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| Summer surf at Cowells. More people than waves. |
If everybody had an ocean, across the USA
Then everybody'd be surfin', like California-i-a
You'd see them wearin' their baggies, hirachi sandals too
A bushy, bushy blond hair do, Surfin' USA -- "Surfin' USA", The Beach Boys, released 1961
I ran over someone today.
It was an unavoidable situation. I felt horrible. She could have been knocked out, scarred for life or possibly lost her life. Good fortune was on our side. We both survived without too much physical damage. However, mentally and emotionally, I remain a little shook up.
I'd guess her to be in her thirties.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yes, are you?" I was glad to hear her speak coherently.
No harm. No foul. No nasty words or stink eye.
I'm an older surfer. I play it more carefully than I used to. I don't go for every wave. I hold my tongue and practice patience.
The problem is too many people in the water. When the sets come you don't want to be in the impact zone, especially if someone is riding a wave. I had just caught the wave and there she was in front of me, probably trying to get out of my way, but too late. I had no chance to turn.
It happens often, especially at the bunny-hill breaks where so many are still learning. Most newbies, aka kooks, are so intent on just catching a wave that they don't see the bigger picture. Skillful surfers slalom around them as if they were so many decoys floating in the water.
But it's not always that easy. And at the more dangerous breaks, the risks of being injured are greater, especially if you don't know what you're doing.
"We'd go to Goodwill to get used wool sweaters for surfing in the winter," he said. Water temp in Monterey Bay can dip below 50-degrees in winter. He and his buddies, including longtime Santa Cruzer Johnny Rice, would wrap up a surf session by building a fire in nearby Lighthouse Field, then known as the Phelan Grove. They would gather around the wood coals, talk story and wait for their numb arms and legs to recover circulation and feeling.
They were a minority of discontents who found the '50s too conformist, a "Leave it to Beaver" culture. Lundquist, raw looking with thinning swept back hair, was probably in his fifties when we talked. At that time he was chairman of the English Department at Cabrillo College.
"One beautiful, sunny morning when I went out to surf the Lane," he said. "I was confronted by a set of bleachers on the cliff. They were having a surfing contest!"
The burgeoning surf scene of the early '60s was catapulted further by the thumping drum beat and high-note electric guitar licks of surf music. It sounded the call in California, and it spread across the nation like a plague. Radio stations in places like landlocked Spokane, Washington, were giving daily surf reports.
Guritarist Dick Dale, singers Jan and Dean and a band called The Beach Boys invaded the radio airwaves with their new surf sound. They were followed by a slew of surf bands with names like the Ventures, the Sentinels and the Surfaris. Infatuated Baby Boomers flocked to armory halls and school auditoriums throughout Southern California to listen, dance and watch movies of guys surfing the local breaks.
Jack O'Neill didn't help things, either. An early surfer at Kelly's Cove in San Francisco, O'Neill brought his love for surfing and entrepreneurial savvy to Santa Cruz where he began manufacturing wetsuits. His marketing slogan was, "It's always summer on the inside."
The wetsuit was arguably the major contributing factor to put hundreds of thousands of people into the icy ocean waters. Hirsute with a black patch over one eye -- injured in a surfing accident -- O'Neill was the perfect icon. He built an empire of surf-related gear and clothing based on his brawny brand.
I remember interviewing Rod Lundquist about 35 years ago for a piece I was writing about Steamer Lane, the most well-known break in Santa Cruz. Rod was one of the original Lane surfers in the 1950s, before wetsuits and leashes.
"We'd go to Goodwill to get used wool sweaters for surfing in the winter," he said. Water temp in Monterey Bay can dip below 50-degrees in winter. He and his buddies, including longtime Santa Cruzer Johnny Rice, would wrap up a surf session by building a fire in nearby Lighthouse Field, then known as the Phelan Grove. They would gather around the wood coals, talk story and wait for their numb arms and legs to recover circulation and feeling.
They were a minority of discontents who found the '50s too conformist, a "Leave it to Beaver" culture. Lundquist, raw looking with thinning swept back hair, was probably in his fifties when we talked. At that time he was chairman of the English Department at Cabrillo College.
"One beautiful, sunny morning when I went out to surf the Lane," he said. "I was confronted by a set of bleachers on the cliff. They were having a surfing contest!"
It might as well have been an invasion from Mars.
It prevented his being able to surf his home break. Popular culture was moving in. That was it for Lundquist. He gave up surfing for a freer form of riding the elements: hang-gliding.
His is an early example of losing your stoke at the hands of the masses. Some old-timers blame Gidget, the culture-changing Malibu girl of the early 60s, for ruining their sport. Gidget was not her real name. It was a fictional sobriquet of a character in a book who became a character in a movie that changed surfing forever.
It prevented his being able to surf his home break. Popular culture was moving in. That was it for Lundquist. He gave up surfing for a freer form of riding the elements: hang-gliding.
His is an early example of losing your stoke at the hands of the masses. Some old-timers blame Gidget, the culture-changing Malibu girl of the early 60s, for ruining their sport. Gidget was not her real name. It was a fictional sobriquet of a character in a book who became a character in a movie that changed surfing forever.
The burgeoning surf scene of the early '60s was catapulted further by the thumping drum beat and high-note electric guitar licks of surf music. It sounded the call in California, and it spread across the nation like a plague. Radio stations in places like landlocked Spokane, Washington, were giving daily surf reports.
Guritarist Dick Dale, singers Jan and Dean and a band called The Beach Boys invaded the radio airwaves with their new surf sound. They were followed by a slew of surf bands with names like the Ventures, the Sentinels and the Surfaris. Infatuated Baby Boomers flocked to armory halls and school auditoriums throughout Southern California to listen, dance and watch movies of guys surfing the local breaks.
It was mostly guys. Girls were expected to wait patiently on the beach. They were called "surf bunnies."
The Mecca for the music was an historic Spanish Revival-style seaside building called the Rendezvous Ballroom near Newport Beach where Dick Dale became known as "King of the Surf Guitar." The Rendezvous was as popular as any surf break. It was a classic 1920s ballroom surrounded by balconies where you could look down on a mass of blond-haired guys and girls performing, with a casual but practiced panache, the Surfer Stomp.
The scene was directly out of central casting. Talk about conformity: The girls' bleached-blond hair draped to their shoulders. They wore colorful thigh-high shifts. The boys were dressed in light-colored pants and madras shirts. The staccato beat of drums and twang of electric guitar notes emulated the music of the rushing waves.
The Mecca for the music was an historic Spanish Revival-style seaside building called the Rendezvous Ballroom near Newport Beach where Dick Dale became known as "King of the Surf Guitar." The Rendezvous was as popular as any surf break. It was a classic 1920s ballroom surrounded by balconies where you could look down on a mass of blond-haired guys and girls performing, with a casual but practiced panache, the Surfer Stomp.
The scene was directly out of central casting. Talk about conformity: The girls' bleached-blond hair draped to their shoulders. They wore colorful thigh-high shifts. The boys were dressed in light-colored pants and madras shirts. The staccato beat of drums and twang of electric guitar notes emulated the music of the rushing waves.
Misirlou by Dick Dale, released 1962; re-released 1994 for film Pulp Fiction
I was mesmerized by the sight and sound and coolness of it all. I had never seen so many blonds in one place. I was out of it. I came from inland and had short dark hair. I learned later that the most rebellious surfer of them all -- known as Da Cat -- who scrawled his signature on walls near surf breaks and movie houses, was a dark-haired early-Malibu regular named Miki Dora.
In the late Fifties, there were no locals at Malibu because it was undeveloped, nobody lived there. In his memoir "Morning Glass," Mike Doyle talks about going to Malibu when he first started surfing to avoid the local harassment he received in Manhattan Beach. Localism, a vigilante-style patrolling of certain breaks, still exists in some places, but seems to have waned as many of the enforcers have faded into the sunset.
Doyle was one of a group of California surfers in the early Sixties to take up the challenge of riding the big and powerful waves in Hawaii.
"In 1963, almost over night it seemed, everyone in the country wanted to be a surfer. Or, failing that, to look like a surfer," said Doyle in "Morning Glass," published in 1993.
Doyle was one of a group of California surfers in the early Sixties to take up the challenge of riding the big and powerful waves in Hawaii.
"In 1963, almost over night it seemed, everyone in the country wanted to be a surfer. Or, failing that, to look like a surfer," said Doyle in "Morning Glass," published in 1993.
When Doyle arrived in Malibu, Miki Dora was already a local legend and iconoclast. In addition to his graceful, stylized surfing, Dora had a reputation as a scam artist and prankster. When the crowds and contests showed up in Malibu, he lit out, seeking waves in exotic places like Biarritz, France, thus spreading the fever, and his mercurial image, to Europe and beyond.
Jack O'Neill didn't help things, either. An early surfer at Kelly's Cove in San Francisco, O'Neill brought his love for surfing and entrepreneurial savvy to Santa Cruz where he began manufacturing wetsuits. His marketing slogan was, "It's always summer on the inside."
The wetsuit was arguably the major contributing factor to put hundreds of thousands of people into the icy ocean waters. Hirsute with a black patch over one eye -- injured in a surfing accident -- O'Neill was the perfect icon. He built an empire of surf-related gear and clothing based on his brawny brand.
The wetsuit certainly lured me back into the water. My first surfing experiences were in the early '60s at Doheny State Beach in southern Orange County. There were a few wetsuit jackets with "beaver tails" that you could strap under your crotch to keep your privates warm. It never worked. Twenty minutes in the chilly water was enough.
I never envisioned surfing as a lifestyle, more as a teenage obsession. At 21, I married my high school sweetheart and started a family. My aim was to find a career as soon as I was graduated from college.
The Rendezvous Ballroom, opened in 1928 on the beach on the Balboa Peninsula, burned down in 1966. It was one of several ballrooms originally built for the Big Bands of the '20s, '30s and '40s.
The introduction of foam surfboards in the late 1950s made surfboards lighter and easier to manage than the earlier, original redwood and balsa wood boards, contributing to popularity of the sport.
I never envisioned surfing as a lifestyle, more as a teenage obsession. At 21, I married my high school sweetheart and started a family. My aim was to find a career as soon as I was graduated from college.
More and more, however, those who surfed continued to ride waves through adulthood. A new professional sport developed around surfing. Many surfers became surfboard shapers and opened shops where the legion of new wave riders and wannabes could purchase surfboards, gear, clothing and decals for the the windows of their vehicles to identify themselves.
Johnny Rice became a shaper and moved to Brazil where he introduced a nation to surfing, before returning to his home base in Santa Cruz. Johnny and his wife Rosemari Reimers-Rice originally met in high school in Hermosa Beach where she was one of the first, and best, female surfers, a member of Hermosa's Surfing Hall of Fame.
The film, "The Endless Summer" by Bruce Brown, further influenced the surfing craze in 1964, documenting, with music and lighthearted humor, two guys traveling around the world seeking the perfect wave. In 1994, Brown updated his film with the sequel, "Endless Summer 2," featuring another two guys traveling the world's surf breaks, and attracting a new generation to the thrill of riding waves.
Surfing became and has continued to grow as a mass market activity. It will be included in the next Olympic Games. Wave machines have been developed by pro surfers including world-champion Kelly Slater where you can practice riding perfect waves for a buck (that's a cool 100) an hour.
The romance of traveling with surfboards strapped to the top of your vehicle to find waves and adventure is cliche. Anyone can do that. Just go to Costco and pick up a foam surfboard for less than $100 and you're practically carving waves already.
Today it's a near miracle to find good waves and not hordes of people. The coolest change in surfing is that women are now as prevalent as men. There is more equality in the water. Although it is still a predominantly white sport.
"Surf checks" at one time meant actually taking your physical self to the beach to scope out the waves. Online cameras now do the work for surfers, eliminating a major element of the surfing ritual -- evaluating and talking story about wave conditions with your pals while soaking in the sounds and smells of the ocean, maybe sharing donuts and coffee. Forget about spying waves that nobody else sees.
In the water, competition is not restricted to surfers. Some lineups include Stand Up Paddlers, surf kayakers and hydrofoil riders. Going surfing can be similar to driving Highway 17 to Santa Cruz, with people changing lanes, passing and tailgating, seeking advantage or stalling, not signaling turns, banging into and running over each other.
As a surfer friend of mine said. "So many people have discovered how much fun our sport is."
Last Wave:
Jack O'Neill died of natural causes in Santa Cruz on June 5, 2017 at age 94. He was a local fixture, often seen driving his 1956 Jaguar convertible and later riding his bicycle near his home in Pleasure Point. The O'Neill brand is known around the world.
Johnny Rice died of pneumonia in Santa Cruz, July 2015 at age 77. He continued to surf and shape surfboards into his seventies and hang with his many friends in Westside Santa Cruz. His name is recognized on the all-time list of surfboard shapers.
Mike Doyle, having battled ALS for several years, died in San Jose del Cabo, Mexico, April 2019 at age 78. A Hall of Fame Surfer, Doyle spent his final years surfing and painting in Cabo. In his memoir "Morning Glass," Doyle tells the definitive story of the early surf scene in California with passion and joy.
Miki Dora, died of pancreatic cancer in Montecito, Calif., January 2002 at age 67. Known as surfing's original rebel, he split from California in the early '70s, spending most of the rest of his life in South Africa and France. The James Dean of surfing, Dora's legacy lives on.
Bruce Brown died of natural causes in Santa Barbara, December 2017 at age 80. His perceptive eye with a camera and his droll humor created a new and lasting motif for surfing.
Dick Dale died following a series of health issues in Loma Linda, Calif., March 2019 at age 81. A left-handed guitarist, Dale continued, throughout his life, to draw crowds to hear his signature surf sound that was revitalized in the 1994 film Pulp Fiction.
Last Wave:
Jack O'Neill died of natural causes in Santa Cruz on June 5, 2017 at age 94. He was a local fixture, often seen driving his 1956 Jaguar convertible and later riding his bicycle near his home in Pleasure Point. The O'Neill brand is known around the world.
Johnny Rice died of pneumonia in Santa Cruz, July 2015 at age 77. He continued to surf and shape surfboards into his seventies and hang with his many friends in Westside Santa Cruz. His name is recognized on the all-time list of surfboard shapers.
Mike Doyle, having battled ALS for several years, died in San Jose del Cabo, Mexico, April 2019 at age 78. A Hall of Fame Surfer, Doyle spent his final years surfing and painting in Cabo. In his memoir "Morning Glass," Doyle tells the definitive story of the early surf scene in California with passion and joy.
Miki Dora, died of pancreatic cancer in Montecito, Calif., January 2002 at age 67. Known as surfing's original rebel, he split from California in the early '70s, spending most of the rest of his life in South Africa and France. The James Dean of surfing, Dora's legacy lives on.
Bruce Brown died of natural causes in Santa Barbara, December 2017 at age 80. His perceptive eye with a camera and his droll humor created a new and lasting motif for surfing.
Dick Dale died following a series of health issues in Loma Linda, Calif., March 2019 at age 81. A left-handed guitarist, Dale continued, throughout his life, to draw crowds to hear his signature surf sound that was revitalized in the 1994 film Pulp Fiction.
The Rendezvous Ballroom, opened in 1928 on the beach on the Balboa Peninsula, burned down in 1966. It was one of several ballrooms originally built for the Big Bands of the '20s, '30s and '40s.
The introduction of foam surfboards in the late 1950s made surfboards lighter and easier to manage than the earlier, original redwood and balsa wood boards, contributing to popularity of the sport.
