Molokai Hoe
October 8, 2006

A great race is always a treat… but a great scene from start to finish is what I always hope for, and the scene in Hawaii from my arrival Thursday night to coming home Monday night was SPECTACULAR!

Our team was primarily made up of former He’e Nalu paddlers fromMarin County, CA’s club of that name. But almost everyone had moved away, switched clubs, or come from elsewhere — a band of paddling renegades. Four of us had never done the Molokai before, but all were accomplished watermen.

We gathered at the home of Mike Scales, our team captain, in Lanikai (the hometown of last year’s winning club) and were immediately made to feel like family by Mike’s wife and son, Karen and Striker. (Striker’s 2.5 yrs old and already going out OC-1 surfing with Dad!) Friday morning after an early breakfast, the group of us who’darrived grabbed a pair of V-10′s, an S1-X, and OC-1 and OC-2 and headed out for some surf. We rounded a pair of islands called “TheMokes” and settled in to a break made for skis and OCs. Waves withup to 10′ faces would stand up and just get pointy at their peaks, but wouldn’t break as we screamed down the faces for 1/4 mile rides. Imagine 80 degree, crystal clear water, deep blue skies, a slightcooling breeze and an endless supply of swells. We’d catch a few on a ski, then play musical chairs and end up on an OC, then switchback. We knew we had to conserve some energy for the race on Sunday, but none of us could tear ourselves away. We kept riding waves, laughing and paddling back out for 2 hours. The highlight for me was at the end of the biggest wave and longest ride I’d had, which brought me in maybe a bit too close to the rocksoff “Flat Island.” As I made the turn, a 2-foot sea turtle is on thesurface right next to me, big ol’ grin on both our faces. PureAloha!!!

We feasted for lunch then took an OC-6 out for an hour or so to get in synch. Paddling out jumping over swells, with half this 45′ boatgoing airborne, was one of the funnest things I’d done. I couldn’tstop laughing! But even better was catching another of those bigswells on the way in, just screaming along. Man those things can surf! As we’re ripping along the face I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to try grabbing on to the gun’le at that speed to doa “water change” during the race. Surely it would be suicidal! When we got back to the beach, I asked our steersman, a local Hawaiian named Pat Shea, if the change still happened at that speed? “You better make it in!” he said. I gulped in fear. Saturday morning we flew out to Molokai, where the canoes had already been ferried out and a high-falutin’ tent camp awaited us racers. With the canoe rigged, we got registered, got our T-shirts, and alternated between swimming, napping and feasting for the rest of the day.

In total, 102 teams had entered, and had come from as far as Italy, Japan, Fiji, Australia, New Zealand, Vancouver, etc. Most of the team are Hawaiian clubs. Most racers, I gathered, dream of bigger conditions, as in 16-20 foot swells. The forecast for our race was, by local standards, “dead calm.” The trades wouldn’t really kick in, and nodistant storms were going to really contribute major swells. I was O.K. with this, and I thought it might actually favor our team of strong, fit paddlers who weren’t necessarily “gifted” at catching every wave and bump for extra boosts across the channel. Just a long, steady grind, like an ultra.

By 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, all 102 canoes were in the water, and at 7:24 the starting flag was raised and they were off. What an awesome sight! 102 canoes lined up with 102 support “fishing yachts” standing by, not mention camera boats, officials’ boats, helicopters, etc. The energy was off the charts. I was in the support boat for the first leg — a 40-minute stintleading toward the southwest point of Molokai Island where crews areallowed to make the first water changes. This early in the race,canoes and support boats are still bunched up tight and having toreally watch out for each other. The pack is just breaking out from the protection of Molokai and becoming exposed to whatever wind andswell there’ll be. With our support boat pulling ahead of our canoe by 100 yards, the three of us jumped in and lined up for the change. In the water,we’re splashing and yelling out our seat numbers to avoid anyconfusion. Just as we touch the hull racing at us, the paddler’s we’re replacing unzip their skirts, stow their paddles, and roll out of their seats as we explode up over the side, grab paddles and zipup.

Before I can start paddling, though, Will, in front of me inseat 3, tells me to bale water. I’d grabbed the cut-off bleach bottle and was ejecting water as fast as I could for about 30 seconds when, Wham!!! we’re upside down! Huli! Within two minutes we’re all on the south side of the canoe, paddles in hand, laying over the hull and pulling it back upright. Back in,seats 1 and 2, 5 and 6 are paddling and Will and myself in 3 and 4are bailing. It took us probably 5 full minutes to get it empty, andby then we had 95 out of the other 101 boats in front of us.

A note on the “dead calm” conditions: It’s all relative. In theKaiwai Channel, which we were crossing, which has been called bysome “one of the roughest stretches of water in the Pacific” I’m sure it was dead calm. Still, it was far and away bigger thananything I’d ever paddled a small boat in. Chop and swells came primarily from the north and east, but also from the 102 diesel chugging motor yachts racing and slowing, spinning around to dropoff and retrieve paddlers. I can’t say there was no pattern, there was, but it was like 6 different major patterns at the same time. Dave Kelly would say after the race that it was similar to the 2005 SF surfski champs, only bigger, but not as downright chaotic as the potato patch, if that gives you an idea.

It was “dead calm”enough to flip a 400 pound canoe with 6 200+ lbs. paddlers withoutany of them having a clue what happened.But after the huli, our race was on. There was nothing to do but start picking off boats, and that we did. Our bow paddlers, Dave and Mike G., changed every 20 minutes. The rest of us did a 40-minuteshift then got a 20-minute break. No one ever missed a change, and we never huli’d again. The heat was stifling. All hydrating and eating took place on the support boat, so by the end of a 40-minute shift I felt ready to melt. The few minutes in the water on either end of a change was like heaven — a moment to cool down and relax.

On the suppor boat, we’d put ice bags under our hats and melt theice in minutes, but it felt good.A highlight for me came in the middle of the race. We’d picked offmaybe two dozen boats, but couldn’t shake a crew of Hawaiian’s justto our north. For an hour, no matter who was in our boat, they hung with us. Finally I asked some
one who the hell they were, (most of myteammates were up to speed on the “who’s who” of OC racing).”That’s a kapuna team,” Mike said. “Average age in that boat is 75years!” (It was like a “Team Old Guys” flashback from my

Nappy Napolean

2002 YukonRiver Quest). “See that guy steering?” he asked. “That’s NappyNapolean… he’s raced EVERY SINGLE Molokai Hoe, fifty-five of them!”I have to say, I was honored to be in the same part of the channelwith that living legend. After that long hour, we finally inched away from them. We kept motoring forward, setting our sights on a canoe in front us, and eventually putting them behind.

Several times we watched boats next to us huli themselves. We weren’t the only poor slobs falling prey to the “dead calm.” We got a push from a swell now and again, (our top GPS speed read 11.0) but we never got what felt like a “ride” like those swells on Friday. Even with a 10 footer lifting us up, and us all powering for it, there was never a sensation of “surfing.” It was just too damn choppy.

After 5 hours and change, we rounded Diamand Head and the finishline was in sight. Adrenalized, we kept up our assault on the field,now racing in shallower waters, through packs of surfers gatheredjust outside various breaks, past high-rise condo skyscrapers, past tourists on Ocean Kayaks and sight-seeing outrigger rides. We’d made our last change, and the sprint to the finish was on.In the last 1.5 miles, we passed another 5 boats. With about a half mile to go, I hear another support boat crew hollaring and whooping it up for us, and my name shouted! It was False Creek’s B-team boat,with some of the same paddlers who’d taught me to do water changes just a week before the race. Kamani Jane was on board, too. It was a nice treat so far from home and at the end of long race.

Six hours and 4 minutes after the start, we crossed the finish linein front of the heart of Waikiki. Following our huli and falling toan early 96th place, we’d passed 31 boats and took 65th!. We hadn’tgotten passed by a single boat. No one on our team had any expectations, and the spirit was no different than if we’d finished top ten. We were all stoked beyond words. As many predicted, the Tahitians took the overall win, as well as 2nd and 3rd. It was the “dead calm” conditions and the stifling heat, of which the Tahitians are known to dominate. Unbelievably, a new course record was set by the winning team, finishing in 4 hrs,46 minutes. The second place team was nearly 15 minutes back. It was an absolute slaughter.

I’ve known and dreamed about racing the Molokai Hoe for about 15 years, and I couldn’t have scripted a more perfect experience. Back at home now, ready for a bit of a rest after a long race season, my thoughts are dominated by two ideas: The idea of returning to race the Molokai Hoe with a local Bellingham OC-6 club, and the idea of racing the small boat Molokai race in May across the same waters. With this experience, the gate has been opened.

Visit the Molokai Hoe website!

~BN~