S4, E8: A Visually Impaired Surfer Confronts the Epic Waves of Kauai

In the eighth installment of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season four, Ryan Knighton, a contributing writer, ventures outside his comfort zone. As a blind individual, he typically rides the waves near his home in British Columbia. Recently, however, he opted to challenge himself with new waves in Hawai‘i. Here’s what he discovered.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and you’re listening to Travel Tales by Dinogo. In each episode, we connect with a traveler who shares a journey that transformed their life. This season, I’m also having conversations with each storyteller about significant travel questions. Well, technically, I’m not sitting down with them—I’m recording this from my houseboat in Sausalito, but you get the idea.

This week, we’re off to the island of Kaua‘i to surf alongside Ryan Knighton. Ryan is a contributing writer for Dinogo, a TV screenwriter, and the author of Cockeyed: A Memoir. He has been blind since his early twenties, yet that has never hindered his desire to explore the world. If you’ve been tuning into Travel Tales since the beginning, you might recall his previous adventure about embarking on a sMytouri in Zimbabwe. (There was a moment involving elephant dung, if memory serves.)

Ryan is an avid surfer, having honed his skills for years in the waters around Vancouver Island. He knows how to ride the local waves and enjoys the support of a vibrant community. Until recently, he hadn’t ventured to surf anywhere else. However, Hawai‘i had always been on his wish list, and true to his nature of embracing challenges, he set out to make it a reality. This story, though, is going to unfold a bit differently than typical Travel Tales.

As I mentioned earlier, Ryan is a TV writer currently contributing to the show Billions. Just before we began recording this episode, the writer’s strike concluded, and he was back on the job. Sharing his story is a considerable undertaking, requiring him to memorize every detail, so we arranged for a stand-in Ryan. At the start of the episode, you’ll hear an interview with Ryan discussing why he took up surfing and the unique perspective of traveling as a blind individual. Then, Andrew Galteland, an actor married to our producer, Nikki, will narrate Ryan’s tale.

Aislyn:  Welcome to Travel Tales, Ryan.

Ryan: It’s great to be here. I’m excited to hear from you.

Aislyn: This story focuses on your experience learning to surf in a new environment. I’d love to start with your backstory. How long have you been surfing?

Ryan: Yes, I began my surfing journey while being completely blind. Not blond, by the way—I have no hair at all. I started in 2010 here in British Columbia. That year, Vancouver hosted the Winter Olympics, and my wife and I felt overwhelmed by the influx of tourists. So, we decided to escape for a vacation to Vancouver Island, specifically to the small town of Tofino, one of the few surfing locations on the West Coast.

There aren’t many surfing spots, but Tofino is one of them. While we were there, I saw people surfing, and I was eager to give it a try to see if I could do it. However, no one was willing to take me out; everyone seemed a bit hesitant. My wife was also concerned, saying, “I don’t think you should go out there.”

Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to try again. I remembered a friend from university, Colin Ruloff, with whom I studied philosophy and who remains one of my closest friends after 30 years. Colin was a professional skateboarder and, like me, he faced his own challenges—he was deaf.

To clarify, he still is. He had no hearing in one ear and only about 10 percent in the other. Back in class, since I couldn’t see the board, Colin would say, “I’ll tell you what’s on the board if you let me know what the teacher is saying.” We developed this unique way of collaborating on our studies.

Colin was also an avid surfer. He would come to class, back in the pre-internet days, with printouts of meteorological reports from Alaska, saying, “I have six hours to get to Tofino for some waves; can you take notes today?” He kept trying to convince me to join him, but I would respond, “Dude, I’m blind—I can’t do this.”

Fast forward to 2010, about 20 years later, and I thought, “It’s time to give this another shot.” I called Colin, and we headed back to Tofino together. Over that weekend, the deaf guy taught the blind guy how to surf. It was exactly what you’d picture: I shouted at him, “What do I do now?” He replied, “What?” I asked, “Where are you?” and he responded, “What?” It felt like a scene from a Three’s Company episode, but with two guys facing their own challenges.

Aislyn: And you made it through.

Ryan: I did! I paddled out and caught my first small wave. I stood up on an 11-foot board, which felt like riding a sidewalk. As soon as I stood up, I realized this was going to be a huge turning point for me because I had never felt such freedom as a blind person before. Ironically, 13 years later, I now live just down the road from that surf break; we built our home here.

Aislyn: What did that liberation mean for you? What was that feeling like?

Ryan: When you’re blind, you often find yourself relying on other people—holding onto their elbows for guidance, using a cane, or both. I don’t use a service dog, but there’s always this sense of being tethered to others and surrendering your independence for safety. It can feel like you’re just a passenger in your own mobility.

Over the years, I’ve often said that I don’t find blindness to be a particularly crippling disability. What truly hinders me is the boredom that comes from being overly safe. I’ve made a conscious choice to push against that. The idea of surfing intrigued me because I’d never thought of it as a sport I could attempt; if I fall, I fall into water, not onto concrete. I can move quickly without needing someone to guide me, and I don’t have to worry about colliding with anything. It’s just wide open space. That sensation of moving fast, with the thrill of thinking, “I might just be okay, I won’t hit anything,” creates an exhilarating adrenaline rush that’s quite addictive.

It’s akin to how others must feel when they run. For me, it’s my version of running—I get to go fast. It’s interesting because, for sighted surfers, there’s a beautiful visual aspect to the sport; they take in the stunning landscapes around them while they ride the waves.

They look back at the beach, which offers a unique perspective. Standing freely on the ocean, they gaze toward the shore. For me, however, there’s none of that external beauty. Instead, I dive deep within myself. When I pop up on a wave, it’s all about sensing the subtle balance shifts and the wave’s changing energy, adjusting my body to stay on.

So, I explore deeper internally rather than looking outward. It heightens my awareness of the miracle of balance. It feels like dancing with a wave; I must react to its movements. Other surfers scan ahead, plan their maneuvers, and navigate the waves based on what they see unfolding.

I take a different approach. I jump on and see how long I can react to everything I encounter. This has become my unique addiction. I cherish the fact that, when I’m up and riding, there are no words involved. As a blind person, life is often narrated and mediated by others. It’s refreshing to engage in something where silence reigns.

Aislyn: It sounds incredibly meditative, doesn’t it?

Ryan: Absolutely, but also quite terrifying.

Aislyn: Do you still feel that fear when you're out on your familiar waves?

Ryan: Oh, definitely! Just yesterday, I was at a spot I don’t usually visit because my wife was off at a yoga retreat. I headed to the bay with someone guiding me. I felt secure on the inside, where the waves are audible, so I could hear everything happening around me.

I spent a couple of hours surfing solo, but as I paddled further out, the water started feeling increasingly strange. When you can’t see and you’re heading into the ocean, it gives you this deep existential sensation, like you’re paddling into the unknown—no idea what lies ahead or where you’re headed.

I sensed the rip currents around me changing in a strange way. The nose of my board was tilting unexpectedly, and I thought, "What’s pulling me?" I realized I might be very close to the edge of the bay, where the currents pull water out. I struggled to paddle back and, once out, I decided to check just how close I had gotten to the rocks.

As I walked over, I found I was only about 10 feet from the rocks. If I had caught a wave, I would have been thrown directly into them.

Aislyn: Wow, Ryan, that sounds really intense!

Ryan: It does happen sometimes. I need to stay very aware, but I managed to get out in time because I sensed the water behaving oddly. Is that understanding less clear than actually seeing the rocks? Not at all; it just demands a level of attention that sighted people may miss.

Aislyn: That’s a perfect segue into your story about surfing unfamiliar waves. You mentioned feeling terrified, and I truly admire your honesty about your fears and nerves in this experience.

Ryan: Thank you! I appreciate you noticing that because I don’t want to come across as the ridiculously brave fool who says, "I’m blind, so I’m going ice climbing!" I’m genuinely afraid of these challenges.

Aislyn: It feels so authentic and relatable. But why do you keep pushing yourself into these situations? Why face your fears repeatedly?

Ryan: It goes back to what I mentioned earlier: I’m actually more afraid of boredom now than I am of fear itself. I’m cautious; I don’t jump into situations recklessly. I’ve surfed my local break for 13 years and have my regular spots. I have a few neighbors and friends who surf with me, and I’m somewhat known in the community, which makes the ocean feel safer for me.

I still face my fears, but I’m much less scared than I used to be. I’m more at ease now. So, visiting Hanalei Bay felt like starting all over again, asking myself, "What happens if I go somewhere I’ve never seen before, not even in my sighted days as a teenager?"

Sometimes, I can rely on my memory of having seen certain things once. But in this case, I had nothing to draw from. So, I ventured into the true Void, placing my trust in someone unfamiliar. In the article, I mention a guy named Johnny Quinn, which is significant for me. I’ve been with people who genuinely want to help but often hinder me by being overly cautious.

It can be more complex than that. Sometimes, when people talk too much, I get overwhelmed, and then I end up wiped out by a wave or whatever happens next. For me, surfing is about dancing with a wave and collaborating with it, but it’s also this strange partnership with unfamiliar people, and how that interaction shapes my experience on the wave that day.

Aislyn: When we first discussed this story a few months back, you mentioned the importance of having a good guide and how impactful that can be while traveling. I’m curious—what defines a good guide for you, beyond just not talking too much?

Ryan: Oh, that’s a big question for me. I’ve had some incredible guides. For instance, I once traveled to Zimbabwe for a magazine piece, and my guide helped me navigate a sDinogoi, which was a unique experience for me as someone who is unsighted. This concept of guidance was intriguing because they crafted an experience for me, imagining what it might feel like as a blind person in that landscape for the first time.

It requires a deep level of empathy and, more importantly, a sharpened sense of curiosity. A guide needs to share that curiosity, stepping into the world with me while considering what I might find interesting from my perspective, not just showcasing what they know. That’s the essence of it for me. Guidance, in a travel context, is often seen as mere presentation, but I believe it’s much deeper—it's more of a collaboration.

It involves reaching a mutual understanding of what could be a shared experience, one that’s both new for them in a familiar place and new for me in an unfamiliar one. That can be challenging. For example, I visited Petra in Jordan, and it turned out to be the least engaging part of my trip because I was led to numerous sculptures to touch. Even though I’m blind, simply feeling a sculpture doesn’t provide much insight. It’s not unlike how anyone would feel about touching a sculpture; it doesn’t convey the full experience.

Aislyn: Right, you might say, 'I can feel the texture of the stone,' but you’re not really grasping the full story behind it.

Ryan: Exactly! A guide often aims to connect you to a sighted experience, presenting it as a diluted version of what it could be. Instead, we should be exploring unique experiences together. The best guides reconsider their surroundings through my perspective, which often shifts how they guide others in the future. They discover new insights or interesting details they previously overlooked, as we tend to privilege our vision over our other senses.

Aislyn: It seems that a good guide's success involves a degree of risk. There’s an element of trust in not overly shielding you from what you’re about to face.

Ryan: Absolutely! My wife is a prime example of this because she has the most experience guiding me. We’ve developed a unique relationship around guidance to ensure my independence isn’t stifled while also preventing me from getting into trouble due to my adventurous spirit. For instance, Tracy guides me to our local beach, which I know well, but she still needs to lead me there. Now, imagine being with your partner for 20 years, taking them to the beach while they’re blind, and then leaving them with a surfboard, saying, 'I’ll be back to find you in a couple of hours.'

Aislyn: How far has she actually had to go to find you?

Ryan: She once mentioned that she found me about half a kilometer down the beach. And, to be fair, I’m usually in the water most of the time too, so as long as I’m back on the sand when she strolls by, I consider that part of the guidance.

It's amusing, really. Johnny was out in the waves with me, directing me into the surf, which is a form of guidance. But when Tracy brings me to the beach and leaves me to tackle the inside break by myself, that’s another kind of guidance. It means she trusts me enough to go as far as I’ve asked, and I genuinely admire how she does that. Just walking away and thinking, 'He’ll be fine, or I’ll find him later'—that’s remarkable. For me, the best part is surfing alone on smaller waves; they may not be the greatest, but it’s my favorite experience. I rarely get to be completely on my own in this world, so it’s special.

Aislyn: It’s wonderful that you’ve both figured that out. It really reflects a respectful relationship. You mentioned the experience in Zimbabwe, and you’ve had many adventures with Dinogo, including that Spin the Globe trip to Cairo. On a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being relaxed and 10 being terrified, where would you rate your surfing experience?

Ryan: That’s a fascinating question! I’d say it was around an eight before I caught my first wave. Once I finally caught one, it felt so comfortable and familiar again. One of the great things about going out with Johnny was realizing, 'Oh, I’m a surfer.' Even if the waves feel different or break in new ways, there’s something inherently familiar that brings me comfort.

So I often feel more apprehensive before attempting something new than I do while I’m actually doing it.

Aislyn: It makes sense that your muscle memory would kick in. It was really about understanding the water and getting you into it, right? Plus, navigating past the rip current and all those little details.

Ryan: Exactly! And, after I could see—well, sort of see [laughs]—I realized how well I connected with Johnny. He was just so open and enjoyable to be around, never coddling or overly protective. Instead, he pushed me to explore the limits of my abilities. That kind of mutual trust is a remarkable gift. It doesn’t happen often. As I mentioned at the beginning of the article, my experience of a place while traveling is equally tied to the people I meet. They guide me through it and become part of the essence of that place. To me, Johnny Quinn embodies the spirit of Hanalei; he’s my personal Virgil guiding me through. I love that aspect of travel—the guidance is not just a backdrop for what you see; it’s an integral part of the experience.

Aislyn: So, our producer Nikki mentioned that her husband, Drew, is reading your story. What do you think about experiencing your story through someone else’s voice?

Ryan: I absolutely love it! Years ago, I did a piece for This American Life that someone else recorded for me. It was about 15 years ago. Recently, someone approached me about that piece and remarked, 'You sound different.'

Aislyn: And you’re like, 'Yes, I do. Quite different.'

Ryan: I really don’t mind at all. I’m perfectly fine with letting someone else’s voice speak for me.

Andrew Galteland: Hanalei Bay graces the northern coast of Kaua‘i, the fourth largest Hawaiian island. Imagine palm trees swaying and verdant river valleys. Wild chickens with splashes of turquoise. A deep blue ocean adorned with waves. It’s as picturesque as your imagination can conjure. As for me, I didn’t see any of it.

As a blind traveler, my understanding of a place isn’t formed by what I see. It’s often conveyed to me by someone who knows the distinctive sounds, tastes, scents, and sensations that define the location. You might call this person a guide or a fixer. In Hanalei Bay, that person was a surfer named Johnny Quinn.

When I approached my hotel’s concierge to help me find a surfing partner to be my eyes, her demeanor was filled with concern. Fair enough. I’m well-acquainted with my tranquil beach back home on Vancouver Island. However, I’ve faced injuries like broken ribs, scraped skin from the ocean floor, torn shoulders, and have been caught in rip currents long enough to feel genuine fear. Johnny, a Californian bartender at the hotel, had never surfed with a blind person before, but he was eager to try. Some surfers will chase any thrill, and some blind adventurers will too.

The following day, Johnny’s truck rolled into the parking lot of Titus Kinimaka’s Hawaiian School of Surfing to gather our equipment. The sun had barely risen, already scorching my pale Canadian skin. Johnny was a bit late, which made me anxious. Honestly, I was uncertain about how I would manage in a challenging bay I had never navigated before, even with his assistance. A surfer must accurately predict where a wave will break visually. You need to consider the shifting tides, currents, and winds. You have to position your board and body just right to face the incoming swell, or else the wave will surge, topple, and toss you around like laundry in a washing machine. It’s daunting not to see what’s unfolding. Even worse is relying solely on verbal guidance—if your head is still above the water.

“Sorry for the delay,” Johnny said as he climbed out of his truck. “I walked into a cobweb and had to chase down a spider with a brush. Want to touch it?”

He guided my hand to his head, revealing a wild, curly mane where the spider had attempted to set up residence. His big hair matched his deep baritone voice and broad shoulders, shaped by years of tackling 10- and 20-foot waves. At least now I had a mental picture of the man I might easily lose sight of in the ocean.

Hanalei Bay stretches two miles wide, curving like a crescent moon. It boasts legendary surf breaks, each with its own personality and level of challenge. Some waves surge over reef formations on the ocean floor, while others, like the one named Pinetrees, form over wedged sandbars. Out at the far end, off the eastern headland of the bay, a spot known as the Point is celebrated for its impressively long right-handers. Surf breaks are territorial, akin to extensions of someone’s home. Even after eight years in Hanalei, Johnny doesn’t see himself as a local and shows respectful deference while in the water. If not, you might find a dead bird on your windshield—preferable to discovering your carburetor has gone for a swim.

We chose to start by the pier at the mouth of the Hanalei River. The waves there would be small and gentle as they rolled in from the sandbar. I could simply wade out with my board, about chest-deep, and let Johnny push me into a few waves to gauge how to work with my blindness. Meanwhile, I’d get to experience just how quickly the sun can burn the backs of my legs. I had forgotten that lying on the board would expose them to the sky.

Right from the start, the shallows gave Johnny pause. They were warm and filled with tourists. I would need to navigate my luck around them. A surfboard fin cutting through the water is like a saw. Sure, I had a shirt that announced I was blind, but if they could read it, it was likely too late. And how would I know when to stop? Go too far, and I might crash into the rocky shore with a thud.

The only way to know was to give it a shot. I missed the first two waves, unable to catch them. Then another one slipped by. Finally, on our fourth attempt, I sprang to my feet just as Johnny yelled, “Left, left, left,” his voice fading away. That wave gave me my first taste, a sensation, of the bay’s enchantment. The unbroken water felt smooth beneath my board, swift and silent. It stretched on for 10, 15, my goodness, 20 seconds—a surfer’s brief eternity. I sped into the emptiness, bracing for a collision with someone or something. Then I heard the rush of whitewash around my feet, kicked out, and a surfer shouted, “Blind guy smoked the left!”

In an instant, Johnny was beside me on his board, exhilarated and buzzing. It proved our concept worked, at least somewhat. Now, we just needed to create a way to get me out deeper and into bigger waves without Johnny physically guiding my takeoff.

As the water flows into the bay, it must eventually find its way back out. This force can carve a trench into the sandy bottom and create a rip current—a swiftly moving channel of water that can easily drag you out to sea. They terrify me. They’re silent, so I can’t hear if I’m caught in one, and I can neither see nor feel if I’m being pulled away. But surfers depend on rip currents to take them into deeper waters. Johnny and I were uncertain about how to deal with one. He could try to guide me through the rip, but if I got swept past him or lost his voice, I’d be in serious trouble. The fewer words, the better.

“I wish I could cling to your elbow,” I shouted. “At least I’d be able to follow you.” Without any brilliant solutions, we decided to just go for it.

Shortly after, I was frantically paddling into the bay and got caught in a rip. Johnny’s instructions of, “Go left, more left, now right, straight, no, straighter,” were too overwhelming and vague against the ocean’s speed. Then, quite suddenly, Johnny paddled in front of me and, inching back on his board, hooked my toes with his and guided me in a two-man train out to sea. No words were needed until we reached the break a hundred yards out. It was both ingenious and Herculean on his part. SDinogois couldn’t ask for a better guide.

The challenge now was figuring out how to get me onto a wave. Our only tools were words. Johnny couldn’t stand in the water any longer to guide my board with his hands. This was a completely different scenario from the only other disabled surfer he had assisted. She was deaf, and when her ASL interpreter didn’t show up at the beach, Johnny had to rely on a bit of lip reading and a lot of charades. But how do you yell to an inexperienced deaf surfer precisely when to pop up? As she dropped into her first wave, Johnny tapped her ankle to signal, “Jump up now, go.” He was body surfing alongside her, cheering with joy—silent to her ears. After that, she could see what to do.

For me, it wasn’t quite that simple.

I proposed we use a clock face to indicate direction. Facing the beach would be 12 o’clock. A wave peeling to the left would mean I should angle my board toward 11 o’clock. Conversely, a right peeling wave would be at 1 o’clock. This way, Johnny could simply shout out what “time” I was at and what time I needed to reach.

The swell wasn’t particularly large, but it was building. As I bobbed up and down, with no fixed point in sight, motion sickness began to creep in. A surfer glided by, performing a trick while standing on his head.

“Alright, start paddling, you’re at 10, crank to 1 o’clock,” Johnny instructed. “This one is yours.”

I could hear the roar of a wall of water rushing towards me. “But what do I do next?” I shouted, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. If I caught it, I’d be on my own. Words wouldn’t help. With only seconds to go, Johnny looked ahead and read the shape of my wave as it formed.

It was likely to rise quickly and be steep, so I’d need to pop up the moment I felt it. “Lean a bit on your toes as you drop to the bottom,” he instructed, “and head right.”

“But listen for the sound of the wave crashing in front of you,” he added. He thought that would be my cue to steer left. The moment I felt the wave building beneath me, I’d shift my weight to allow the pocket of energy—where the wave curls in on itself—to catch up and propel me forward.

I had a vision of my wave in my mind. A narrative to follow.

“Ready to shred?” was Johnny’s final question, with no time left for a response.

In my imagination, tourists and wild chickens lounged on the beach, observing waves ripple across the ocean like corduroy fabric. On one wave, they might spot a blind man perfectly executing every move Johnny had forecasted. At last, in a unique way, I could perceive a wave for myself—not through sight or sound, but by feeling it beneath my feet, a tactile description of the water as I glided back and forth, my board tracing the braille of the bay.

Aislyn: That was Ryan Knighton. Ryan has just returned from his second trip to Kaua‘i, where he surfed with Johnny again, and he said this experience was even more incredible. His son, Charlie Rawa-Knighton, took some great photos that we’ll be sharing on our social media, so be sure to follow us. We’ll also link to all the stories Ryan has written over the years for Dinogo. If you want to hear more from him, the best way to stay updated is on X—we’ll include his handles in our show notes.

A heartfelt thanks to Andrew for stepping into Ryan's shoes. If you’re interested in hearing more from Andrew, he and Nikki host a podcast called Looters, a thrilling sci-fi western role-playing show that’s a lot of fun. We’ll link to that in our show notes as well. Next week, we’re heading to the Netherlands to explore the footsteps of a lesser-known but significant Dutch art movement.

Eager for more Travel Tales? Check out Dinogo.com/podcast, and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and X. We’re @Dinogomedia. If you enjoyed today’s journey, I hope you’ll return for more fantastic stories. Subscribing makes it easy! You can find Travel Tales by Dinogo on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or your favorite podcast platform. And please rate and review the show—it helps us secure amazing guests like the one you heard today and aids other travelers in discovering it.

This has been Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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