Telling Hawaii’s stories, one hand-carved surfboard at a time

Leleo Kinimaka, who exclusively uses local timbers like monkey pod, maple, mango, milo and cedars for his boards, at his studio in Waimanalo, Hawaii, May 23, 2024. The Hawaiian native who grew up surfing in Kauai, still vibrantly athletic at 61, has carved out a career as a woodworker who creates intricately designed surfboards known as alaia boards. (Jake Michaels/The New York Times)

By Will Higginbotham

Leleo Kinimaka grew up in Kauai, the Hawaiian island where the Pacific Ocean provided routine and rhythm to his days. “I’d wake up and I’d go surfing all day, maybe swim or canoe,” he recalled. “I’d only come home for lunch.”

It’s fitting, then, that the Hawaiian native, still vibrantly athletic at 61, has carved out a career as a woodworker whose creations — primarily the intricately designed surfboards known as alaia boards, which have been used by islanders to shred waves for centuries — both reflect his upbringing and celebrate his culture.

One day this summer, Kinimaka was in his light-filled studio, which is nestled in the verdant Koʻolau Range on Oahu, shaping a piece of wood with a planer that sent wood chips flying. Half a dozen finished boards rested against a wall, their lacquer shimmering in the morning light, but what immediately caught the eye were the intricate patterns embedded in their facades.

“When I make boards incorporating Hawaiian symbols and stories, that’s my absolute favorite,” Kinimaka said, admiring his handiwork. Running his fingers along the surface, he added: “See this curly golden grain here? That represents the god of the sea, Kanaloa. These triangles? They represent shark teeth, a symbol of power. The three diamonds intersecting here? That represents ohana — family.”

With no fins and less volume and floatability than many surfboards, most modern surfers find alaias a challenge to ride. “You’re really just body surfing but on this small piece of wood,” Kinimaka said. “It takes a strong person to catch a wave, but once you get on it, it is so different.”

“It feels like pure, ancient surfing,” he said. “You’re like a skimming rock shooting across the water surface — you just go.”

As the sport evolved, the boards largely disappeared for most of the 20th century. But they have enjoyed a revival recently thanks to master shapers such as Tom Wegener and Tom Pohaku Stone, who started revisiting the craft in the early 2000s. Since then, some surfing competitions have introduced alaia divisions, and wooden boards can be spotted on the coasts of California, Australia and beyond.

Even among board-makers, though, Kinimaka is unique. While he estimates he has shaped about 2,000 surfable wooden boards, a certain number are designed strictly for ornamentation. “I can put fiberglass around them, but I prefer not to,” he says. “I see them as a work of art.” Indeed, his majestic alaias — whose price point ranges from about $1,000 to $12,000 — have sold to museums and private collectors around the world.

Leleo Kinimaka, who estimates that he has produced some 2,000 surf-able boards, though some, expressly designed to be art objects, never see the water, at his studio in Waimanalo, Hawaii, May 23, 2024. (Jake Michaels/The New York Times)

It’s hardly a path that Kinimaka could have envisioned more than 40 years ago, when he was working in hospitality and as a lifeguard. After Hurricane Iwa in 1982, he moved into construction — “the only job available when people stopped visiting the islands,” he said. When another hurricane hit, he left for California, where he stayed for a decade and learned carpentry. In the early 2000s, he returned. “It was a great adventure, man, but home called me back, as it often does to us Hawaiians,” Kinimaka said.

On his return, he committed himself to his wood shop, Royal Hawaiian Woodwork, and took on contract construction jobs. It wasn’t until 2009, though, that he made his first alaia. As with most crafts, it took courage, time and the guidance of a mentor to begin. Once he conquered the basics, he set out to find his own voice.

Letting the materials speak to him became part of that evolution. One day, he was making an alaia when he noticed, with intense clarity, the grain: “It was like stories were popping out of this board. I got experimenting with native symbols, adding them. I haven’t looked back since.”

Back in the studio, it was time to carve the board’s bottom contour, which is crucial to how it performs in the water. “No machine can create this,” Kinimaka said. “I shape it like my ancestors — by hand.” He pointed to an extensive collection of family photos, and a wall depicting 17 generations of the Kinimaka family tree, including members of the Hawaiian royal family. “This reminds me why I do what I do,” he said. “It’s full of proud Hawaiians.”

In an array of symbols arranged on a nearby table, several pieces of red curly-grained koa stood out. “This represents the Kihei, Kula and Lahaina fires,” he said, alluding to the wildfires that ravaged Maui last summer. Black diamonds “represent families that experienced a loss,” and a wavy design evokes the powerful Kaua‘ula winds that stoked the flames. Another depicted the sun rising over Maui’s largest mountain, Haleakala, an emblem of renewal after devastating loss.

It was past 2 p.m., and Kinimaka has a rule: Work in the morning and then, in the afternoon, head to his other office: the ocean. The next week, though, the new alaia was ready. The shop was warm and fragrant, and the completed board rested on a table by a large window — now waxed, lacquered and polished.

“This might be one of the most meaningful boards I’ve ever made,” Kinimaka said, his eyes lit with pride. Its kaleidoscopic collage of reds, browns and golds dazzled, seeming to refract the glorious Hawaii sunlight around the room.