You Must Be This Tall to Ride

The dichotomy of heaven and hell often ascribed to Pipeline is played out to the nub. But what else can you call it when a 300° 8- to 10-foot west-northwest flexes over First Reef as the sun drips into Kaena Point, illuminating a flaring lip line licked by trade wind in a brilliant tint of gold?

What else but heavenly, when the winter carves into the foreground that idyllic sand gully they call Beaver Creek, where children—they, too, now outlined in gold by the glow of the sunset, like hallowed demigods—frolic and play while their fathers and mothers get blown out of barrels into the channel behind them?

What else but hellish, when the panic becomes palpable and the surfers in the lineup whistle and wave frantically toward the houses and a small crowd darts toward the shorebreak to help drag in someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s lifeless, gray body leaking that terrible, foamy surfactant from their mouth as the quiet creeps in and a lifeguard begins to pump violently at their chest?

Pipeline, always and forever, is one, the other, and often, astonishingly, both at the same time. In the year 2025, the wave itself is no less beautiful and no less dreadful than it’s ever been. No notes there.

But the scene has changed as of late. That much is true.

Once upon a time, when I’d have a peek at Pipeline from the beach access now sandwiched between the two Volcom houses, I would refrain from direct eye contact, bow my head, and remain quiet. Unseen. Deference was always best practice.

Once upon a time, I saw a citizen enforcer walk down, whistle a man out of the water—he complied, hands up in surrender—then slap him, tackle him to the sand, mount him, and beat his face to a bloody pulp in front of beachgoers and lifeguards. Lord knows the transgression.

Once upon a time, examples were made, and you were always aware that one could be you, so look the fuck alive.

“I think that whole dynamic is kind of done for the most part,” says Jamie O’Brien, Pipe 

Master and lifelong Pipeline devotee. “I think Tamayo [Perry] was kind of the last real verbal enforcer. If someone gets in a fight at Pipeline these days, you could Surfline-rewind it. There’s 10 drones up in the sky, 100 iPhones on the beach, water photographers, GoPros, land photographers. You’re not getting away with it.”

Pipeline has always been chaotic in the sense of bodily proximity in the lineup. But there once was an order of some kind that was understood. And there were consequences when that order was disrupted.

“I do think that people need to be educated,” continues O’Brien. “Not violently, but they should be corrected if they mess up and do something dangerous. Their mistake could mean life or death for someone—or themselves.”

Today, among the regulars and vets, there’s a unanimous consensus that there are far too many children and journeymen in the lineup.

“There’s a bit of a vacuum of regulation out there,” says Mark Healey, local and big-wave legend. “It’s not violent anymore. There’s just a lack of educated players. [The crowd] is mostly young, [and they] don’t know the rules of the road to keep everyone safe. I don’t blame them. 

They’re trying to make their mark. It’s crowded as hell. But they haven’t been in many social environments where their actions have consequences or where a hierarchy exists—where you learn how to read the room.”

Make no mistake: There is still a pecking order, still a ladder. But its rungs are blurry, if not invisible, to so many traveling surfers, seasonal contestants, and just plain oblivious groms. And if you happen to wonder where you might be on that ladder…you’re lower than you thought.

It’s a slow climb, with no shortcuts or cheat codes. Those high up know it takes decades. Ask surfers like Eli Olson, Billy Kemper, Kala Grace, Koa Rothman, and Moana Jones Wong, and they’ll tell you it’s young men like Jake Maki and Makana Pang who’ve been ascending lately. 

Young women like Chesney Guinotte and Skai Suitt are patiently climbing. And then there are those at the very top, due to experience and sheer dominance: O’Brien. John John, Nathan, and Ivan Florence. Kelly Slater. They get what they want. Even strangers know better than to sniff at what they’re paddling for.

“You got to earn it,” says Healey. “You earn space in the lineup. And I think there’s something special to that, which is definitely lost out there these days.”

Yet no one is immune to the consequences that the wave itself dispenses. No one is beyond its wrath. And the more epic days there are, the higher the likelihood of hell to pay.

During three weeks over the most recent winter, Pipe was 6 to 10 feet Hawaiian, on average, every single day. Sure, every local got their fill, but the house always wins. Local Backdoor specialist Lucas Godfrey broke his back. So did Tahiti’s most talented regularfooter, Eimeo Czermak, as he had the season prior. Makai McNamara drowned and nearly perished in front of his family and friends.

Every winter, it’s someone—normally, someone wildly capable out there. The unspoken truth is that the more you surf Pipeline, the better you get and, equally, the more likely you are to kill yourself.

“It’s just a numbers game,” says O’Brien. “The more you surf out there, the better waves you’re going to get, but also the more risk you’re putting yourself in. If there’s a few swells, maybe a couple guys get hurt, but if there’s 20 swells, there’s going to be a lot of guys getting hurt.”

“It’s one of those rude awakenings that seems to happen every year,” says diehard Pipeline water photographer Christa Funk. “And then it kind of goes out of everybody’s collective memory until the next person gets hurt.”

Indeed, for a time, those who get hurt become radioactive. Their name is not mentioned in the lineup, unless in hushed tones and with dramatic head-wagging. No one wants to catch the virus of their injury. No one wants to evoke its curse.

“It’s like they’re not in the lineup anymore. They’re not catching waves. They’re no longer in the conversation. It’s sad,” says Funk. “But maybe people need a wake-up call now and then. No one’s invincible out there.”

These days, lifeguards park a jet ski or two in the channel on the big days to keep watch and make timely saves. And more folks than ever are wearing helmets and impact vests to protect themselves out there.

“Fifteen years ago, there were only a couple people consistently wearing helmets, and even when I started wearing one, you got those looks like you’re jinxing them or something, you know?” recalls high-rung Pipe surfer Koa Smith.

“Five years ago, if there were, like, 100 guys out, maybe 10 were wearing helmets,” says O’Brien. “Now, with 100 guys out, I think there’s probably about 40 or 50 guys wearing them. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who you are. One wave at Pipeline can change your life, so I’ve just devoted myself to wearing a helmet pretty much on all waves of consequence—because life’s good.”

“It’s like white belts learning jujitsu trying to spar with black belts out there,” says Pipe Master Jones Wong. “The entire lineup is filled up with helmets now, because [people] think that if they put one on with an impact suit, they’re gonna be fine. But it’s so much more dangerous than that.”

“Pipeline is such a unique flower, because anyone can swim or paddle out to it,” says Funk. “You don’t need a jet ski. If you want to be out there and you have the requisite skills—or don’t—you can go out there. And that’s a recipe for disaster.”

And somehow, Pipe is still so extraordinarily inviting. Even if that invitation is so clearly deceiving.

[Feature image: Tiger Doerner. Photo by Shane Grace]