The Surfers Journal
Light / Dark
In the pantheon of 1970s era, Hawaii-bred surfers, the name James Jones generally doesn’t register. Which makes sense once you understand the context. The first person I query about him, world champion bodysurfer Mark Cunningham, describes Jones as “the most underrated, over-looked, hell-wave charger of that era.” A tidy and illuminating synopsis.
The details I gather in broad strokes are that he was a Town guy who was on it more than the guys actually living in the Country. That he was quiet and wouldn’t talk to anyone in the water. That if I wanted to find him now, I should just show up for the dawn patrol at Kaisers or Threes. That the boards he shaped were colorful, functional masterpieces of big-wave riding. That he was the first guy to get barreled at Waimea. That he still surfs the Bay every time it breaks. That he never really played “the game.” That he may be a certified genius. That he “does not suffer fools gladly.” That I should “maybe not call him Booby,” his nickname.
“Besides Waimea,” recalls North Shore pro Bobby Owens, “James was just a fixture at Sunset for decades. In the water he always had this razor-sharp focus. He wasn’t out there to talk and socialize or chat it up, mostly because he was always surfing waves that were intense. That paid off because he was always in the right place when that peak came through.”
“He’s always lived quietly under the radar,” says former classmate Dale Hope. “Booby was never a chest beater. But when he’s up and riding—it’s poetry to watch. His credit is surely long overdue.”
*
Jones meets me in the parking lot of The Pacific Club near Downtown Honolulu dressed to the nines, his hair combed back with not a strand out of place. He ushers me into his car, a spaceship-like Nissan Leaf, explaining that we have a lot of places to see today. Though I know he’s become a real estate appraiser, it’s already apparent that he is a man who keeps to an itinerary. He is compact but handsome—a business-casual silver fox with swagger from a bygone era. He smiles easily, eyes twinkling, skin with that glow only surfers can spot on their own kind—knowing they just hopped out of the water an hour prior.
And we are off. Jones rambles about climate change and the noticeable shift in trade wind direction, this summer’s dozen hurricanes that slid past Hawaii’s shores (which never happens), and the environmental correlations between it all. He explains that he got the Leaf to lessen emissions and thus help the cause, despite possible “range anxiety”—the subtext being that maybe he wouldn’t have gotten the car if he couldn’t get from Town to the North Shore and back on one charge.
Looping around Punchbowl Crater, we enter the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific where his father and mother rest side by side in the volcanic earth. It feels a little macabre to start here, but Jones tells me that it’s imperative to know about his father. “If you were to write the whole story of my life,” he says, bringing the Leaf to a halt, “it’d be about my relationship with my dad.”
Birdsong echoes through the basin as we walk past giant monkeypod trees that line the road, shading the countless granite gravestones. Before us, a 30-foot-tall concrete statue of Columbia watches over the departed like an immortal mother.
Jones was born in Honolulu in 1952, to a larger than life WWII veteran father from Oklahoma and a local mother of Korean descent. The day after his father enlisted, Pearl Harbor was bombed and the elder Jones was shipped out immediately to Oahu, an island with smoke still wafting in the sky from the attack. He served in the valiant 2nd Marine Division and, as we stroll through a hall with Pacific islands and battle lines mapped on the wall, Jones points out each place his father set foot like a dutiful son: Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan, Tinian.
Jones comes here every so often to reminisce. He tells me how his birth, like the tens of thousands of hapa-haole (mixed race) babies like him, seemed to be some kind of catharsis after the war: how his father’s generation got back from all those battles and killing and inversely blended—and breeded—multiculturalism into Hawaii. “It was like, how could you hate the Japanese anymore if your son was half Asian?” he says. His father’s generation amalgamated the divisions.
Jones says farewell to his parents and we hop back into the Leaf, quietly rolling west. The kind of man who could fix anything, his father became a heavy-equipment operator in civilian life. One of his very first jobs was dredging sand out of Waimea Bay in the late 1940s. Jones claims the sand used to stretch way past the jump rock and that his father’s work helped to shift the break into the position where it’s been for the last 60-odd years—inadvertently, of course. The implication being that maybe his father created one of the most famous waves on planet Earth just for him.
Being a military brat, Jones was enrolled at Pearl Harbor Elementary, where he began getting straight A’s through the third grade. His teacher started noticing something different about him when Jones would finish tests, meant to take an hour, in ten minutes. So they let him work ahead, feeding him the curriculum through sixth grade, which he finished swiftly. Another teacher suggested they give him an IQ test—the trusted metric of the time—and James tested over 140. Genius range. The same teacher told his parents he should go to Punahou, a renowned, albeit expensive, prep school in Town where he’d be properly challenged.
To talk James Jones, you must talk the Bay. Any Hawaiian surfer will back his talent.
Jones’ family wasn’t dirt-poor, but they were blue collar, so to afford paying his tuition, his father bought a bar off Nimitz Highway to add income, a local watering hole for all the vets and local workers in the area. “All the men of the Sand Island Business Association sent me to Punahou,” Jones jokes proudly.
We pass by the gritty, spray-painted buildings in the sunbaked Sand Island Industrial Park and he points to the old bar, then to the area where his father’s scrapyard was. Coincidentally, right down the block from both, sat the shop where Phil Edwards shaped with glasser Bosco Burns during Phil’s time on Oahu. Heading into high school, Jones became properly hooked on surfing, hitching rides to Waikiki and Ala Moana when he could, with Edwards shaping him the equipment like an eager test pilot.
“Where the hell did Booby come from?” I ask, the words practically slipping out of my mouth like a lurid belch.
Jones smiles. “Aw, Booby was always just my street name,” he says. As in, he didn’t go by Booby at the private school. “My mom started introducing me as Booby to protect me, and everyone loved it—so it stuck.”
The story goes that his mom always knew he was smart, so as one of the smallest, most intelligent kids in his public school elementary classes, she dubbed him Booby (as in dolt) to save him from being bullied.
Jones points to a few other spots around Sand Island where his father had equipment. Famous for constructing a gantry crane to fish bombed-out wreckage from the sea, the elder Jones became the most talented crane operator in the state. His ingenuity was such that the great industrialist Henry J. Kaiser marched into his office to hire him for jobs. Instrumental in developing modern tourism in Hawaii, Kaiser built the bright pink Royal Hawaiian Hotel, among others, contracting Jones to dredge the very channel that created what became Kaiser Bowls, James’ second favorite wave after the Bay.
“Wait-wait-wait-wait…” I say. “So, you’re telling me that your father created the breaks Waimea and Kaisers?”
“Mmmm, you could say that he had a hand in it,” Jones says and smiles.
“Well, why couldn’t you say it?” I counter.
“Oh, well that would be immodest,” he answers with a wink.
*
The archetype of the hero’s mentor, much like that of a second father, is a common literary trope, as described by Joseph Campbell. Luke Skywalker’s Obi-Wan. King Arthur’s Merlin. Booby’s Fred Van Dyke.
We stroll through Punahou’s lush, manicured campus, the very school where so many great minds have been molded. Astronauts, Hawaiian royalty, Barack Obama. Surfers too, of course, like Paul Strauch, Jeff Hakman, Jimmy Blears, and Gerry Lopez, all enrolled in grades before Jones’.
We come to the chapel and sit in front of a lily pond while students orbit around us, spinning with ambition. The setting evokes a version of Wes Anderson’s Rushmore, but tropical, ethnically diverse, and sunny. Jones explains that it was here, around 1965, where he found his true purpose in life—and credits most of that to the late Van Dyke, a longtime Punahou teacher.
Jones was blasted through his board, driven down deep toward the reef, the whole right side of his body gone numb.
“I hung on every word that he had to say,” says Jones. “To me, he was the sensei, the fountain of knowledge—and not only about surfing. He was just a fantastic instructor. The greatest teacher I ever had. And I think every school might have one of those teachers—the one who the students especially trust and can talk to. The one you could go to who wouldn’t rat you out. Fred was that guy.”
He takes a breath after shedding a quick tear.
It didn’t hurt that Jones was a frothing, surf-stoked grom and Fred was like having Laird Hamilton teaching you seventh-grade science. Jones explains that Van Dyke was truly avant-garde for the time, all about reaching man’s “full potential and virtuosity” in mind, body, and spirit. He was on a mission to revolutionize surfing and make it “state of the art.” Or at the very least marketable, which ABC’s Wide World of Sports recognized once Van Dyke began running the Duke Kahanamoku Invitational.
Jones recalls one day when they were in class and Van Dyke posited that, by way of scientific method, one could find the meaning of life in the Declaration of Independence—within the phrase “of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Certainly before his time in recognizing man’s harmful effects on the environment, Van Dyke was also an early environmentalist who could be seen driving to work from the North Shore wearing a gas mask. Whether to protect himself from air pollution or as a statement to raise awareness, Jones isn’t certain.
Ironically, Van Dyke was also one of the main forces in stopping Jones’ own father from continuing to dredge Waimea Bay any further, an incidental, sort-of-cosmic connection that I chew on, picturing his real father and his mentor-father as inadvertent adversaries.
Which brings us to the Bay.
*
“No one’s surfed the Bay more than me,” Jones declares from the side of Kamehameha Highway, where we’ve met for a second talk. “I guarantee it.”
It’s quite the statement, but I buy it. Because to talk James Jones, you must talk the Bay, his favorite wave and the one that would bring him the most fame in his seemingly short but brilliant professional surfing career. Any Hawaiian surfer will back his talent out there.
“Booby was a regular out at Pipeline, Sunset, and Waimea,” says Gerry Lopez. “A true standout at all the spots, but especially at the Bay. He got the first-ever tube rides at Waimea. Before anyone.”
After high school, he did a semester at University of Hawaii, but was already getting shots in magazines and was on Hawaii’s surf team for the 1970 World Championships at Bells Beach.
“My counselors at Punahou advised me against leaving school,” says Jones. “They told me there is no such thing as professional surfing, no occupation called ‘professional surfer.’ I said, ‘I know that, but I’m going to create it.’”
Jones was accepted into the fold by the Hawaiians on the North Shore, particularly Eddie and Clyde Aikau, who hanai’d (adopted) Booby as one of their own. It was then that Jones really made his bones, establishing a name for himself at the three waves Lopez spoke of, putting in the hard hours with his friends from Town—the Lolli brothers—and entering the few but prestigious contests on the North Shore.
In 1970, he traveled to Australia for the World Championships where he made the semi-finals and shaped his first surfboard. After that trip, he’d ride only his own boards moving forward, crafting equipment finely tuned for those “big three” spots back home. A six-year window ensued, between 1971 and 1976, where his record in the Islands became nearly peerless. In 1972, he won the Duke Invitational, only the second time he’d been invited. After that, he made the finals in nearly every contest held on the North Shore, graced magazine covers and inside spreads, and became known for his mettle, speed, and positioning in large surf—plus his ability to switch-stance in waves of consequence.
“They talk about the ‘Aussie Invasion’ and ‘Busting Down the Door,’” says photographer Jeff Divine, “but the thing was, James was one of those guys that existed way before Ian Cairns paddled out to Sunset, surfing better than Ian, even though Ian was getting a lot of glory from that bottom turn. It was kind of like those guys showed up and people forgot about what happened before them and after them for a little while. But man, I can remember watching James out at Sunset in ’71. It was insane. He’d sit so far outside, be on the very best ones with so much speed, knowing exactly where to do these giant, stylish carves. It was a sight to behold.”
“I became a privateer. I owned my own surfing. I never missed a big swell.”
Jones won the Duke Invitational again in 1976 on the cusp of said Aussie Invasion and the professional surfing revolution that would follow.
“I began having doubts by the mid 70s, though, about whether industrial surfing was really for me,” he says, looking out at the sea toward the bell tower on the north end of Waimea.
He recalls nearly losing his life during the 1974 Smirnoff Pro-Am at the Bay, eating shit on one of the biggest sets of the day, mid heat. Eddie Aikau was doing water safety with a leather strap around his chest like a bandolier, watching out for guys in the channel. Ricky Grigg, Peter Cole, and Jose Angel wouldn’t leave the water, sitting far outside and hooting guys into incoming sets.
On that set wave in particular, Jones was blasted through his board, driven down deep toward the reef, the whole right side of his body gone numb. Semi-conscious, he remembers scraping to the surface to get a breath through four feet of sea foam.
“I came up seeing stars and suddenly, out of no where, Eddie throws me that leather strap he’d made and yells, ‘Grab ’um!’ I did, and he saved my life that day. Of course Peter Cole goes, ‘I have an extra board on the beach, there’s still time left!’ I was pretty done by that point and could barely use my right arm. But I grabbed his board and caught one more. After that contest, I was questioning risking my life to make a living.”
Jones had actually reenrolled at the University of Hawaii, somehow juggling both school and professional surfing by taking a light load of courses in the spring, a double load in the summer, then no classes in the fall when the event season came around.
“So when did you get tubed out here?” I ask impatiently.
“That has to do with going back to school, actually.”
In 1977, Jones took a pass/fail magazine writing class from former war correspondent Stan Johnston. The main objective: write an article and get it published. Whether completely intentional or by happenstance, Jones decided he wanted to a write an article about something in surfing that’d never been done before. He’d already come up with the title: “Tuberiding Waimea: Journey Through Time and Space.”
The right swell hit, and photographer Dan Merkel was out in the channel on a blow-up raft with his eye on Jones—who broke his first board in the morning, then drove the 40 miles to Town for a new one, only to find the waves had gotten even better when he paddled back out.
Jones actually pulled in three times in a row that day before Merkel told him he was fairly certain he’d gotten the shot—which he did. Jones’ article of the full experience, replete with risk-return ratio references, was published in Surfing magazine. He continued to write a handful of articles over the next decade. It also wasn’t the last time he’d get shacked at the Bay.
After graduating in 1977, he got a job at Dean Witter Reynolds as a stockbroker. Then in 1978, Eddie Aikau went to sea on the Hōkūle‘a and never came home. According to Jones something pure on the North Shore disappeared with him. “It felt like when Eddie died, the soul of surfing died, too. It became an industry after that.”
We both stare at the Bay, listening to the woosh of passing cars, a sound that feels deafening during the summer in the Country.
*
I meet Jones for the third time in another parking lot, our stalls looking directly into Rockpiles, Ala Moana Bowls, and Kaisers—the break his beloved father is claimed to have created under contract.
The ocean mimics the color of a clear Hawaiian sky, there is a south swell in the water, and Jones suits up with various layers of sun protection, rash guards, and neoprene. This relic will not weather.
He shows me some kind of GPS watch that counts swim strokes, calories, and distances covered, which I can tell he gets a kick out of. He is a man that keeps charts and logs numbers—watching data dance. He enjoys furthering his true potential, something ingrained in him by his mentor-father.
Paddling out to Kaisers, we pick up right where we left off. “Coming into the 80s, I became a privateer,” he says. “I owned my own surfing and made all my own boards. I also didn’t have to go away. I stayed right here and never missed a big swell.”
This very sentiment seemed to match the info I’d gathered from others on Jones and his career. While other surf stars at the time began to chase the new World Tour to distant coves with minimal swell, Jones didn’t seem interested.
“Maybe he didn’t get as much of the limelight as, say, Buttons or Bertlemann, because James really shined once it got really big,” says Dan Merkel. “That’s when he became the standout.”
His positioning on the face is sixth-sense precise, a dance with the most critical part of the wave, propelling forward, generating speed as if spawned from chemistry.
Thus perhaps more than fools, Jones did not suffer small surf gladly. He kept surfing the Bay, a kind of godfather and fixture. He was an invitee and competed in The Eddie. He kept a few sponsors through the 80s, got a handful of shots each winter in the major surf mags, met his wife, had a son, and became a successful real estate appraiser.
Unexpectedly, before starting his family, his father passed away in his sleep at 56 years old. James claims life was never quite the same after. “I think for a lot of people surfing is a place of refuge. A sanctuary. After my dad died, it was really that refuge for me.”
We float in the lineup and I watch a master in his workshop. It’s not often you surf with someone that’s put in over half a century of work at a break. I observe where he glances, how far he lets himself drift, which wave in the set he attempts to paddle for. I wonder how his name slipped beneath the limelight—how a guy whose talent was on par with the very best, at least through the 70s, is often forgotten among Hawaiian icons.
“I’d say he didn’t get the publicity that he deserved,” says Ken Bradshaw, a man who spent his fair share of giant days out at the Bay with Jones through the 80s and 90s. “That might’ve been a cultural thing, though. This was at a time when all the Aussies were puffing out their chests—which got them noticed in the media. But that wasn’t the way with locals in Hawaii. I think James was from a generation where you’d get slapped for acting like that.”
“He was different,” says Divine. “I think he cared about the craft more than the game. He seemed more intellectual than most guys around the North Shore, a deeper thinker. He was super core and would show up when it was good—then go back to Town.”
“I’ve just always been in awe of how he’s inarguably on the very best wave of the set at a spot,” says Dale Hope. “It’s uncanny. Maybe that trait is reflected in his current profession—he’s now an appraiser—so what’s the difference between assessing houses and land versus ocean and waves?”
A set comes and Jones waves me onto the first one, a bowly lefthander, which I paddle for, graciously. I work it toward an inside section and turn around to watch him get the pick of the litter. His is a little overhead, but he intentionally slides over the ledge late, laying back into the crest like in a photo I’d seen of him in ’71 out at Pipe. His positioning on the wave face is sixth-sense precise, accentuating a Hawaiian-style stance forged in heavy waters, a dance with the most critical part of the wave, propelling forward, generating speed as if spawned from chemistry.
I think to myself, Booby’s still got it. I remember to avoid uttering the nickname aloud.
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