I stood there, longboard tucked under my arm, staring at the dark blue expanse before me. I could already feel the chill in the tradewinds.

"Why am I here?"

It was cold. It was dark. But the lineup at Canoes in Wai­kiki was empty.

And that’s why I was here, squeezed into a 2-millimeter-thick, long-sleeved neoprene wet-suit top appropriate for 62-degree water and shivering on the beach.

Night surfing, especially with a full moon overhead, can be an experience as unforgettable as it is unfamiliar. There you are, sitting alone at a surf break that’s usually teeming with people, the bright lights of Kala­kaua Avenue dancing on the ocean’s surface, a glowing orb rising above you. Oh, and you get to surf, too. I mean, how can you beat that combination?

Truth be told, I was never really into full-moon surfing. I would rather fight the "agro" crowds at Queen’s in full daylight than paddle out in the middle of the night, hoping to catch a right-hander without having to share it with three other surfers.

For starters, I don’t like the cold. That’s why I left Chicago after graduate school and came home. And I have terrible night vision. There’s nothing more frightening to me than not being able to see what’s coming toward you, especially a big wall of water that’s about to crash on your head.

Then there are the usual dangers of surfing — reefs, sharks, other surfers — all of which seem so much more magnified at night.

So why paddle out?

For a lot of reasons, say avid fans of full-moon surfing who wax poetic about the experience, calling it "magical" and "unforgettable." They love the empty lineups, the camaraderie with fellow moonlighters, the strange thrill of catching a wave you can barely see.

"Every session is unique," said Carmen Davis, who grew up in Nana­kuli and now lives in Los Angeles. "Each one offers its own set of challenges and perspectives, some peaceful, some magical, others crowded and circuslike."

That’s true, Davis says, for full-moon surfing. When she lived on Oahu, she went out about two dozen times. She loves it so much, it’s part of her email address.

"I remember my first time," she said dreamily. "It was a chilly and windy February night with a small group of friends. The conditions were far from ideal and required a half-suit to endure the cold night’s air. I still remember it as a magical and serene night, as the moon rose in the sky to brighten the water and provide form and function to the evening’s waves. I was hooked and could not wait to do it again."

It’s not known when full-moon surfing became a thing.

John Clark, retired deputy fire chief and author of "Hawaiian Surfing: Traditions from the Past" (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2011), says he’s never come across any reference to Native Hawaiians surfing during the full moon while researching his books.

"That’s not to say they didn’t," he said. "I just haven’t seen any documentation for it."

Though he’s not really into the nighttime charge himself, Clark said he’s surfed during the full moon at Diamond Head and Rock Point on Molo­kai. He even paddled out at Makaha at night as a kid in the ’50s.

"I used to go to the early Makaha Invitational contests, and we’d camp overnight on the beach during the weekend events," he said. "A few times they ran night surfing events for surfers and bodysurfers using lights to light up the waves. I tried it once. It was deadly. The lights were so intense, you couldn’t see anything."

Old-timers have shared with me stories about full-moon surfing, how it was just something they did as kids for fun. But in recent years there have been more organized outings to the lineup at night, from Canoes to Chun’s Reef on the North Shore. Surfers wear glow-in-the-dark necklaces and paddle out in groups, often crowding the surf break and negating the appeal of an empty lineup.

A friend in his 60s who makes a point of avoiding crowded surf spots told me how he once paddled out to Queen’s in Wai­kiki in the middle of the night during a full moon to catch a few waves by himself. He was horrified to find more than 30 people in the water, many on rental boards and most outfitted with glow sticks. Some reeked of alcohol.

"I’m never, ever doing that again," he said.

And he never did.

My first experience surfing at night was not fun.

I paddled out to Canoes with a few friends about 12 years ago, armed with glowing necklaces and wet suit tops. It was summertime, and there was a small swell pushing waves along south-facing shores.

With the sun out, I could have easily caught and ridden these friendly, rolling waves. But at night — and this is what my husband always tells me — it’s different. I didn’t know when to start paddling. I didn’t know whether to go left or right. And I could barely see other surfers screaming across the black rolls of ocean toward me. I don’t think I caught a single decent wave.

"It’s like you’re learning how to surf all over again," my husband said. "It’s very humbling."

After that one session 12 years ago, I never did it again. I never wanted to. I stuck to daytime surfing where the dangers are clearly visible and I don’t have to shimmy into a wet suit.

In December I decided to give it another chance. I called up my girlfriend — she’s always game for anything — and made a date with the Pacific Ocean.

We arrived at the Hono­­lulu Zoo parking lot just before sunset. I figured it would be easier to adjust to the surf conditions and disappearing light if I were already in the water.

We walked with our longboards and bikinis down Kala­kaua Avenue toward the beach, past hand-holding couples on their way to dinner and tourists shooting us confused looks.

There we were, standing on the sand and watching very inviting knee-high waves. I couldn’t deny the beauty before me: the warm orange and red hues of a setting sun, the silhouette of sailboats on the horizon. It was just beckoning us to join in.

So we strapped on our leashes and paddled out to Canoes. There were still about a dozen or so people in the water, most of them waiting to catch their last wave in. We found a quiet spot right in front of the Moana Surfrider and sat there, our legs dangling off our boards, listening to Hawaiian music wafting across the water from the Kuhio Beach hula mound and chatting incessantly. It was like grabbing martinis after work — only the view was better.

As soon as the sun went down, the lineup emptied, and there were just two other people with us, an Army reservist who could surf only after work and a Japa­nese tourist on a rental board.

The full moon had yet to make an appearance.

"Maybe we should have checked the moonrise," said my girlfriend, laughing.

"Yeah," I replied. "That information would’ve been helpful."

But, really, it didn’t matter.

We caught more waves in that hour than we certainly would have when the sun was out. The only obstacles in the water were catamarans taking guests on sunset cruises. It was probably one of the most pleasant surfing experiences I’ve ever had — and that says a lot considering how often I paddle out — and it changed my perspective on the whole experience.

So much so that I went out in January with my husband.

And I didn’t even think about the cold.

We donned wet-suit tops, jumped on longboards and paddled out to Queen’s, just as the sun was setting. The tide was so low, we could have walked out to the lineup. Even in the waning sunlight, I could still make out the unfriendly reef below just below the surface.

I wondered — again — why I was doing this. The waves were thigh-high at best, the water was choppy and the reef was … still there.

"There’s no one out!" my husband said gleefully. "This is awesome!"

Maybe no one’s out for a reason, I thought to myself.

And then it came. A wave. It rose slowly and came right toward me.

I swung my board around and paddled, hoping the dark swell would gently pick me up instead of throw me onto the reef. I felt my board glide and, just like that, I was riding a wave illuminated by a bloated moon rising over the Hyatt Wai­kiki Resort.

I forgot all about the reef.

———

Doo Young Ra organizes full-moon surf sessions in Waikiki. The next one is Tuesday. Meet at 7 p.m. at the Duke Kaha­na­moku statue. Bring your own board and gear; glow sticks provided with donation.