According to Tibetan Buddhists, the effects of one’s actions are multiplied a thousand-fold during a lunar eclipse. So when just such a celestial event is set to unfold over the Islands during a small south swell, I figure every wave I catch could be worth a thousand—doubling or tripling my lifetime wave karma in a single night.
Ziggy and I check out Waikiki just before the eclipse is due to start, but it’s utter lunarcy out there. So instead we drive to a spot at the foot of Diamond Head where we’re sure we’ll be alone, but where the deep, dark drop-off just past the reef raises the sketchiness factor considerably.
We paddle out just as the first hint of earth’s shadow nibbles at the moon and catch a bunch of super-fun little backside peelers all to ourselves. Between waves, we watch the moon go through its changes. First it looks like an eyeball, then a cocktail olive, then a luminous cookie with a perfect bite taken out of it—although, floating out there in the darkness, we’re not that stoked on thinking about bites being taken out of anything.
Bit by bit the moonlight fades, but it’s hard to head in when the waves are so choice. As the shadow continues its march across her fair countenance, the pale goddess changes color—first a fuzzy yellow, like a ripe peach, then an ashen crimson with orange highlights that Ziggy pronounces to be “just like a perfectly ready coal in the barbecue.”
When a bank of clouds moves in, we call it quits. By then I figure I’ve caught at least ten or fifteen thousand waves, by Tibetan Buddhist count. Stack them one on top of the other, I tell myself, and they might just add up to one of Jock’s mythical Waimea bombs. HH