Dear Reader,

Back in the day, 35 years ago, I used to windsurf on the North Shore of Hawaii at a spot called Back Yards. On days when the wind was filled in, I would sail up to the northernmost point on Oahu—a spot best known for the Turtle Bay resort.

At just the right time, I would do a glorious jibe timed with an inhale, hold, and exhale as I completed the jibe and shouted a hoot once or twice. I would look at just how far I had sailed beyond the safety zone if I had to paddle back. The hoot, with its emphasis on the core-powered exhale, became a celebration of the perfect moment—when technique, breath, and the raw power of wind and water aligned in perfect harmony. It was my way of acknowledging not just the successful maneuver, but the pure joy of being fully present in that wild, beautiful place where the ocean meets the sky.

The sail back to Yards was an exhilarating experience of being in the flow. The wind, the speed, the colors, and best of all, the wind waves. Coming up on and over the bumps provided that perfect face for one turn, and then it was back over another bump—perfect face for a turn—and repeat the process.

The flow in this experience was more like Maslow's peak experience—those transcendent moments where self-consciousness dissolves and you become one with the activity itself. Time seemed suspended as I carved through the water, my board and sail extensions of my own body, reading the wind and waves with an intuitive wisdom that went beyond thought. In those moments, there was no separation between me as the sailor and the wind and sea, no distinction between the one riding the wind and the wind itself. It was pure being, pure aliveness, where every sense was heightened and every movement felt effortless and inevitable.

What follows is the handbook for what it takes to experience the flow, at will and on a regular basis.

The Indescribable Nature of Flow

There are two feelings that are both very hard to describe and well worth the effort. One is feeling the wind and the power of the wave and the rush of neurochemicals related to breath-holds. As the expression goes, you had to be there.

But perhaps that's precisely the point—some experiences resist translation into words because they exist in a realm beyond language, in the space where body, environment, and consciousness converge into something greater than the sum of their parts.

The Anatomy of Presence

The connection to flow state makes perfect sense. You're describing those peak moments where the physical challenge of breath-holding, the environmental forces of wind and waves, and the neurochemical response combine to create that coveted flow experience. It's a delicate balance where every breath and heartbeat matters.

Flow states are hard to describe because you stop thinking about yourself and become completely absorbed in what you're doing. The observer merges with the observed; the boundary between self and sea dissolves. In these moments, you're not experiencing the ocean—you are the experience itself.

The Primal Edge

The breath-hold element adds something particularly profound: a primal, survival-edge component that intensifies the flow experience. Your nervous system is fully engaged in the most fundamental act of being alive—managing the delicate dance between oxygen and consciousness—yet you're paradoxically calm and focused. It's meditation at the edge of existence.

This creates what might be called "conscious survival"—deliberately placing yourself in a state that awakens every ancient circuit in your brain while maintaining the presence of mind to navigate it skillfully. It's where ancient survival instincts meet the choice to push your limits.

Beyond Description

The "you had to be there" sentiment perfectly captures how flow states resist intellectual understanding. They're embodied experiences that can only be known through direct participation, not description. Words can only point toward these experiences, but they can't capture what they actually feel like.

Perhaps this is why breath-hold sports and ocean activities create such devoted communities—not because the participants can explain what draws them, but precisely because they can't. There's a shared understanding that transcends explanation, a recognition in each other's eyes of having touched something impossible to put into words.

The Present-Moment Anchor

The breath-hold element serves as perhaps the most immediate, undeniable anchor to the present moment. When you're managing your breath and oxygen, monitoring your body's signals while riding the edge of consciousness, there's no mental space for the usual chatter of daily life. You're forced into pure presence—not through discipline or meditation technique, but through the simple biological imperative of staying conscious.

In these moments, the mind's tendency to drift into past regrets or future anxieties becomes not just unnecessary but impossible. The body's wisdom takes over, and you discover that presence isn't something you achieve—it's something you remember you already are.

The Paradox of Flow

What makes these experiences so meaningful might be their very inability to be captured in words. In a world increasingly dominated by explanation, measurement, and digital reproduction, there's something sacred about experiences that refuse to be captured, that insist on being lived rather than recorded.

The wind, the wave, the breath, the rush—these aren't just physical phenomena but doorways into a way of being that our ancestors knew intimately but that modern life often obscures. They remind us that we are not merely observers of nature but participants in it, not separate from the forces that shape our world but expressions of them.

And perhaps that's enough—to know that such experiences exist, to seek them when we can, and to remember what it feels like to be fully alive.

The Universal Language of Challenge

This pursuit of flow transcends any single discipline. The foiler masters downwind conditions through pure focus. The downhill racer finds precision at impossible speeds. The solo paddler syncs breathing with rhythm, channeling intensity into joy. The surfer embraces that electric edge where fear meets excitement.

Each discovers the same fundamental truth: that the challenge itself becomes the doorway to flow. Whether it's managing breath at depth, reading wind patterns on water, or navigating rock faces with fingertips, the principle remains constant. We find our deepest presence not in comfort, but in those moments when we're completely absorbed in meeting whatever demands the moment presents.

The specific activity matters less than the quality of attention it demands. What matters is finding your edge—that place where skill meets challenge, where you're stretched just beyond your comfort zone but not overwhelmed. In that space, the ordinary boundaries of self dissolve, and you discover what it means to be fully, completely alive.

The Return to Shore

Thirty-five years later, I can still feel that North Shore wind filling my sail, still hear the hoot echoing across the water as I carved through those perfect wind waves. What began as a young man's celebration of a perfect jibe has become something deeper—a recognition that those moments of pure aliveness are not accidents to be stumbled upon, but states to be cultivated, understood, and accessed at will.

What you've just read isn't theory—it's a map drawn from countless hours spent in that space where breath, challenge, and presence converge. Whether you find your flow on water, rock, snow, or in the simple act of conscious breathing, the principles remain the same: seek the edge where skill meets challenge, trust your body's ancient wisdom, and remember that the goal isn't to conquer the elements but to dance with them.

Flow isn't a destination but a way of traveling. It's available in the mundane as much as the magnificent—in the focused attention of washing dishes, the rhythmic presence of a morning run, or the complete absorption of any task that demands your full engagement. The ocean taught me this, but life confirms it daily: we don't find flow by seeking it directly, but by showing up completely to whatever challenge the moment presents.

The hoot that once celebrated a perfect jibe now celebrates something larger—the recognition that we are not separate from the forces that shape our world, but expressions of them. In flow, we remember what we truly are: not observers of life, but life itself, awakening to its own infinite capacity for presence, power, and grace.

The wind still calls. The water still teaches. And somewhere, right now, someone is discovering for the first time what it feels like to be fully, completely alive. This is how the wisdom passes—not through words alone, but through the lived experience of those willing to step into the current and let it carry them home.

Back to Back Yards

I originally wrote this article in 1998 to pay tribute to a very special place and a very special group of people. Unfortunately, the magazine never got distributed.

Luckily, I had a copy and recently was able to copy the article and create this very special pamphlet.

The photos from Erk Aeder, John Bilderback and Darrell Wong tell the story beautifully, capturing moments and memories that words alone cannot convey.

My experience of sailing here and knowing some of the Yard Birds, as they were called, was very special indeed. These were skilled athletes, passionate sailors, and fun loving souls who embodied the true spirit of this sailing community. Their dedication to their craft and their willingness to share their knowledge created an atmosphere that was both inspiring and welcoming.

This pamphlet serves not only as a tribute to those remarkable individuals but also as a testament to the enduring legacy of the skills and fellowship that defined this unique corner of the windsurfing world. May their stories continue to inspire future generations of Ocean athletes.

With Fond Aloha and Deep Respect,

That’s HiLevel!