Kimo's paddling next to you, looking ahead, talking calmly about the next set lining up and where you guys are paddling to.

 

He points out a line of pelicans skimming the waves. His movements are smooth and easy. 

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You might be out of breath, gasping and spitting out water, clearing your nose, working your way back through the waves after a nice little ride in. Kimo is already outside the breaks waiting, sitting on his board, head turned slightly to watch you work your way back out, a broad calming smile on his face. 

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It's like going to a hukilau — a huki huki huki huki hukilau — when visiting Kimo. His little grass shack sits in a small clearing surrounded by large mango trees, close to the ocean and facing west. It is as though the sun sets right on his front porch.

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Hard packed red dirt floors. Just big enough for a couple of chairs and other basic furniture. A sturdy driftwood bench alongside a thick wooden table made from the hatch of an old boat, metal straps at each end holding the thick planks together. Against the far wall covered with some sheets of steel stands an old green enameled wood-stove, a small pile of neatly stacked wood in a metal frame close by, kindling split and ready. Shelves lined with large shells, a couple of brass boat propellers partially covered in barnacles. Green, blue and turquoise glass fisherman floats covering open sections of wall, fitted strategically between windows and hooks holding clothing ready to wear depending on the conditions. The saying isn't his but it fits: "There is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing."

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You'll see that he will spend countless hours  surfing, swimming, diving, floating — reading the flow of currents, tides, and waves.

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And when you've had your fill, your fingers  wrinkly and you can't feel your toes he says "Come join me anytime, friend," as he turns to paddle back out for another wave.