Hawaii: The Surf Bus

Aloha once again from Waikiki, where I’ve just hopped off The Surf Bus.

The Surf Bus?

Sounds fabulous, right? The Surf Bus is a daily tour that transports travellers from highrise-happy Honolulu, to the roughness and wildness of Oahu’s North Shore, home of the big surf. Iconic surf spots–Pipeline, Sunset Beach–they’re all there, on the North Shore, along with the pretty little surf town of Haleiwa (pronounced Hally-EVA).

The Surf Bus picked us up in the bus port of the Hilton Hawaiian Village. Sam, our driver, said “Aloha” and invited us aboard. Sam is a descendent of generations of Hawaiians–his great great grandmother arrived from New Zealand ages ago on a whaling ship. Sam’s family has been here ever since.

Filled with passengers from Australia, South America, the US, the UK and fellow Canucks from Brandon, Manitoba, our enthusiastic little bus plunged onto the Honolulu freeway–a surprisingly busy, multi-lane system. According to Sam, Honolulu has the greatest number of highrises in NA after New York and Chicago. The city has 2.5 million cars–enough that if they lined up, they’d wrap eight times around the island of Oahu.

Despite the density and congestion, it takes us only 40 minutes to reach Oahu’s North Shore. Once past Pearl Harbor, the pineapple fields and the Dole factory, the freeway turns to an inland country road.

The Surf Bus passes through Haleiwa first before it drops us at our first point: The North Shore Surf Shop across the road from Shark Cove. There are surfers everywhere–on bikes, on mopeds, in trucks, on foot. They carry their boards under one arm and steer with the other.

As part of the tour, we’re given bicycles of our own and pedal along a beachside bike path that snakes past several of the world’s most famous surf breaks.

And so we spend our morning, pedalling, pausing, snapping photos. It’s November, the month of The North Shore’s biggest surf; pro surfing competitions are underway. It’s US Election Day–the surfers are taking a break. But they’re practicing on the breaks–massive wave after thundering wave.

Back at The North Shore Surf Shop, we’re fitted with snorkelling gear–also part of the tour. We cross the road to a natural tide pool next to Shark Cove. The pool is protected (mostly) from the gigantic waves crashing against its rocks. The snorkelling is a mix of rough and wonderful–we skim over jagged black rock, spotting prickly sea urchins and yellow-striped fish.

Then it was back on The Surf Bus for a short trip to Haleiwa. On the way we stop to visit Brutus, one of the sea turtles that hangs out on a North Shore Beach:

The pretty little town of Haleiwa is inland from the surf. A river runs through it. The Surf Bus kits us out with stand-up paddle boards and we paddle the quiet, jungle-like waterway, skimming over giant sea turtles.

We don’t have much time to tour the town. Too bad. Every store is shop- and photo-worthy. We pause quickly to watch kids slurping shave ice:

And we grab spectacularly delicious shrimp-and-rice takeout from this blue food truck:

Then its back to Honolulu. We say so long to Sam. My son and I really liked The Surf Bus.

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Hang Ten… Almost. Day 1 on Waikiki

Sun rising over Waikiki. Photo: Lori Knowles

Hello again from Hawaii, where Day 1 on Waikiki was near perfect.

Our day began with breakfast with Jimmy Buffet. I should say, at Jimmy Buffet’s. His restaurant inside the Holiday Inn Waikiki Beachcomber houses the Honolulu Surf Museum, our first stop of the day. And our first stop in an family adventure focused on surfing… finding that iconic Hawaiiain wave.

Curator Mark Fragale offered up a tour… something you can book yourself by contacting the restaurant (see website). Grab a beer from the bar and take a walk with Mark. He’ll track Hawaii’s surfing culture from waaay back, when Hawaii’s royals rode long boards carved out of single trees, Duke Kahanamoku, an Olympic swim champ, popularized Hawaiian surfing, and Gidget did her bubbly best to make every teen in North America want to ‘hang ten.’

The museum is the baby of Jimmy Buffet, who began simply by needing a place to display one of his favourite gifts: the surf board that appeared in that ’70s iconic flick, Apocalypse Now. Here’s a pic of the board, signed by Robert Duvall, and hanging now above Jimmy Buffet’s bar:

Let’s Go Surfing Now

Next came our first family foray into surfing. We signed up for a group surfing lesson at Waikiki’s Hilton Hawaiian Village.

We were met casually by the hotel’s ‘surf stand’ by a laid back team of surfing pros in bright green shirts. Our motley crew included: a Japanese family speaking little English; a Brazilian woman with a broad, happy grin; my nine-year-old, goggle-wearing son; and me… keen, but definitely feeling forty-something.

Kudos to that team for making it all work.

Elijah, our lead pro, taught us how to lie on the board, paddle, pop up on our knees, stand up Ninja-style sideways on the board. It all seemed pretty easy on sand. I was doubtful about how all this ‘ease’ would translate on the Pacific.

But you know what? It did.

Our entire motely little crew stood up on our first wave. Amazing. Those Japanese kids, that Brazilian woman, my goggle-wearing son, even me, the forty-something. We rode those breaks — as small as they were — just like we were Gidget. Golden.

I’d offer a photo, but it was just too wet to take any. I’ll buy some from the pro photographer we took Kelly-Slater-style along with us (!), and post them as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I’ll sign off with this… My reason the day, as I said at the top, was only “near” perfect:

On my first Hawaiian surfing lesson, I got seasick.

There, I said it. I GOT SEASICK! Evidently, I forgot to keep an eye on the horzion.

But don’t let my admission stop you folks. Every person should try to hang ten at least once in their lives… even if they get seasick. And even if they’re forty-somthing.

A note about LoriExploring: Lori Knowles is the Family Fare columnist for the travel section of the Toronto Sun. Follow Lori on Twitter @LoriExploring

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A Honolulu Hello

Hello Hawaii!

We’ve moved into our superior digs at Honolulu’s Hilton Hawaiian Village. Like our view?

We arrived, my 9-year-old son and I, mid-afternoon Saturday. Emerging from a 12-hour flight from Toronto into the sun and soft wind of Waikiki felt a little surreal. A swim in the Pacific and a bite to eat set us nearly right… but sleep was really what we needed.

Now it’s (very early) Sunday morning and we’re set for our Hawaiian family surf adventure. First stop: The Honolulu Surf Museum at the Holiday Inn Waikiki Beachcomber.

Next, we’ll attempt to surf ourselves in our first lesson at 11 a.m.

Stay tuned… I’ll keep you posted.

A note about LoriExploring: Lori Knowles is the Family Fare columnist for the travel section of the Toronto Sun. Follow Lori on Twitter @LoriExploring

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Tracking Tofino: Girlfriend Getaway Part III… The Surf

Today I discovered two things:

1) I love to surf.

2) I’m terrible at surfing.

I’m a 40-plus woman on a girlfriend-getaway in Tofino, British Columbia… capital of Canada’s cold-water surfing culture. Capital, I should say, of Canada’s female cold-water surfing culture–I’m told there are more women than men surfing Tofino waves.

Why?

Tofino is home of Surf Sister, an all-female surfing school that offers all-women (and co-ed) surfing camps. You can learn in an hour, a day, a week… whatever. Surf Sister’s founder, Krissy Montgomery, has a band of pros under her wing who break down “the break,” making learning to surf Tofino waves really, really simple.

Simple, that is, in theory… not necessarily in practice. Today I learned ‘popping up’ and ‘paddling out’ and ‘reading’ the waves are all more exhausting than simple.

Exhausting! After my 14th wave, just as I figured out where to place my feet and hold my hands and bend my knees… my body turned to jello. Simply walking out into the surf became a trial.

But surfing is thrilling, nonetheless. Very, very thrilling, especially when experienced alongside a group of like-minded women. Like I said, I learned to love it. Now, if only I wasn’t so terrible…

Stay tuned… humiliating surf photos to come!

In the meantime, some added suggestions for a girlfriend getatway in Tofino:

1) Consider a helicopter ride along this wild wet coast courtesy of Atleo Air. Jason Bertin’s new Tofino service offers sightseeing trips to glaciers, private islands, remote coastal locations…. head’s up, guys: it’s a good way to propose! Astounding and terrific.

2) Tofino’s Wildside Grill cooks the best BC salmon and spotted prawn I’ve ever tasted. Wildside’s Jeff Mikus is a commercial fisherman bringing BC’s sea delicacies straight to your picnic table. Chef Jesse Blake certainly knows how to BBQ them.

3) Order take-out (or hire a personal chef) from Tofino’s RedCan Gourmet. Chef Tim May makes a mean granola bar, brownie… and braises lamb to absolute perfection.

4) Stay at Tofino’s Pacific Sands hotel. Rent a beach house. Mine is No.35… and it’s glorious, especially in the chair from which I’m writing this:

Adios (rested) from Tofino.
Lori. www.loriknowles.com
Twitter: @LoriExploring

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Tracking Tofino: Girlfriend Getaway Part II

The Hot Springs

“Hot Springs Cove lies 26 nautical miles up the coast from Taquinna Provincial Park. For thousands of years, natural thermal hot springs have poured out of the rocks and spilled out on the edge of the Pacific Ocean in Northern Clayoquat Sound.”

So read my Saturday morning itinerary. Uh Oh. My first Girlfriend Getaway to Tofino, British Columbia, was starting with a boat ride in the Pacific Ocean. Should I mention I’m prone to sea sickness? Nah… I’ll be fine. And this will be a wild, warming experience.

We boarded our Beachcomber-esque boat in the the Tofino harbour and immediately met one of the friendliest guides I’ve ever come across: Marla. She guides for Tofino’s Jamie’s Whaling Station & Adventure Centre. Chipper, informed, intelligent, helpful: Marla is my new hero. I forgot to take her photo, but here’s her vessel:

Marla drove that boat in the Pacific Ocean like Danica Patrick drives her race car: with verve. Never mind that within moments my face was as sallow as the sea kelp. Never mind through the entire two-hour coastal tour I was willing myself — forcing myself — to keep my breakfast where it belonged: in my tummy. The journey to the hot springs was still incroyable.

We saw a whale! A great big tubular grey whale rolling in the waves, feeding on the shell fish delicacies hidden in the mud and sand near the Pacific’s cold shore. We saw sea lions basking in the spray of the waves; they lay lazily on the rocks of the mini islands that dot the coast of Vancouver Island.

We saw thousands and thousands of trees, and massive rocks, and swells bigger than buildings in Toronto. Marla kept up a steady pace of info: friendly, fascinating. And she kept on driving that boat…

Until we came to the hot springs.

Oh, the hot springs. What a sea treasure these springs are, hidden deep in Northern Clayoquot Sound. From a remote dock in Maquinna Provinical Park, the hot springs are a 30-minute walk along a wooden boardwalk (see top photo). The walk (loads of stairs included) delivers you to a narrow, rock-infested canyon full of steaming water… Off come the clothes. You stumble your way down into that warm, warm, soothing spring. Position yourself just so and you can see the sea’s waves below you rolling and crashing. More heaven.

Sorry folks, I don’t have a photo of this natural Canadian wonder: the steam and the rocks were too risky for my camera. You’ll just have to go yourself and witness what my fuss is about.

Next came my flight out. Tofino Air came to fly us back to Tofino. Holy Mackerel… see photo above. The west coast of Vancouver Island from the air is, is… I can’t find the word. Holy Mackerel.

Our day ended with the Spotted Bear.

The Spotted Bear?

It’s a cozy, candle-lit bistro in Tofino. A few tables. An open kitchen. Two chefs and a server. And the food is sumptuous. Organic, Vancouver Island produce. Fish caught fresh from the Pacific. Upscale yet casual. I highly recommend it. Here’s a photo of our braised ribs and the chefs in action:

That’s it for now. For info:
Spotted Bear: http://www.spottedbearbistro.com
Jamie’s Whaling Station: http://www.jamies.com

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The World’s First Ice Cream Cone

The world’s first ice cream cone originated with this Virginia family: The Doumars… whose ice cream diner Doumar’s in Norfolk, Va, still serves homemade waffle cones with yes… home made ice cream in chocolate, orange, vanilla or butter pecan.

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Lori’s Pic(k) of the Day

While in Jamaica last week staying at Beaches Boscobel, I was lucky to to be invited to read to the kids at Boscobel Primary School. How fun and enlightening that was. Read all about it soon in my upcoming Toronto Sun travel column: Family Fare.

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The Sweet Life of Skiing Portillo

My ski days are sweet here in Portillo, and not just because of the sweets they serve at afternoon tea daily.

We pushed away from the all-yellow Hotel Portillo at the awesomely early hour of 10 am. Our first ride up dropped us at the training point of the Austrian ski team. These enormous species were picking up speeds of about 70 kph as they passed by, all duded out in their helmets and speed suits, bibs sporting names like Franz, Hans and Josef. When we stopped to watch for a mo, Peter asked an Austrian coach where they’d be training this afternoon. “I hope ve don’t train this afternoon,” he said in perfect Austrian English. “Ve have been verking since vile you vere sleeping. Ve are wery tired.”

The Austrians

At that we hung our heads and skied on, trying to rack up some kilometres of our own before we were totally embarrassed. The pistes of Juncalillo (YUNK-a-LEE-lo) catch the most sun in the am, so that’s where most of Portillo’s skiers ride in the mornings. We snaked down the groomed track first. In subsequent runs we got off-piste to ski the crud and small bumps—it’s quieter there. As in most places, the bulk of skiers ride the groomed tracks, leaving the good stuff untouched and uncrowded.

Portillo View

By noon we’d made our way to the Plateau—the side of Portillo that catches the afternoon rays. The terrain here is so vast, you’d need a fisheye lens to capture it on camera. We rode the El Plateau lift, then the slingshot Condor (more on this bizarre lift later), and traversed over to the off-piste of Plateau Superior, largely avoided by the masses.

Not that there are any masses at Portillo. There are very few day skiers here, most are vacationing on ski weeks at Hotel Portillo, and the hotel’s capacity is capped off at about 400. So there’s never a line-up. And if you like to ski off-piste, you encounter little traffic.

Lunch was at the mid-mountain Tio Bob’s, a.k.a. Uncle Bob’s. Bob Purcell was Portillo’s original owner; his nephew Henry Purcell now runs it. Tio Bob’s is a little slopeside hut, much like alms of Europe. From here, there’s an hypnotic view of Laguna Del Inca (Inca Lake) and the surrounding snowcapped Andes. Skiers throw off their gear and take up residence at picnic tables. Food is off the grill—chicken, salmon, sausage, soup and enormous salads.

Lunch at Tio Bob's

I didn’t want to leave my perch, but I had a date with some Mexican tour operators who promised to guide me through Garganta (translation: throat), akin to the Couloir at Blackcomb. The sun-softened snow on Garganta was perfect, as is its pitch: steep and slightly bumpy, just the way I like it.

Our ski day ended with zip along the Austrians’ closed downhill training course courtesy of Robin, Portillo’s ski school director. It was all part of Portillo’s daily ‘ski with ambassadors’ program, during which you’re toured around for free by the area’s experts.

By 5 pm it was time for tea in the dining room—a sweet cap on an extremely sweet day of skiing.

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Good Morning, Portillo!

It’s a cruise ship kind of start to the day here in Portillo, Chile. We wake up a little later than we would on a normal ski vacation—8 am instead of 7. But then, nothing about this ‘ski vacation’ is normal. For one thing, it’s August. For another, we’re south of the equator.

We saunter into the communal dining room for breakfast in flip-flops and sweats. Red-coated waiters are buzzing about like bees around honey. Their sprinter’s pace is diametrically opposed to the slowness of the skiers they’re serving. There are at least four Chilean waiters to every single, unhurried guest, and judging by their haste, I think these waiters have had a lot of Columbian coffee.

The ‘guests’ on this skiing cruise ship are an interesting mix. South American families fill one side of the room. They’re dressed in some of the happiest skiwear I’ve seen—shiny pink puffy jackets, lime green ski pants, multi-coloured hats (not helmets) and wide-framed, jewel-encrusted sunglasses that Elton would have drooled over in his heyday.

Another part of the dining hall is filled with English-speaking skiers, many of them, I’m told, are from Vail and Aspen. Many of them have little kids in tow, who spend much of their time bombing around the hotel, gleeful to be free and out from under supervision. I see a lot of Obermeyer and Kjus on their parents, some Patagonia on the more mountaineering types. Blonde hair. Deep tans. More sunglasses.

Another part of the room seems to be taken up by long-haired guys, mostly American, some Canadian, from places like Utah and British Columbia. They wear mostly t-shirts and ripped jeans, and stab at their iPhones through breakfast. I peek, naturally, and they’re not doing anything particularly important on those mobiles—there are more than a few Angry Birds at the breakfast table.

I haven’t mentioned the ski racers at breakfast. That’s because they’re not here. They’re Austrian national team members, after all, and they’ve been out on the slopes since before the lifts opened. One imagines 6 am breakfasts of muesli and fruit, yogurt and energy drinks packed with stuff transported overseas in packs by their coaches. The Austrian team members—all hugely tall and muscular, with shaved heads and massive thighs—keep mostly to themselves here in Portillo. They’re the only ones not on a casual schedule.

Breakfast for us is eggs, fruit, yogurt, cheese, fresh rolls and loads of coffee, all served with lightning speed by those buzzing waiters. We load up, then saunter from the dining room to prep for skiing. Our boots and skis are handed to us by valets… like I said, Portillo is a ‘ski cruise ship’ experience.

Lori Knowles is the ski columnist for the Toronto Sun.

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The Road to Portillo, Chile

You could have teleported me to Pluto and I don’t think the feeling would be any weirder.

Last night I fell asleep on an Air Canada flight somewhere over Canada. This morning I woke up on that same Air Canada flight somewhere over South America. It was summer when I went to sleep, winter when I woke up. I had shorts on when I left and  a ski jacket when I arrived. The world’s a weird place… so big yet kind of small.

My husband and I flew Toronto direct to Santiago, Chile… why? What else… to go skiing in Portillo, Chile. The South American seasons are upside down–it’s summer in Canada when it’s winter in Chile. Something quite novel for a diehard skier like me, who’s always looking for new journeys to snow. This one did not disappoint.

Our driver’s name was Mario. An apt name, considering his Italian driving style. He spent more time in the oncoming traffic lane than he did in his own. My nails dug divots into Peter’s arm every time we went around a corner on the wrong side of the road. “Do you think he knows there’s a car coming the other way?” I’d hiss. Peter would just smile. “Sure. Mario’s a good driver.”

Mario spoke no English, and neither of us speak Spanish beyond “Hola” and “Gracias.” Yet somehow he engaged us in a full conversation. As we snaked up into the Andes from Santiago–a three-hour drive if there’s no snow falling or worse (avalanches) we learned about the seemingly vibrant trucking trade between Chile and neighbouring Argentina, Chile’s vineyards that are all lined up at the side of the road, the role of the Gaucho (cowboy) which is actually an Argentinian word but is used here, too, and the wonders of Patagonia in the southern section of Chile to which, suddenly, I am yearning to visit.

The road to Portillo runs upward like a black ribbon through brown ranchland as it makes its way into the Andes. Santiago itself is all lowrise and sprawling. It’s a massive city with more than 6 million inhabitants–more than the rest of the country–yet it’s not filled with skyscrapers like New York, Chicago or even my home,  Toronto. Somehow it’s more low key.

Once out of the city you’re immediately into ranch land. Gauchos (I promise I will find the local name for them soon) ride horses along the roadway. I don’t know what they’re doing, but they appear to be working. They wear large, round straw hats and colourful ponchos. Most have huge, swooping mustaches (the gauchos, not the horses). I’m not kidding.

Mario kept warning us we would encounter a lot of truckers on the way to Portillo. I wondered why he’d warn us of such a thing, yet sure enough, there they were… an absolute ton of truckers. We likely encountered 4- or 500 in a single three-hour trip. Apparently the ski road to Portillo is also an international highway linking Chile with Argentina, Brazil etc. It’s they only way there, which seems incredible. The road is only a two-laner and is as steep as any I’ve encountered in the alps, with loads and loads of switchbacks. At one point we counted 29 switchback turns in a space of about two kilometres. Let me show you a picture: 

Once we reached the snowline we came across at least three transport accidents, most in the ditch with front wheels hanging precariously close to a cliff’s edge. The trucks’ general ascent, as a result, moves at a snail’s pace. Hence Mario’s favour of the ‘other lane, not our own.’ We must have passed 100 transport trucks along the route… many of them happy to honk at us.

The best part was spotting the dozens and dozens of cars pulled off to the side of the road, their occupants tumbling out to run toward the snow adjacent to the highway. Mostly Chileans, perhaps from Santiago, they’d pull on rain pants or whatever waterproof garb they could find. They’d grab sleds (that looked, by the way, suspiciously like flutter boards), then hurl themselves down the pistes–mom, dad, three kids all piled on the same board.

About 2/3 of the way up the steep part of the access road (a.k.a. international highway!), Mario pointed to the sky and told us to look at the ski lift. I forget which word he used for ski lift, but it was nothing I’d heard before. We pressed our noses to the window and sure enough, there was a triple chair moving rapidly above us, right over the swtichbacks and the hundreds of truckers. It was moving much faster than us. “We should ride the lift,” I told Peter. “It would be faster than us, even with Mario!”

But it wasn’t long before Hotel Portillo was looming in front of us, a massive, all-yellow rectangle of a thing that lords itself over acres and acres of wide open, treeless slope. Mario reeled in, we threw open the van doors and let our sneakers touch the cold ground–a long way from the summer lake we’d just left. We shivered and said thanks, handed over a tip, then entered the all-yellow hotel.

About to start: our skiing adventure.

Lori Knowles is the ski columnist for the Toronto Sun.

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