A 100 Miles of of Horizon

Ten minutes in, and we already couldn't see. We had over 70 miles to go, but the bumps were stacking up nicely. I was riding my 8'6 Flying Cat by Lift Foils, with Florence 110x and 21x wings on 32″ M2 masts – gear that's evolved dramatically since we started foiling seven years ago.

The first few hours felt strong. We cut hard for the initial stretch, setting up a straight shot to Kaua'i. The swells were clean, allowing us to maintain a steady rhythm. But around the four-hour mark, reality set in. We'd covered about 60 miles, but the mental challenge of seeing nothing but horizon in every direction started to weigh heavily.

Looking at the same horizon for hours, never seeming to get closer to anything – that's when you really question yourself. But giving up wasn't an option. We'd trained too hard, prepared too thoroughly to let the void between islands defeat us.

The Final Push

Words: Mala'e McElheny

The halfway point hit me hard. My head was spinning, and a crushing headache made every glide feel like an eternity. We'd been foiling for four hours straight, but Kaua'i was still nowhere in sight. In those moments, when the ocean seems endless and your body is screaming to stop, you learn what you're really made of.

I couldn't just give up, I remember thinking, forcing myself to focus on staying up on foil. The breakthrough came when the first outline of Kaua'i appeared on the horizon, about 15 miles out. That distant silhouette was like a shot of adrenaline, giving me the push I needed for the final stretch.

Growing up on O'ahu's North Shore, I've always felt connected to the ocean, but this was different. Being so far from land, surrounded by nothing but blue in every direction, made me appreciate the Hawaiian seafaring tradition in a whole new way. It made me realize how big and unpredictable the ocean is, and gave me a lot more perspective and respect for my ancestry. I’m so honored to keep the waterman tradition alive.

As we approached Nāwiliwili Harbor, both exhausted and exhilarated, we found ourselves racing to be the first to touch sand. After nearly seven hours of foiling, we hit the beach at exactly the same time – the perfect way to end a journey we'd shared every step of the way.

The final tally was exactly 100.04 miles, setting a benchmark for what's possible in downwind foiling. But more than the distance, it was the experience of being out there, completely removed from the world we knew, that left the deepest impression. This crossing really just opened my eyes to how big and powerful the ocean is. I think it also showed me what can happen if I put my mind to something and really work hard for it.

Looking back, we both agree that while this was the hardest thing we've ever done, it's just the beginning. The channel crossing has opened up new possibilities for the sport, and we're already planning our next adventure. As Brady puts it, “One of the coolest aspects of downwind foiling is being able to explore parts of the ocean that didn't really seem possible before with just a board and foil.”

For those inspired to push their own limits, our advice is simple: be prepared, know your capabilities, and respect the ocean. When you're out there, surrounded by nothing but water and sky, it's not about if you'll finish – it's about when.

The crossing wasn't just about being first; it was about showing what's possible with endurance and passion. It’s pretty amazing to be a part of the evolution of foiling and get to ride the new gear and experience the way the new foiling gear is evolving. It's going to make these types of crossings more accessible, and open up so many new opportunities.

As we continue to push the boundaries of foiling, we carry with us a deeper appreciation for those who crossed these channels before us, guided only by the stars and their knowledge of the sea. In the end, we didn't just cross a channel – we opened a door to new possibilities in the sport of foiling.