"Closed Out," by Sam George, ran in the June 1990 issue of Surfing Magazine.

Is it just me or has anyone else ever noticed that Sunset Beach is just not that good of a wave? Or that for some inexplicable reason no one is allowed (or has the nerve) to ever say anything bad about this hallowed Hawaiian reefbreak?

I was in Hawaii this winter, watching hapless Triple Crown competitors paddle out into a stormy, chopped-up, closed-out maelstrom masquerading as a lineup, when it came to me: unless a myriad of conditions—tide, swell, wind and psyche—mesh perfectly, the fabled waves of Paumalu aren’t very good. Big, yes. Powerful? Undoubtedly. But aside from those attributes, and judged on the standard by which we measure most other waves, Sunset, with its alternately mushy and jacking sections, unpredictable peaks, unreliable inside tube, and turbulent rip-torn shoulder, is a dog.

Of course, when all the elements come together it’s great, but then so is Sebastian Inlet. The difference is that, unlike any other spot on earth, the big waves of Sunset Beach have become so sacred as to defy criticism.

More of a sacred cow, in my opinion, and this winter in Hawaii I decided to voice my theory. Which was fine, except that for some ridiculous reason, I chose to do so, with no small amount of vehemence, while sitting in the World Cup competitor’s bleachers, surrounded by the best surfers in the world. To illustrate my point, I went so far as to compare Sunset with San Clemente’s T-Street—and not favorably.

Most of the people who knew me sat dumbfounded, then turned away like Peter in the Gospels, as if to say, “Hey, man, I don’t know this guy.” The rest of the crowd within earshot—surfers, shapers, photographers—glared at me through narrowed eyelids, marking me for a blasphemer. Had a stake been handy, I would’ve been burned as a heretic.

Was every other surfer on the island suffering from some weird mass hallucination? I turned back to the surf and it still looked like crap. What were they seeing? I mean, even surfers like Tom Carroll seemed to be affected by the “Emperor’s new clothes” attitude that shrouds the break. In fact, Tom challenged my Sunset-as-T-Street slur by describing Sunset’s timeless appeal. Listen and decide for yourself:

“It’s a fantastic wave,” he said. “It shifts all around outside so it really hard to read, then it peaks up all over the place and then backs off on the inside so that you never really know what you're facing when you get to bowl—sometimes it stays open and some times it doesn’t.”

That sounds an awful lot like a big day at T-Street to me. Apparently, Sunset is revered for the very same reasons we revile our breaks back home. But standing there in the bleachers, hung out to dry in the variable winds, so to speak, I realized I might as well have saved my breath. A fellow Californian—who’s even less of a presence than me on the North Shore—looked up and told me with a straight face that surfing Sunset was his greatest, ultimate pleasure. And he actually managed to sound serious. If he felt that way, I hated to even think how the rest of the Sunset cult must have regarded my sacrilege.

So, like the only sane patient in an asylum of lunatics, I quietly sat down, shut up, and looked out to sea to admire the emperor’s new outfit.

SAM GEORGE CALLS OUT SUNSET BEACH: "IT'S A DOG!" (1990)

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