Prior to flying out of Sydney I observed several low-pressures the size of small typhoons spinning in perfect position upon the synoptic charts – my hopes gathered momentum. At 35 years of age though, I am no stranger to being let down, and mental preparation for such a letdown is very important for all those aboard any such voyage. I like to bring a wide variety of equipment to play on, lots of reading material and plan a physical-work-out program for each day (personally I need this to remain infectiously positive, a helpful trait in any boys guide to sanity on board). In any man’s language, 22 days is a long time so I like to come prepared for the worst. Even the boat herself looked a little anxious as I dragged and bumped my loaded board bag along the concrete wharf toward her: we were literally in the middle of no-where and we felt it to the bone. After setting high hopes in action the crew and passengers all tingled with anticipation under the grey warm drizzly daylight. On board was the captain, Martin Daly, Paul the charging cook, Kelly Slater, Peter Mel, Dave Kalama, professor Ricky Grigg, my brother Nick and cameramen, Jeff Hornbaker and Don King. It was early days and local conditions weren’t favourable for surfing or photography, but it was a good chance to work on getting acquainted. It also gave me a chance to really know Mother, or as the side of the boat says, the Indies Trader. Introductions now aside, our “social experiment” was beginning to take shape.

The first few days were greeted with a weak one and half metre swell. While small, it had a serious impact on the atoll’s massive lagoons. Any rise in the water level send large amounts of water pouring into the lagoons only to violently empty out through the meagre and very few existing passes. At first, I thought it was a tidal surge that caused a one-metre standing wave, not to mention a significant challenge to any captain. Martin swung his baby against the outward-going current so as to back her out to sea.

The flat-day fun activities I brought with me were good, but even those wore thin after a while and it was time to cop a little education. At 62 years of age Professor Ricky Grigg had plenty for us young‘uns to listen to and learn. The Marine Biologist and Oceanographer (who won the Duke contest in 1967, and the Catalina paddle race in ’55) from the university of Hawaii came along to guide us and show us all how to contribute to an international volunteer initiative Global Coral Reef Monitoring network or “Reef Check” program. An initiative “The Quiksilver Crossing” is very proud to volunteer its resources and be involved in. Unfortunately our reefs have suffered significant bleaching from warmer-than-normal water temperatures (affecting corals up to 40m deep in parts), over-fishing and simply bad management of fishing techniques (use of cyanide and explosives) that destroy far more marine life than needed causing some species of larger reef fish and shellfish to be non-existent in areas under these types of fishing stress. Good one, humans! While Quiky are taking us to these remote spots, they’re doing what they can to retain its beauty.

The purpose was to surf mammoth waves, and the crew were more than able. Dave Kalama was stoic in his acceptance that Hawaiian Air had left his equipment on the tarmac in Honolulu. We were a long way from there and several island-hopping flights are needed to get them to the boat. I immediately felt comfortable with Dave, knowing he would be a happy traveller and add another element to our comparatively myopic approach to surfing a wave. Dave surfs anything on anything – shortboards with straps, longboards switchfoot, outriggers, kites and sail and jet – on just about any size swell the ocean can throw at him. An experienced piahi (Jaws) rider, the gigantic surf we hoped for would have suited him perfectly. A boat-friendly guy. The humble Hawaiian finally received his boards some four days before the end of the trip and happily rode the extraordinary ambidextrous fashion as soon as they were under his feet.

The next is Pete Mel. Knows big waves and waits out the cold winters of Northern California for them. Mavericks is a long way away, so were the swells here but nevertheless thank Hughie, Pete’s “easy-as-she-goes” approach held up throughout the tedious weeks ahead. He is much too bigger bloke to have losing his temper in the galley because you mistakenly put the sugar spoon in your coffee. It’s also a great experience surfing with someone from Santa Cruz; they surf with the type of commitment to the wave that inspires a constant challenge to that of the norm.

The other man was Kelly Slater. Doesn’t really need an introduction but if there was an area which I was looking forward to seeing Kelly in, it was this. A freak by everyday proportions, what could this man do with the aid of a jet ski – Kelly Slater with horsepower-ouch!

Or so it could’ve been. Three days from 22 with waves. Groundhog Day became one of those murmurs not mentioned around the less patient toward the end of our trip. You can’t go anyway in the world and be certain to score and this was no exception, but what we were chasing was no mean feat. Giant unridden waves in Polynesia. As could be excepted, what Kelly did when the waves were small with the jet-ski though, was nothing short mind – blowing, but the wait got to much and he got out of there. Dave, Pete and I hung in and we had the luxury of a less crowded boat.

This is what saved our sanity. Three weeks with the same guys in the same trying environment (without waves) can get to you. You are in a social experiment and to get even the smallest bit more room to yourself seems to soothe the soul somewhat.

As I dragged my board bag down the concrete wharf, I looked back at Mother for the last time and reflected over the pat few weeks. There was a direct correlation with the past 22 days and to other things in day-to-day life. It came to me, I guess going on a surf trip and not scoring perfect surf is like surfing all the way from the trials to the final in the Pipe Masters and finishing runner-up. (Not that I’d know!)