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The Waterman
No. 12
WET
WORK
Pro surfer Mark Healey goes deep
written by
Healey picks up dinner in Fiji, 2009. Photograph by Kanoa Zimmerman.
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NED MARTEL
The Waterman
No. 12
M
ark Healey is a professional waterman. That
means he can hold his breath underwater for seven minutes and spear
a fish as easily as the rest of us spear cocktail weenies. He catches rides
on the backs of great white sharks for fun. And above the breakers, he’s
a professional surfer with sponsors like GoPro and Monster Energy.
Pretty much anything you can do in the ocean, Mark Healey can do
better. But he’s also a bow hunter, skydiver, conservationist and parttime Hollywood stuntman, so he might have you covered on land, too.
As a kid growing up on the North Shore of Oahu, Healey learned
to surf well enough to go pro in his early teens. Under his father’s tutelage, he also learned how to spear fish, first for family dinners and
eventually to sell to local restaurants. Recently, he turned his lifetime’s
worth of aquatic skills into a business, Healey Water Ops, which offers
customized surfing, diving and spear-fishing experiences to high-end
eco-marksman could soon be trailed by camera crews as he hurtles
landlubbers. The expeditions might not be as extreme as some of his
himself into Fiji waves to learn primitive fishing tricks, free dives in the
own boundary-pushing adventures, but if you were looking to blow
dark depths of the Indian Ocean, or explores America’s inland lakes to
bubbles in the waters off Margaritaville, he’s definitely not the right
see what lies beneath.
Nearing the bottom of a bowl of oatmeal, Healey talks about his
guide for you.
On a recent Saturday in Santa Monica, Healey has just returned
childhood on the North Shore, which is still his home base. It takes
from Japan, where a favorite shop is selling T-shirts and hats from one
him less than five minutes to haul his gear to the beach in his ’67 Ford
of his surf-lifestyle sponsors, Depactus, which he also happens to be
pickup. But a lot has changed about the place since he was a kid.
wearing. The cap keeps the morning rays off his face, but at thirty-three,
“I used to see people get their asses kicked in the water fairly reg-
Healey is already plenty sun-blasted. He’s been awake since dawn, mak-
ularly,” he says, meaning with fists, in locals-only melees over crowded
ing, as it happens, his Fox News debut.
waves. “That just doesn’t happen much anymore. Everything gets seen
A video of Healey went viral the week before, and some Saturday
on the North Shore. And more and more people get their income from
morning news hosts in New York had some questions for him. In the
the surf industry, so you can’t just go smashing people up all the time.”
clip, Healey can be seen launching himself in a high, daring arc off the
When he wasn’t fighting for forty foot waves, he was underneath
side of a boat that’s about to get walloped by a massive wave. He and
them with his Hawaiian-raised father, who taught him how to make a
his buddies had been big-wave surfing two miles offshore at Mavericks,
living in the water. Healey still fishes under the principles he instilled:
the Northern California mecca, and he thought their boat was about to
Don’t kill what you or someone else won’t eat. And when you do, kill
capsize. But more surreal for him than the incident itself was explaining
quickly and cleanly, with as little pain as possible for the prey. Healey’s
it to the disembodied voice of Tucker Carlson in an earpiece while star-
spear gun—made by one of his sponsors, the Riffe family of San Clem-
ing into a monitor in a silent California TV studio.
ente—is typically aimed squarely at the brain of some snapper, wahoo,
or tuna. The largest he ever landed was a dogfish tuna, the Moby-Dick
“Typically, in a potential maritime disaster, the best idea is to
of Hawaiian spear-fishing quarry, weighing in at 150 pounds.
stay with the boat,” he told them. “But I really didn’t feel like getting
smashed around like an ice cube in a shaker, so I looked to my friends to
Healey can hold his breath for long bouts—seven minutes in a stat-
the left and right of me and just told them, ‘I don’t know about you guys,
ic environment like a pool, and just under five minutes on an average
but I’m jumping.’” And jump he did. Luckily, the surfers who remained
dive—and he can teach others to do so as well. To him, scuba would
on board were all fine, so they gathered him up on a Jet Ski.
seem like cheating, except the assisted breathing doesn’t actually get
you anywhere—scuba divers scare the fish off with their clunky equip-
If anything, the interview showcased Healey’s telegenics, which
ment and clouds of bubbles.
lately have cable producers circling. If they have their way, the
Healey and his trusty Riffe spear gun, 2015. Photograph by Jason Reposar
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The Waterman
It may sound florid, but it’s true: Healey’s stalking is an underwater
Blood cascaded from the center of his face. Only at the hospital,
dance. He has learned how his own body language can calm or provoke
alone in the bathroom, did he figure out the problem: his nose was
a fish, and he calibrates accordingly. For the majority of the time he
half-torn off. Playing with his injury, he was able to tilt the tip of his
spends on the ocean floor waiting for a clean shot, his body is screaming
nose almost to his ear, with a dark hole in the center of his face—“like
for oxygen. To keep the anaerobic strain manageable, he has to turn
Skeletor!” he laughs. “My beak is crooked as fuck now.” It also barely
down his mind. It’s the same “happy place” he goes to when he’s getting
functions as a blowhole. Despite his Aquaboy powers, he’s clearly a bit
thrashed in the churn of a big wave, or holding on to the fin of a bull
embarrassed to admit the truth: he had collided with a turtle. He let the
shark dragging him too deep, that moment of extreme danger and max-
slowest beast in the ocean get the best of him.
imum solitude where, as he puts it, “nothing gives a fuck about you.” In
The scrape wasn’t Healey’s first and certainly won’t be his last.
order to persevere, his brain channel-surfs to memories that soothe or
Spend a little time with the waterman and he’ll rattle off the catalogue
excite him, summoning a specific scene with his girlfriend or a particu-
of injuries that come with the title.
No. 12
“I split my kneecap in half,” he says. “I broke my heel. I broke my
larly complex Ravi Shankar measure. Once in a while, in the noisy roil,
ribs a bunch of times and separated my sternum. Broke my nose. Broke
it’s something by Slayer.
my hand…”
When he breaks back to the surface, there’s a sense that body and
But there’s a method to the madness.
mind are together again. But each time, he knows he’s been lucky. And
he recommends a buddy in all outings. At age fourteen, he emerged
“I’m not afraid of a good old-fashioned bender, that’s for sure. I’m a
from some violent underwater episode that he was happy to be done
man of extremes,” he says. “As long as you punish yourself afterwards—I
with, only to have his friend tell him to get out of the water. His face
call it crime and punishment. If I go have a weekend in New York City,
was not quite right.
then it’s gonna be a week of beach training when I get back.”
Hunting on the ocean floor in Mexico, 2014. Photograph by D.J. Struntz
Opposite page: spearfishing in Fiji, 2009. Photograph by Kanoa Zimmerman
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“
H
The Waterman
No. 12
ealey still fishes under
the principles his father
instilled: Don’t kill
what you won’t eat.
And when you do, kill
quickly and cleanly.”
Healey at work, 2014. Photograph by D.J. Struntz
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