we go: Perkins, 

Shea. 

Bruddah, I text. I’m on my way to Japan and I gotta check in. Thoughts?

I put my phone down and wait. A nearly instant ping back. Typical Shea.

You need a connect?

I send a quick thumbs-up.  

He tells me to hang tight, that he should have something for me by the time I land.

I put my phone down. Ten minutes later, I get another ping. It’s Shea, texting me with an unknown number added to the thread.

Cliff, I have Eric here. I briefed him on the strike. Can you give him your itinerary? Where from, where to, and when you land? OK—we can use this chain to communicate unless Eric and yourself start another one.

The unknown number, “Eric,” sends a thumbs-up and a four-word text. 

Will be in touch.

I walk back to Bryce and tell him that we might have a connection on the ground when we land. 

Apparently, he’s also been busy. Wanting to help, he’s reached out to a close friend and photographer who just so happens to be traveling to the same area our group is targeting. 

“My friend U-Ske, a photographer, said he’s down to take us around and surf if we need to,” he says.

Perfect. A backup plan. Things seem to be working out nicely. I walk back to my seat. I find three missed texts from Eric.

Meeting with my team now.

I have update.

So we have contacts that would be able to potentially accommodate u. Keep in mind, Japanese localism is a whole different level. Lots of politics, especially in the region u guys are going. Some waves will require guidance. The folks we know are key figures so let me know if u would need their guidance.

I walk back to Bryce and fill him in. I ask him if we should have U-Ske grab us from the airport and then work with the locals once we’re settled on the ground. Things are becoming more complicated. I look at my phone again. Another text from Eric.

We have a point of contact (solid local) there. He would be able to host. However one stipulation. Cannot have other Japanese coordinator with u. It would have to be the three of u only. If u guys are down, I can pass u his cell number. Let me know how u wish to move forward.

I get a weird feeling. I go back and forth on different scenarios with Bryce. Things escalate. A new message pings.

Local will be waiting for ur call. Please call him as soon as u land to let him know.

Shit.

*

Dragging our boards out of customs, we see a slender and smiley Japanese couple waiting for us, both of them wearing fluorescent-orange Blak Bear Surf Club trucker hats. It’s U-Ske and his wife, Yoko, who have left their local zone and traveled overnight to come meet us. I look over at Bryce. 

“Brah, this is their culture,” he says. “I didn’t even ask them to grab us.” 

We greet each other and head to a restaurant for dinner. The longer our conversations last, the faster time slips by. We laugh at the cultural differences between the US, Hawaii, and Japan. 

We poke fun at ourselves as foreigners. The food is cheap, but the perspectives shared are rich—an evening of fellowship, kindness, and, most of all, respect. 

As the night ends, U-Ske asks us if we will see each other again the next day. I look over at Bryce and Miles. “Yes,” we say and nod. “Bright and early.” 

We check into our room and wash off. Just before turning out the lights, I hear Bryce laugh. 

“Yeah, boys. Hopefully the bosses don’t surf the rivermouth tomorrow. If they do, we might have a stipulation on our hands.”

Shit. 

*

It’s still dark when we arrive at the beach. We park near a boat harbor. When I ask how far the wave is, U-Ske replies with a smile.

“Close. Half a kilometer that way.”

It’s clear we aren’t in the local lot. 

We walk down a path and begin to climb what seems to be steps to nowhere—evacuation paths that provide refuge from tsunamis, one of Japan’s deadliest natural events. The walkways double as perfect wave-viewing platforms. 

We stop at the top of a set of stairs. 

The waves below us are small, barely chest high. The air is uncomfortably warm, even before dawn. It’s the day before the swell is supposed to arrive, and all the conditions seem to have lined up except for the waves, at least so far. 

We opt for the twins. Bryce grabs his Steve Lis.  I grab my Hayden. Miles grabs his Super 8, and U-Ske grabs his water housing. 

Walking down the beach, Bryce shares a bit of important information about U-Ske.

“So, U-Ske is, like, a really respected photographer in his zone. He’s from the wave that John guys scored. He helped make that session happen.”

I stop.

“You mean that one session from the Kai Neville movie?” I ask.

Bryce nods and continues.

“The bosses told him that they [JJF and Neville’s crew] couldn’t surf. They told U-Ske that if he wanted to see them surf, he couldn’t shoot it. So he sat on the beach and let their crew document it from the ocean. When I asked him why he let them have it, he told me that he had never seen it like that before. Perfect waves and perfect surfers. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Even if he couldn’t capture it, he wanted it to happen. He had to give up shooting his home break on the day of days for JJF to surf. U-Ske told me it hasn’t broken like that since.”

Looking back, I see U-Ske running with his gear, smiling ear to ear, a legend.

As the morning wears on, more locals enter the lineup. My thoughts drift back to the text from the day before. We don’t necessarily look like we fit in here. What if the heavy local is out now? I scan the lineup for potential bosses. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. The lineup is very orderly. 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see an older surfer, who is catching quite a bit of waves. He has tattoos and bleached-blond hair, and he’s wearing an FAB shirt. Is that him? I try to play it cool. 

I paddle near him and raise my eyebrows as a form of respect. He looks back at me, then looks away. I stare at him again and raise my eyebrows. He glances back at me and looks genuinely uncomfortable before paddling up the peak. Damn, I think to myself. That was awkward. Maybe we’re in the clear?

Several sets later, I hear a voice calling from the peak over. 

“CLIIIIIIIFFFF. Hi. CLIFFFF.” 

I look over, and there’s the most absurdly cheerful human I’ve ever seen, shouting across the lineup, radiating stoke.

“It’s me! Anri, your contact!” he screams.

That’s the boss? 

I paddle over, and within seconds, we’re laughing like old friends. We go through the usual Hawaiian protocol—who do you know, who knows you. Turns out, he’s tight with Bonga Perkins, Dino Miranda, and Lance Hookano, and he’s spent a bunch of time in Hawaii rolling with the progressive longboard crew. We crack up swapping stories about each of their quirks. 

Eventually, he asks if we’re hungry and says he’ll open up his surf-shop café just for us. I let him know we’re rolling with a friend and his wife from another region in Japan. 

There’s a pause, just long enough for my mind to start spinning scenarios: Is this gonna be a problem? Are U-Ske and Anri gonna be cool? Did I just set up some kind of turf war over breakfast?

Anri nods, shrugs it off. “No worries,” he says. “We can all talk at my shop.”

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But I guess that’s part of the adventure.

I paddle over to Bryce and point to the boss. We’re gonna go have a sit-down at his café. One more set. 

*

We step into a boutique surf shop. It’s small, curated, lined mostly with alternative shapes, plus a few progressive thrusters mixed in. Anri’s trophies line the walls, quiet reminders of his pedigree. He prepares açaí bowls and tea. I sit next to Bryce, feeling a little out of place. Then Bryce drops something on me.

Turns out, he speaks fluent Japanese.

This whole trip, and I had no idea. He helps me and Miles order food so we don’t completely embarrass ourselves. I catch Anri and U-Ske talking in the corner. Bryce leans over, nudging me. 

“Watch this.”

I look up just as Anri starts to bow. U-Ske smiles and bows back. Then Anri bows again. U-Ske follows. It’s turning into a full-on bow war. Bryce whispers, grinning: “Anri just said, ‘Oh, you’re that U-Ske? Oh yes, it is open for you as well.’”

Bow. Bow. Mutual respect locked in. We’re good.

We finish breakfast and head to another wave, the whole crew paddling out together. No cameras, no pressure—just surfing. Afterward, Anri insists on taking us to his favorite unagi spot. When we get there, the owners have already heard we’re from out of town and welcome us with sake from their personal stash.

Anri doesn’t stay for dinner. Instead, he steps out to grab omiyage—gifts, a Japanese tradition. The night stretches on. U-Ske and Yoko say they’ll meet us back at the hotel, but we end up back at Anri’s café instead, sitting around, the whole group talking story with him late into the night.

“The waves will be good tomorrow,” Anri finally says. “You must sleep.”

“How good?” I ask.

“Three barrels.”

“Like…three good ones?”

“No. Three barrels. One wave.”

Shit.

*

We wake up to a fire in the sky, showing us what it truly means to be in the Land of the Rising Sun. Back to the tsunami-step parking lot. But this time, the scene’s different—more people, more energy. Anri’s already there, waiting.

“I have some people who want to meet you guys. It’s okay?”

We nod. We wait. They arrive, handshakes all around, quick conversations, lots of mutual stoke. 

Then, just like that, they tell us to go surf. No hesitation. We oblige.

It’s as if Off The Wall had a love child with Trestles. Could this be the heaviest cobblestone point on the planet? What the hell is going on here?

Mid-session, we notice a few surfers from other prefectures sitting on the beach. They’ve been there all morning, boards untouched. Are they timing the paddle out? Waiting for the right window? Or is it just a bit too heavy for them? The lineup is empty. As we drift toward another peak, I glance back. The out-of-town surfers are finally moving. They hit the peak we’ve just left, standing tall in barrels, threading section after section. Every drop, every line—sharp, deliberate. Total mastery. Their attention to detail is next level.

I look over at Bryce.

“These guys rip. What took them so long?”

Bryce meets my gaze. “I think they were waiting for us to move off the peak before paddling out.”

Heavy.

What started as a quick morning session turns into a full-day affair. As the winds shift, we head back in. Anri and his crew are waiting for us. This time, he introduces us to a few older surfers.

“These are my friends.”

One of them turns to Bryce and asks, “You are Bryce Baker?”

Bryce nods.

“I follow you on Instagram.”

Bryce chuckles, a little embarrassed, then switches to Japanese, falling effortlessly into conversation. They ask if we’re surfing tomorrow. We say yes. Their faces light up.

“We will as well.”

They ask where we’re staying and tell us to eat at a specific restaurant nearby. A knowing look, a quiet invitation. We shake hands, thank them, and head out.

*

The next day, the swell’s dropped, but it’s still serving up gems. We keep the session short and head down the coast. We pull up to a new spot—perfect waves backed by crystal-clear rivers. 

We catch a few. Mostly, we just float. The moment sinks in. The water is like glass—tranquil, delicate. We laugh at the sheer absurdity of this trip, the highs, the unknowns, the hidden layers we’re only just beginning to understand.

Back at Anri’s beach, we see him again, but this time with his bosses. Bryce nudges me.

“That’s them,” he says quietly.

The waves aren’t perfect anymore. The wind’s onshore, the swell’s lumped together. Different vibe entirely. We paddle out anyway. The new crew does too. The waves are tricky, hard to catch, but the bosses? They wouldn’t have it any other way.

One of them, wearing extra-long Primo shorts, tells us about his time in Hanalei. 

“I love days like this,” he says. “Good waves, good friends. Just like Kauai.”

We laugh. We get slammed on the inside, tumbled on rock-bottom shorebreaks. And then we wash up on the sand—spent, salty, smiling.

We wrap up the session with a few more laughs, soaking in the last moments of this wild, unexpected ride. We thank them genuinely for their kindness, for letting us in. No contracts, no formalities, just respect exchanged in the water and on land.

As we start our walk back to the out-of-towners lot, one of the bosses calls out.

“Tell the right people about this wave.”

We nod.

“The only stipulation: Make sure to come back.”

Shit.

We will.