The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit

 

 Song by Seven (‘Go Slow’ feat. Talib Kweli; Out of Seven’s new album ‘Like a Rocket’)

 

 

 

THE FATHER, THE SON AND THE HOLY SPIRIT

 

At home with Michael, Mason and Coco Ho 

 

The Throne, February 4th, 2008, 3:16pm.

Michael Ho is going to live forever. Though most of us will never know him at all. This time, you find him at Pipeline, sitting on the Ronnie Burns Memorial bench under the old Hau tree, surveying the domain that has been his right since he was 17 years old. He sits alone. And you see that his aura makes the bench seem a throne.

 

It is late afternoon and like an aging lion, Michael Ho sits on this bench, barefoot and shorts, no shirt, one leg tucked up under himself, watching his cubs at play out in the ragged small surf of Ehukai. His teenagers Mason and Coco, are out there in mock battle with the rest of the young pack, developing the skills that with a little luck, will allow them to survive in this hungry world. 

Allow them to live forever too. 

At least that’s the plan. 

 

So you walk up to Michael Ho, all 5’5’’ 145 lbs of him, and you shake his hand and you feel more than a strength in it, you feel a way of life. You both walk down onto the beach for a closer look at the kids and soon you are sitting on the berm and hour glassing sand through your fingers and watching his Coco surf. 

Older brother Mason is up at Backdoor with the big kids. 

 

Dusting off old memories you and Michael realize how long you have known of each other. You first saw Michael surf in 1968 at Queens in Waikiki. Your Dad was stationed at Pearl at the time and his idea of daycare for you and your brother was setting you loose in Waikiki at dawn and picking you up at dusk. You had Waikiki as wired as any white Navy kids ever will. Still, it was a transcendent experience to hang out at the State Championships at Queens. Michael Ho had won the Menehune division that day in 1968. You can still see it. Michael was a three years older than you and even then he had that Island cool, that Hawaiian command, a young prince. Enigmatic at eleven years old.

 

Looking into his Michael Ho’s eyes now, 40 years later, you are fascinated. The body has thickened, the hair is gone, a smear of pterigium tugs at his left eye…but that enigma, that island cool is still there. The same stuff. But where once was a Prince now sits a King. He is comfortable on the beach, but uncomfortable with scrutiny. It takes the both of you a while to reach equilibrium. His last profile of any weight was written by Reno Abellira in 1977. He tells you he has preferred it that way. That he is now only cooperating for the sake of the children. 

 

And you think you know at least one reason why he is so private. 

Surfing’s appetite for heroes has always been keen, but the image of the gentleman pro does not always satisfy us. The dark Hawaiian’s have long been an intrigue within pro surfing. Like the man before you, warm smiles aside, they have always had a razor’s edge about them. A privateness, an aloofness, a royalty that comes from actually living in the place we all need so badly. The North Shore. The place that holds court over all of our reputations, saints and sinners alike. The Hawaiians are the only surfers in the world that can tell us to behave during our pilgrimages to the North Shore and have the juice to back it up. Amidst the aloha, Hawaiians like Michael Ho and friend Dane Kealoha have always maintained the aura of sanctioned bad-asses, living lives that oscillate between Aloha, intense risk and predatory gain in the surf. A role which, though the bane of many annual visitors, the general public’s vicarious consciousness welcomes and adores. Forever sympathetic toward the Hawaiians three finest qualities: daring, sincerity and unquestioned physical courage.   

 

So you dust off some old memories with Michael Ho. South Africa, Brazil, Australia. Campaigns of long ago. And again you are struck with just how unique this man before you really is. How he has forever been right in the pocket of your sport’s modern pageant. Hoisted into the surf by his old man Chico in 1960 at age three, rising to US boys champion at Huntington Beach by 1970. Fifth place at the 1972 World Championships in Ocean Beach at a skinny 15 years old, the same year he started charging Sunset Beach, by now squire to Eddie Aikau, Jeff Hakman, Gerry Lopez, Reno, BK…the entire pantheon of 70’s Hawaiian greats. Michael Ho was a full time professional surfer by high school graduation, long before the Shaun and Rabbit ever busted down any doors. By 1975 He was runner up at the Duke and the Pro Class trials. 1976 through 1988 relentless on the international pro tour, rising to 3rd in the world rankings. He and friend Dane Kealoha the Hawaiian spearhead for all the world to see, ripping from J-Bay to Bell’s beach to Japan and beyond. Ho has been a five time Pipeline Masters finalist. In 1982, iconically winning the Masters with a cast on his right arm, practically inventing the “Pig-dog” approach to, at the time, the world’s heaviest wave. He owns thirteen Duke Trophies, is an eight time Duke finalist, and has won it in 1978 and 1981. He is a four time winner of the Xcel Pro, Two time Triple Crown champ and George Downing says he will not hold the Eddie without Michael Ho in it, Michael being one of the few contestants to whom Eddie was a close friend. Remarkably, at 40, Michael was the runner-up at the 1997 Pipe Masters defeating Kelly Slater in an earlier heat. He won the World Masters Championship in France in 2000…in 2003 at Makaha, the year he brought tents over to the homeless in Nanakuli and stayed with them for the duration of the contest, he damn near won it again. And now, right now, in 2008 he is already preparing for the Masters and the Eddie. All this while busy fulfilling his role as “Uncle Mike” ferrying and mentoring the next generation of golden children, including his own, around the North Shore and around the world, passing the torch to the modern age. 

 

All this and yet…we hardly know him. 

 

You see Michael’s eyes are drawn to the surf. His Coco has swung into a 3 foot left and is working it over with precision. You both watch in silence. She surfs far beyond her years, generating speed, finding power spots. As the thing closes out She rockets into the lip and of all things, you are reminded of a young Martin Potter. A world class ride. 

You see that John John Florence hoots at her move on his way out.

You see that this puts a smile on Michael’s lips.

And you find you are relieved, for some reason, that Coco is so good.

 

 “Gives a whole new meaning to soccer Mom, yeah?”

He is looking out at Coco, who waves to him. He smiles and waves back and then looks down at his feet, putting his fingers between his toes. 

Then he surprises you with a direct question. 

“Can you believe how old we are?”

You answer no, you can’t. 

And then you ask a direct question. 

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?  

You see Michael raise his eyebrows and think about it. 

You see he takes the question seriously. 

Then he answers with that famous grin.

 “Fifteen?”

 

The sun falls into the sea beyond Kaena point. 

It is the golden hour here on the North Shore and the teen-aged golden children of Da Country are shaking off their third session of the day and making their way up the sand to showers and home cooked meals. 

Coco Ho, a glowing bundle of pure, giggling delight bounces up to you and Michael. It is the first time you have met her. Here in this light, it is impossible to not think of her as some sort of Holy spirit. She wins you over in a moment. So open is her smile, so invigorating and clean is her energy, so happy and enthused is her spirit, that She seems to float even on dry land, all dripping blond hair and clear eyes and gleaming white teeth. 

Michael Ho is as smitten as anyone. 

“You surfed good” Michael says to his treasure. 

“Really Dad? Really?”

“Really” says her Dad.

It’s enough to send her bounding up the beach.

Michael Ho watches his daughter until She is out of sight. 

Then he looks back out at the surf. 

“Nah…I don’t want to be fifteen” Says Michael Ho, “I like it here just fine”.

 

The Palace, February 5th, 2008, 5:02pm

Dino Andino, Michael Ho and you now sit on the back porch of the Billabong house that overlooks the Pipeline Coliseum. The Monster Pipeline Pro is on hold with rumors of it having to be run tomorrow because of permit issues. Michael is eager to watch his 19 year old boy Mason warming up. Michael’s eyes are locked on Mason in the Backdoor scrum. A set comes through, Mason, Clay Marzo and Sean Moody scratch for it, five others in hot pursuit. At the last second it looks like Moody is going to prevail. Michael Ho stands up on the porch, stamps his feet and waves his arms. 

He cannot help himself.

 

It reminds you of the two times you have seen this behavior in Michael before. Both times involving world champions. There was the time in 1985 when Michael was running up and down the side of the Wave pool in Allentown Pennsylvania, calling Derek, his younger brother of seven years, into waves in a close heat against Tom Carroll. Friend Dane Kealoha stood by in the shallow end, dreaming of Ala Moana.

 

And then there was that time in 1996. You were sitting on this very same porch with Michael Ho, watching him jump and prance and wave his arms to brother Derek once again. Derek, by then the 1993 world champion, was surfing against another world champion, this time Kelly Slater. You remember how Michael willed Derek into perfect wave after perfect wave in exactly the same light as now.  And even though Kelly took the final, you remember thinking that maybe Michael had a magic about him. That the only time he loses his Island cool, that privateness, is when he is willing the ones he loves toward success. 

And you see the beauty in that. 

 

You watch now as Mason pours it on at the last moment, pushes himself past Moody and Marzo, jumps over the ledge and into the concave blue. He drives down the line, clean and true and alone. You see this competitive spectacle at the Coliseum of our sport and you see that Mason’s will be a harder road to stardom than his little sister’s. Coco only has to surf better than three other pro’s. 

Mason’s foes will be legion.

 

Michael Ho sits back down, exhales. Dino laughs. 

“You can’t do it for them, Mike, that’s what I’m learning…it’s gnarly” 

Michael smiles at his old friend. He knows that Dino is in the same boat with son Kolohe. Two fathers stuck in the role of having next generation son’s vying for the brass ring. A brass ring that has swollen tenfold, in both money and complexity, since their own time. You sense that it is baffling and downright…scary for the both of them. They are navigating in unknown waters. A balancing act between Father and Manager. 

Trying to make sense of this mega-monetized new era. 

The brave new deals.

 

Mason is into another one, a beautiful cobalt hump. He drops lightly, carves a deep bottom turn, pulling a bioluminescent contrail into the tube with him. 

Then the spit, then the cutback, then the re-entry in the shore break. 

A heat winner. Maybe a contest winner.

Mason Kicks out. 

Michael finally exhales.  

Dino laughs quietly and shakes his head at Michael.

And you find you are relieved, for some reason, that Mason is so good.

 

Lei Lei’s Restaurant, February 5th, 2008, 8:06pm

At the Turtle Bay Resort just down from Velzyland, Lei Lei’s golf course restaurant is the one of choice by default. Sitting on the porches of their mansions, sunburned and tired after a day of pulling the strings of the industry, the drinking establishments of Haleiwa can sometimes seem a world away to agents, managers, Captains of industry, parents and surfed-out teens alike. 

 

So here they congregate, at Lei Lei’s, the adults to discuss bottom lines and the children to discuss, well, bottom turns, at the most expensive joint on the North Shore.  Just two tables over, the twenty member Billabong B-team is diving into their 30 dollar entrees under the watchful eyes of their handlers. They eat like wolves.

 

You are currently looking at the incomprehensible sight of Mason and Coco Ho inhaling four hundred dollars worth of Sashimi, Coconut crusted seared Ahi with garlic roasted mash, Macadamia chocolate milkshakes and twice scented green tea ice cream in eleven minutes flat. You see that the wait staff is so familiar with the Ho family, and so enamored with Coco, that they need deliver no menus. 

The Ho’s know it by heart without having ever had to pay, so often are they both celebrated and courted here by the industry nabobs. The Ho triumvirate being a cash producing corporate acquisition. With two young world class surfers and an ultimate coach in one family, before this family lay not dragons…but a yellow brick road. 

And they know it.

 

It is here that Michael Ho sits at the head of the table, their table, the one with the view of the 16th hole. Dino Andino, Manager of the Billabong teams, is across from you and Pipeline Monster Pro Event promoter Paul Taublieb is to your left. 

It feels like the ultimate school lunch on parent day. 

And despite your attempt at probing questions to Mason and Coco,  the only telling moment in the whole scene comes in a glance. 

At one point you ask the adults whether or not it is wise for parents to manage their children’s professional careers. Dino and Michael freeze for a moment.

Michael answers.

“Well, there may not be as many zeros on the checks at the end of the day, but at least I know where my kids are and who is dealing with them”.

You notice Mason has stopped mid-bite. 

You see he is looking at his father, his brow creased, thinking of all those extra zero’s. 

Michael notices his look, and levels his gaze right back at his son. 

Mason puts down his fork and sits back and stares into a middle distance, chewing meditatively. He then slowly returns to his meal.

 

Meanwhile, two members of the wait staff, clearing away the licked-clean plates of Sashimi and Ahi platters, are bringing Coco her second desert. A hot chocolate chip cookie Vanilla Ice cream concoction of Coco’s own design. 

Coco digs in with a fork, never skipping a beat, knowing that despite how many zero’s there might be, right now this surfing thing is the crime of the century for a just sixteen North Shore girl. 

Then She looks at you and realizes that you are thinking the same thing. 

Then She forks in another cheek-bulging bite and closes her eyes in smiling bliss.

The Chef knows how to make it just so.

 

The Compound, February 6th, 2008, 4:06pm

At the end of a cul de sac on Sunset point is the Ho family house and it is a surfer’s place. Surfboards and trophies reign supreme. It smells of wax and fiberglass and sand and Shells and grass mats and of a total worship of, and a complete belonging to, Sunset Beach, the great motherland where their name will live forever. 

A three legged dog holds sentry, the doors are open to all, surfers of all ages and renown flow in and out. Tony Moniz’s daughter, Marvin Foster’s kid, Clay Marzo…It is safe and comfortable and cool here. 

 

You sit with Mason Ho out on the porch as he carefully waxes a new board for tomorrow’s final. You see he’s got the same poise as his old man right down to the compact power, the playful grin and the mustache. You talk to him for a half hour and realize that, just like his old man can, he has very deftly avoided saying anything personal. 

You point this out him and he surprises you.

“You see that that Tattoo on my Dad’s ribs?” 

You do. 

Kaohelaulii. 

“It means new bamboo chute. Strong, unbreakable, unstoppable…it’s also my middle name”.

You take this in. Derek finishes. Not smiling this time.

“My Dad is ten feet tall…and I intend to live up to that. How’s that for personal?”

 

Coco has a middle name too. Hapaikekoa. 

It means the carrier of strength. 

Seems everyone in this house has names to live up to. 

Underneath her sparkling demeanor is a fluttering of seriousness and hope and…a little pain. A single parent home, her distant mother’s prom dress hangs like a ghost on the outside of her closet. All her stuffed animals have been thrown into a small kid’s blanket that has been tacked to an upper ceiling corner of her room, out of reach.

“Like a cloud” She says, “Safe”. 

Conversations with her swerve all over the place. Oddly mature and then childlike. 

She yells at Derek to turn down his music. He does. This brings you up short.

Coco, the woman of the house. 

She is also the only one who is eager to talk of the drug epidemic of Hawaii that has been whittling away at the island’s dignity for years. It is her nemesis.

“Drugs?” She says, once again beyond her years, “They are like torture!…Growing up here? It’s only a matter of time before you get offered a pipe! Watching what it does to people? That sucks! That’s the funny thing about all this pro stuff, they throw money at us, but they never ask us about drugs and stuff ” 

She squints for the first time. 

“Don’t they have all the power? The Surf companies? Can’t they do something?…I’d be glad to help!”.  

And you see that She means it.

Coco quiets for a rare moment and then She begins to tell you many things, of the bumper car road She would like to see built around the Oahu so that the kids could all get themselves to the beach in bumper cars. She speaks of Sunsets and seashells and perhaps most poignantly, of how much She loves the North Shore and how the sound of the surf is like a sister to her. 

She makes you close your eyes, and listen to it. 

And it feels like you are hearing it for the first time.

Such is her presence in this house.  

Such is her belief in this life that is spreading out before her like a banquet.

 

This is when you walk out and find Michael Ho alone at the family dinner table, tired from a day of riding herd. He sees Mason waxing another board and his Coco feeding their three legged dog. 

Michael sighs and rubs his eyes and tells you that despite the whisperings of his children’s future greatness, it is ultimately up to the mercies of fate.

 Just like his was. 

He’s just doing the best he knows how.

And he says as much. 

With a soft, fragrant trade wind blowing through the kitchen and across the dinner table, he says as much. 

And then he is quiet. 

And he actually closes his eyes and raises his chin and breathes in deep and seems to feel the wind and lose himself to it. And there is such a dignity in this moment.

And looking at him like this, at his family like this, you are struck with the thought that the vague promises and theories of a spiritual eternity could, after all, be just a ruse. 

That the truth could be that, strive for greatness though he will, any man’s real forever can only be found in his children. 

In his blood, now their blood. 

The blood of legacy…the blood of the future. 

And if lucky, these children will carry on and on and on through time and time and time again. Carrying his forever through the pageant of the ages. 

So sitting in Michael Ho’s kitchen, it’s your turn to look at the three of them. 

The Father, the Son and the Holy spirit.

And you can’t help but marvel at the fact that Michael Ho is going to live forever. 

Even though most of us will never know him at all.

 

By Matt George