While I have been in Hawaii the last six months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at waves. We don’t spend our time lounging on the beach, soaking in the rays of the sun, we’re far too busy for that. But when one lives on an island it’s hard not to think of the constant energy pounding away at the shoreline. We live across the Kamehameha Highway from the ocean. When I lay in bed at night, I can hear the pounding of the surf throughout the night. I often start my day with a walk on the beach. I go out about ½-hour before sunrise, and while I walk along the surf line, I watch the sun rise above the horizon. It’s beautiful and a peaceful way to begin my day. Now that it is winter, large swells strike the island, especially along the North Shore, about five miles away. This is surfing season. I suppose it’s always surfing season in Hawaii, but in winter there is a greater emphasis because the winter swell is higher. We’ve had a lot of surfing competitions the last several weeks or month.

At first, I would hear reports of waves reaching 20’-30’ in height, and that was exciting. Surfers rushed to the beach, threw down their boards, jumped on, and paddled out beyond the break line. Later, as the competitions increased, so did the wave heights. Soon we were hearing reports of 40’, 50’, and even bigger waves hitting. It made me wonder how wave height is determined, and if the surfing industry had an actual method of determining said height.

Using the internet, I googled “Ocean Wave Height”, and learned that not only is it non-scientific, but largely variable, and often given to exaggeration, as in “you should have seen the one that got away”. I also learned that the Hawaiians have their own method of determining wave height. In general, wave height is the vertical distance between the crest (peak) and the trough of a wave. That means ½ the wave height is below the still-water line and potentially out of sight.

Surfer Magazine explained their method of measuring wave height as follows: using an oversized image of the wave, and the known height of each surfer, they estimate the surfer’s crouching height in the moment the photo was taken, creating a scale that they can then use to determine the overall height of the wave, from trough to lip.

In Hawaii, wave height is measured differently: When surfers first braved the waters of Waimea Bay, they did so without spectators just for the thrill of the ride. They measured the waves they surfed from the back, not the face, out of necessity, and the system stuck. Depending on the wave, the face may be more than twice the height of the back. So, the Hawaiian system essentially splits the Surfable Wave Face measurement in half to derive the height of any given wave.

From all this deep and heavily researched exercise in determining ocean wave height, I’ve learned that one cannot fully comprehend the magnitude of an ocean wave without understanding the lowest point of the trough that precedes the surfable face and the magnificent curl that folds over as the wave rushes up the beach surface.

As I’ve strolled up and down the beach, it has occurred to me that a person’s life has much in common with a wave. All too often, we tend to rate the magnitude and beauty of the wave by how high it towers over a surfer sliding down its face or the magnificence and beauty of the curl, or the color of the water and how luminous it appears as light passes through the curtain of water. Or perhaps we witness a massive wall of water crash upon the rocks, sending a spray of water a hundred feet into the air. I can’t imagine anyone expressing awe in the magnitude of the trough, even when the trough is an integral part of the wave. The trough gets little attention and mostly passes by unnoticed.

In life, it seems much the same. We tend to view another’s life by the stellar achievements one has made, the soaring beauty above our heads, the great accomplishments, and the success. The troughs of life go mostly unnoticed. We don’t comprehend the low points a person has sunk, the trials and challenges, the unfortunate and often times devastating hardships that occur in life. It seems that to fully comprehend a person’s life, we must take in the complete evaluation of all that makes up life, something none of us have the capacity to do, save only God.

When our kids were young, we read To Kill a Mockingbird together. One of the great ideas of English language literature was expressed in the concept that to understand another individual, we must be willing to wear their shoes and walk around in them. I can’t think of another person I would trade shoes with. My shoes, my life seem uniquely suited to me. I’ve grown accustomed to the feel of my shoes, and I am confident that my trials of life are necessarily suited for me.

I’m nearly 65-years old and I have experienced deep troughs of despair. I suppose that those trials, those troughs are the basis or foundation upon which I have built my life. Looking back over the years I’ve often said, though I would never choose that trial again (or that trough), I wouldn’t trade it away for anything in the world. Those troughs did more to shape me, strengthen me, and sustain me than anything else I’ve experienced in my mortal journey. The face of the wave, the crest, and the curl are the showy and spectacular outward appearance. It’s what makes one ooh and aah. I am grateful for my troughs, for my trials. I don’t want to spend my time down there and I don’t want to return and rerun my trials, but I do enjoy the foundation and perspective they have provided me.

There must be balance to all things. Too much focus on the trough is not a healthy situation either. No, the wave must be taken in its full measurement, a complete entity. We are not defined by our troughs any more than we are defined by the curl. It’s all part of the whole wave. All this leads me to my conclusion; we must be kind and compassionate to one another. None of us sees the full picture.