During my 24-hour layover in Honolulu, I normally surf two spots. I go to Queens in the evening, surf until after sunset, walk back to the hotel, hang my board shorts and rash guard up to dry on the balcony, eat in my room, and hit the sack. Early. Because in the morning, I go to Publics.
Falling asleep, however, is often a challenge because during my evening session at Queens, I can clearly see what's happening over at Publics. If there's any swell at all, Publics will be firing and guys will be getting rides on emerald-green two-foot peelers, billowy and fast in the afternoon trade winds. Crawling into bed, my mind turns the little peelers I actually saw into the double-overhead freight train lefts I hope to see in the morning, and soon I am sure this is how it will be, despite the tepid surf forecast on my smartphone and despite years of disappointment with overnight swell changes. Surfers are all optimists. "You should have been here yesterday" becomes "There will be waves tomorrow" and no amount of practical experience or wave prediction technology can change that. It's like my faith in the Second Coming; though long delayed, the signs are there, and I want my heart to be right because no one really knows when it will happen. But Jesus will come.
There will be waves.