"A humble colossus whose impact echoed thru the decades."

Ben Aipa is dead.

The legendary Hawaiian shaper, creator of myriad surfboard innovations and a man so fierce-looking Gerry Lopez described him thus, “When you see Ben coming, don’t think, just get out of the way” has died of multiple illnesses.

Ben was the creator of the stinger design that gave ol Marky Richards, later a four-time world champ, a rocket underfoot in the winter of ’75, and, according to Matt Warshaw’s list of 15 Best Power Surfers, Ben “rode Sunset Beach like Jim Brown on a broken-field run. Power and finesse. Rudely underappreciated at a longboard surfer.”

His two sons, Duke and Akila, carried the shaper-surfer flame into the twenty-first century, both arch-craftsman, Akila you’ll know already as the man who built the board Kelly lit Keramas up on in 2019.

Ben, who turned seventy-eight in August, was terribly ill, heart issues, diabetes, dementia and had been hit by myriad strokes.

In a post to Instagram today, Akila writes,

At no time in my life would I ever be ready to share with the world my fathers final day…. The passing of the greatest man I know.

SO…Instead….I am going to tell you the story about a boy, from a poor sugar cane plantation family…whose determination was unmeasurable….that literally carved out his legacy one board at a time .

A man from the simplest of backgrounds who would change the face of surfing…

A humble colossus whose impact echoed thru the decades…masterfully mentoring generations of champions…in and out of the water…in competition and life….and somehow in all this…finding the time to stoke out tens of thousands of surfers with the best shaped boards all around the world along the way…..

Most of you know Ben Aipa, the surfer, the shaper,the coach or the legend…but to me he’s just my dad and I’m so very proud of him and I’ll Miss him dearly.

Dad…I hope you enjoy the next part of your journey . @akila_aipa and I have this from here and we’ll make you proud .

Aloha Oe’
A Hui Hou

Ben Aipa from ENCYCLOPEDIA of SURFING on Vimeo.

The corruption of a great meritocracy… 

The parking lot is mellow. Sleepy even.

It’s the day after Christmas. The kinda day where the street is littered with kids ripping the tags off of wetsuits and brandishing new boards.

Retirees holding onto golden retrievers mill about. The occasional tennis ball is lazily thrown into the grass.

Surfers line the bluff, squinting through hungover eyes as they sip their coffee.

A small group of bodies buoy around the main peak. To the north an unridden waist-high right reels into the cove. The surf matches the atmosphere on the bluff. Subdued. Quiet.

My dad and I scramble down the cliff and gingerly wade out over the cobble stones.

We paddle slowly to the empty peak as the sun peeks over the bluff.

The surf is lully. A small set hits the reef every ten minutes or so. We laugh about how drunk my uncle was last night in between waves. The occasional surfer crawls down the cliff but somehow our little peak is left alone.

An hour in, a lone surfer paddles north from the southern peak. He’s middle aged, riding what appears to be an oversized short board. Something probably labeled as a high-performance mid-length. Maybe called a hybrid.

He paddles with purpose, projecting the kind of confidence that makes me think he surfs here pretty often. I nod to him as he passes, but he ignores my attempt at eye contact and paddles to our inside. We watch as he paddles frantically for a few small sets only for them to go unridden.

He looks frustrated.

A larger set appears on the horizon. I position myself while watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s too deep. Still, he swings his board around under the boil.

I do a few half paddles, knowing that the wave is going to break on his head but not wanting to disrespect him. At the last second, he looks up at me and says “Go.”

It’s too late. The set passes and reels off, unridden. He glares at me and paddles back to my inside, mumbling to himself.

I look up at the cliff. A train of five 40 somethings gracelessly make their way down. They fan out underneath us and the silence is broken by questions like “so how long will you be in town.”

One of them paddles up to me.

“Brrr. Water’s cold huh?”

I politely give a few half answers before he moves on. My dad signals to me on the inside that he’s headed in.

I start to make my way in as one of the five paddles up to the “local,” grinning.

“Great day huh?”

He responds dryly. “It was. Did you guys all drive together in a fucking station wagon or what?”

The group stares wide eyed back. Nervous laughter fills the silence.

Up on the cliff, my dad looks at me. “That guy was a dick.” I try to explain to him that you don’t paddle out as a group, but he shakes his head.

“If you can’t catch a wave, you shouldn’t be barking at anyone else.”

I’m conflicted on the drive home.

Is competence still a prerequisite for localism? Or have we substituted financial wellbeing and an abundance of free time for skill?

Are we really fine with middle aged men pissed off at their inability to paddle into waves yelling at competent yet kooky weekend warriors?

It seems to me that our meritocracy has been corrupted.

Localism has become the practice of retired white-collar professionals who can afford beach-front housing rather than lifelong surfers sacrificing an hour of sleep to sneak in a few waves before work.

It doesn’t feel earned any more. It feels bought.

Or am I wrong?