Jane Fonda Up Close and Personal

 

Jane Fonda toured college campuses in 1969 explaining what she learned behind enemy lines in Vietnam.

At the time I was not a huge Willie Nelson fan. I liked him, though not as much as I do today. He had recently released his 1980 lp Honeysuckle Rose with his hit song “On the Road Again.” Which I found comforting, especially the phrases, “like a band of gypsies we go down the highway… making music with our friends.”

He and his band were scheduled to play at the Santa Cruz County Fairgrounds in nearby Watsonville. The concert was billed as a benefit for a local school. I had heard that Willie had family there, and you just never know who might show up. So I got tickets for the cause. 

I had no idea that Jane Fonda would be there. I had asked Barbara, my girlfriend at the time, to join me. She happened to be a major fan of Ms. Fonda. Call it serendipity.

Daughter of big time movie star Henry Fonda, Jane had begun her career as the sexy plaything of French film director Roger Vadim known for producing and directing the sultry film, And God Created Woman (1956), that launched the movie career of Brigitte Bardot, whom he had married when she was 18. Bardot died recently at age 91.

The name Brigitte Bardot had the same sexy cachet as Marylin Monroe during late 1950s. Vadim likely had designs that Jane Fonda would be the next sexpot star. She and Vadim were wed in 1965 and three years later he directed her in the science fiction sex comedy Barbarella, which was a silly movie shown in art house theaters. It typecast Fonda a sex symbol.

Shortly after, in a 360-dgree turnaround, Jane Fonda became politicized during the heat of the Vietnam War which was tearing apart the United States, in many ways similar to what is occurring today in the U.S. Early protestors to this conflict were summarily told to Love it or Leave it! This referred to our country and its red, white and blue flag. Many young men did go to Canada to avoid the draft which was a surefire ticket to Vietnam.

Fonda chose go to Vietnam. But her trip took her to North Vietnam into the heart of our enemy. She was seeking truth but no doubt was indoctrinated with propaganda as well. She returned to tell her story and was vilified by the war hawks who called her Hanoi Jane. She had won enemies in her own country.

She spoke out at receptive locations, including Santa Clara University in 1969, where I saw the former sexpot-turned-pinko activist. She wore her hair in a shag cut and her mere presence lit up the room. She was on fire: We had no business in Vietnam. We were being played. And as we would soon learn in the published Pentagon Papers, our own government knew it was a lost cause yet continued to send draftees to the fight.

She and Vadim divorced in 1973 and that same year she married Tom Hayden, who had been one of the famed, or infamous, members of the Chicago Seven, defendants who went to trial in 1969 facing conspiracy and inciting a riot charges during the Democratic Convention held there. Their story is played out in the excellent 2020 dramatic film, The Chicago Seven. 

Hayden was elected to and served in the California Legislature in from 1982-2000. He and Ms. Fonda ended their marriage in 1990 over personal issues including her time spent developing her fitness empire. They were still married and both attended the aforementioned Willie Nelson benefit concert in 1980 in Watsonville. I should know, since I had unexpected personal inter-actions with each of them separately.

I provide this background as one might prepare for a big party or reception, to give the reader a little history of the players. My role is absolutely minor here, yet personal since I did protest in the streets of San Francisco, with my family, against the war in Vietnam. I did attend Hanoi Jane's appearance at Santa Clara University. I did have the great fortune of not being drafted and sent to Vietnam based on a clerical error by he Pasadena Draft Board. They had mistakenly reclassified me 3A, deferred. I had a low lottery number and had taken my pre-induction physical. I was one step away.

Vietnam was a major issue during a key period in my, and many of my contemporaries' lives.

That Saturday at Willie's gig in Watsonville the band had finished a great show and left the stage. There was much milling about. Many attendees wore the mandatory cowboy hat that is favorite of country western fans.

In a moment of unexpected awe, I spotted Jane in front of the stage with a small entourage. She was wearing a full skirt and low-cut top. Her auburn-colored hair fell to her shoulders. I was wearing a white tee with printing but I don't remember what it said. I was too nervous. When I approached her, face-to-face, I didn't know what to say. Up close she stood shorter and more petite than I had realized. Her skin was tanned and clear. Her mouth and chin formed a Fonda-esque shape I remembered from her father.  I had some sort of pen or marker that I handed to her.

"Will you sign my shirt, please. I would love that." A crazy request when I look back.

She smiled and said, "Sure big boy." She didn't really say that. She did accept the writing instrument. She did stand very close to me and begin to write on the cotton fabric. I looked down. I had to, she was much shorter than I. While she scrawled her name on my shirt, I peeked. It wasn't as if I heard angels singing but it felt wonderfully intimate being so near the movie star activist.

I was still flushed as Barbara and I made our way to the exit gate. She was laughing. Then I saw Tom (Hayden) forming a circle of folks on the nearby grass. I ran over and found a place to sit amongst them, hoping to join the political discussion.

He gazed at me: "This is a private meeting," he said.

"Oh, of course," I answered. I stumbled to my feet and looked for Barbara, who was still laughing. I had had a big day.

I was ready to join that band of gypsies as they rolled down the highway making music with their friends.

Jane Fonda has continued to evolve, most recently having reincarnated as the martini-drinking straight woman in the hit comedy series Grace and Frankie with Lily Tomlin. In three years she will have reached the same age, 91, as Brigitte Bardot.

I don't know what happened to my signed tee-shirt.

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One of the Guys

Early this past year of 2025, Barbara and I attended a 76-year birthday party for an old friend from her days growing up in the 50s and 60s in Manhattan Beach, California. I sorta knew him, having met Bruce Clayton at about the same time that I met Barbara in 1979.

Bruce had somehow tracked her down, finding her in a funky neighborhood in the Westside of Santa Cruz. I just happened to be living across the street from Barbara. That particular day we were hanging out at my place, which had all the charm of a lost cabin the in the redwoods. A stand of tall trees hovered over one side of my place. Bruce showed up at the front door.

An obviously easy-going guy with a smile that never left his face, Bruce launched into a "remember when" conversation with Barbara while I listened and silently protested his presence, selfishly thinking he was stealing time from me getting to know Barbara. I had a “crush” on her.

How could I have been so stupid.

Today I understand there is no better way to get to know someone than meeting their friends, especially one that goes back into their history of grade-school antics and friends and the stuff that molds a young person.

Bruce was slightly chubby that first day I met him. At his 76th birthday party last January, Bruce was, well, the word to best describe his body, is "obese." He never left his chair located in the middle of his very cool house in a semi-rural neighborhood near the most protected wetlands on the West Coast -- Elkhorn Slough -- with a distant view of Monterey Bay. He and his spouse, coincidentally named Barbara, shared this prized location.

Bruce was as jolly and charming as ever. His white beard hung low on his belly. His eyes literally twinkled. He made me feel important to him. Friends of his milled about the house, reconnecting and talking story about Bruce and their lives.

His spouse Barbara acted the perfect hostess, making sure everyone felt comfortable with her casual, accommodating manner. It was obvious how much she loved him and wanted to celebrate his birthday.

2025 has been a tough year. Adding misery to pain, it was also the year Bruce Clayton passed into the next world. A couple of months following his party, we received a note from "his" Barbara giving us the sad news. She had included a history of Bruce's life that blew me away. I had no idea of the extent of his talents and hobbies and generosity. He never let his body get in his way.

Reflecting on my spotty memories of Bruce, it occurred to me how easy it is to judge a person by their appearance overlooking their essence. When someone you know continually talks about themself, they become tiresome. When a person expresses mostly humor and warmth, he or she becomes easy to accept and enjoy, yet their modesty doesn't reveal their accomplishments, as simple or profound as they may be. You have to ask.

Over the past 40-plus years, I had random meetings with and sightings of Bruce, often on the DeLaveaga Golf Course in the woods above Santa Cruz. I recently learned that he had heart issues most of his life and perhaps that had something to do with his increasing weight. Still, he played golf with talent and agility. He had a sailboat and invited "my" Barbara and me to sail with him many times. We never took him up on his offer.

Being the class clown who performed silly dances and played funny jokes, Bruce left a memory with my Barbara that made her leery of sailing the rough waters of Monterey Bay with him at the helm. 

I wanted to sail with him but it never happened. I'm sure he was an expert sailor. 

Bruce was a super talent hidden in an unlikely body, especially as his beard grew whiter and longer while his body continued to expand. Although he never lost his sense of good humor. Reflecting now, I think he may have been a messenger or even a guru.

He made his living as a mason. He created a brick stair-step motif leading from our house to our patio. Barbara had saved feature pieces of tile from her grandfather’s house in Los Angeles and asked Bruce if he could incorporate them into the brick steps he was building for us. 

That was like asking Picasco if he knew how to draw. He had the knack of an artist. The steps he created are a beautiful tribute to his talent and aesthetic flair. Over the years I have often thought of him while passing through our patio.

The evening of his 76th birthday, I was surprised to see a guitar hanging on his wall. I have since learned that he played guitar and saxophone in several bands, including Captain Reefer and the Jungle Sirens, The Intruders and the Stuks. I can see him hamming it up on stage.

A high-powered telescope sat on a tripod next to the south-facing window with the expansive view, a clue to his curiosity about the heavens and distant shores.

Bruce and his brother Mike were raised by their father, or at least resided with Reed Gilbert Clayton during his youth when my Barbara knew him. Reed worked for Disney, as Barbara remembers. The house became a hangout for neighborhood kids while Reed was at the studio. 

Manhattan Beach at that time was a middle- and working-class enclave of families with kids. Bruce was quintessentially one of the guys -- played sports, surfed and goofed off. Some kids never grow up. And never lose touch with their old friends.

One story I remember: Bruce and my Barbara were speaking by Bluetooth phone while we were driving on Highway 1 near Elkhorn Slough, perhaps on our way south to Manhattan Beach to visit her mom. The subject was dental care. Bruce may have had a toothache or something like that. He said that his Barbara was a flosser -- she believed strongly in regular flossing of her teeth.

"I never floss," he said. "Are you kidding? (laughter by Bruce). He made it sound as if no one in their right mind would take the time to run dental floss between their teeth. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I still don't. 

But I do remember him fondly from the bits and pieces, the rare moments when we crossed paths.

"2026 has got to be better than 2025," said his life partner, Barbara, who misses Bruce terribly.

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CBS and Our Global Village

PHOTO:KCS

If it weren't for technology, you would not be reading these words and I would not be able to reach an international audience. The last piece I wrote attracted viewers (readers?) from around the globe, from Argentina, Brazil and Bengladesh, to India, Singapore and Vietnam. And, of course, the United States.

This is according to Google analytics that tracts blogger posts. This does not include viewers on Substack, where my last story also appeared.

A knowledgeable friend says, “They could be using your stories to learn and practice English.”

I’d Like to believe that my words are going toward education, rather than robo searches. Or something worse. But I remain positive and hopeful.

I am reminded of Canadian philosopher/English professor/literary critic Marshall McLuhan's famous pronouncement in 1964: "The medium is the message." He was talking about television! He claimed that we were now part of a "global village." He hadn't even heard about smart TVs.

McLuhan died in 1980. Just four years earlier, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak had founded the Apple Computer. This was long before iPhones, -Pads -Pods, blogs, podcasts and social media. McLuhan was an influencer before his time.

As we prepare to enter the year 2026, we find ourselves walking around staring at hand-held devices as though they held the secret to life. We, the people of planet Earth, are truly members of a global village of distracted wanderers. We can only imagine the full-fledged introduction of Artificial Intelligence knocking on our village door.

I consider myself an analog mollusk caught in a web of digital spiders. I majored in communications in college in the late 60s, including graduate courses in mass communications. I found McLuhan to be the most provocative, and eccentric, thinker of that period, yet I was still hooked on newspapers and magazines, the printed media. Talk about eccentric.

Ironically, my college hero was Edward R. Murrow, originally a radio WWII war correspondent broadcasting war-time action to listeners in the US and Great Britain. After the War, Murrow made his name in television and became known for the guy who took down Sen. Joseph McCarthy in his (Murrow's) CBS news program See It Now in 1954.

McCarthy was a red-baiter, pronouncing various public figures to be communists. After exposing the Senator from Wisconsin's lies, Murrow and his "boys," including reporter Mike Wallace, went on, under the direction of Bill Paley, to set the standard for broadcast journalism with the debut of CBS's 60 Minutes, now in its 57th year and today making hay with the current Administration.

Sunday, Dec. 21, 60 Minutes pulled a story by reporter Sharyn Alfonsi about the deportation, imprisonment and torture of immigrants from Venezuela. The decision was last minute from above, according to several news sources. The story had been vetted and given full approval from the editorial team, who had contacted the White House for comments. The administration refused to speak. That story did appear a day or so later on a Canadian broadcast, only spurring more traction.

Our global village is in the midst of tribal battles over who controls our major purveyors of news and information. The players are conglomerates Warner Bros./Disney, Netflix and Skydance, owners of Paramount who owns CBS and 60 Minutes. It's about big money, big egoes, including tech baron Larry Ellison and his silver-spoon son David Ellison, who crave big power. Trump says he will intervene, which should make everyone very nervous.

Imagine "Trump''s Truthful Network." With an homage to him beginning and after every program.

The truth, however, is that our global village is full of leaking digital sources. Trump and his pals like Putin can bloviate and propagandize but real stories will continue to appear like a game of Whac-A-Mole.

The question becomes how do we sort through the blizzard to reach clarity. What is real or closest to the truth?

And how do we deal emotionally? I pose that anger is a legitimate feeling but will only get us so far. It will not solve our problems. Anything that directs us toward hate is suspect. Blaming others is only an excuse for not taking responsibility.

Technology is a two-edged sword (good and bad). On the positive side it allows us the opportunity to come together. I believe our earthly village will be happier and more learned when we gather around the global campfire and share our stories without the interference of a dictator-ruler. It's an ancient idea and it could lead to a safer world. Our stories are our life and our survival. This story will be viewed around the globe.

It's winter today. Tomorrow it will be spring.

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I'm Moving to Substack

I'm not Larry David. He just looks like me.

I've started publishing my stories on Substack.

If you're not familiar with Substack, it's a platform for writers and creators to publish content directly to subscribers, paid and not paid. Many journalists, pundits and others have turned to Substack, which is independent and not supported by advertising.

 Print and broadcast journalists are losing jobs for economic reasons as well as being threatened and/or censored as mainstream newspapers and networks (legacy media) are being gobbled up by mergers and acquisitions in the big money game.

The media landscape has changed. Wealthy investors are becoming the overlords of information, including tech titans Larry Ellison, Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. Even Donald Trump has his own social media site.

I've decided to move beyond my blog to reach more readers and get out from under Google, whose platform supports this blog. Substack should offer me more freedom as far as control of my photos and what I write. At least that’s the theory.

I thank Google for affording me the opportunity to publish my work for the past 10 years. They have made it easy. Substack is relatively new, launched in 2017, and does not offer the easy layout tools that Google provides. I’m still trying to figure out the formatting and nomenclature.

All things not being equal, there is no guarantee that Substack will survive, or won’t be taken over. And Google may become an AI behemoth. So what's new? We live in a fast-changing world.

I plan to continue my Talking Real Stories on Google while I begin to post the same and more material on Substack. I may end up using both platforms.

I invite you to join me on Substack by subscribing to my writing :.https://kevinsamson731032.substack.com/. You are not required to start a paid subscription. I'm not clear about the advantage for paid subscribers. For writers it's an opportunity to earn a little money, a rare concept.

Substack will offer you the opportunity to receive my posts automatically by email, without me going through the process of sending them to you individually. That’s a bonus for me.

Thank you, my esteemed readers. It's a great pleasure sending my stories to you, and reading your comments.

Again, Talking Real Stories will continue to appear on this current Google platform for the time being. It will also appear on Substack. If you have questions, you can PM me.

Mahalo, Melekalikimaka, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

Hope to hear from you in 2026! Sending good vibes to all. 

 

Trump’s Comedy Problem

Art by KCS 1/18

Rodney Dangerfield was funny. The way he strode onto a stage, his eyes wide open with a crooked countenance. We laughed. “I tell ya when I was a kid, all I knew was rejection. My yo-yo, it never came back."  His schtick revolved around his famous line: “I get no respect.”

Steve Martin launched his career in comedy wearing an arrow through his head. He played dumb.

Bill Murray became famous for his deadpan humor that essentially mocked himself. 

Will Ferrell called himself "a cotton-headed ninny muffin." 

Lucille Ball, perhaps the most popular comedienne of the 20th Century, played the zany housewife.

Great comedians are funny because they exaggerate and expose their ( and our) foibles. They’re anything but perfect, the same as we normal folks are not perfect. We laugh with them because we identify those feelings and insecurities. It’s called empathy (sorry Elon).

I've recently come up with a theory about our current, painfully insecure president. 

He’s failed as a businessman with six bankruptcies. Ironically, he made his fortune selling his name, his brand. Which is all air. Nothing there but a phony concept.

He’s failed as a president once and is fumbling again into a sorry excuse for a politician. He keeps telling us that he’s the greatest president whoever lived etc, etc. His redundancy and ego may, indeed, cause him to believe his own lies, but he’s faltering again in his role as leader.

Is he just dumb? Maybe. He was able to sell himself to unknowing voters and big money donors who saw opportunity with a president they could buy. You could call that smart. Or cunning. Or corrupt.

Currently he is taking the stage again. He believes he can save himself in front of an audience. Ever the showman, he adores himself when he's in the spotlight. His final encore, he believes, will be as the beloved comedian.

Granted, he wears funny extra-long ties and covers himself with gobs of clownish orange make-up. And he’s in love with that weird hairstyle of a rat’s-nest-on-fire. His presentation wreaks of humor. Yet his shtick is not funny. We laugh at him not with him. 

His jokes are derogatory. He insults other people, gives them juvenile nicknames. He boasts and berates.

His spiel on immigrants, his hands waving in and out like a baker squeezing dough, reveals a self-dealing contempt for people of color: “Somalia," he draws out the word for comedic inflection, calling the country "dirty, filthy, disgusting."

Folks are not buying his shtick. Latest polls by the Associated Press and NORC found that only 36-opercent approve of his job performance. The most recent Gallup poll shows 60-percent of Americans disapprove of his second term performance. 

Legislators in conservative Indiana voted on December 11 to reject gerrymandering their voting districts to favor Republicans, as instructed to do by His Highness. 

He's still got his dancing girls -- Pam, Karoline and Kristi -- but the whole act is getting stale. It's becoming as he would say, "a very very bad joke."

Barbarian Daze and the Surfing Life

Cowells, November 2025 PHOTO:KCS

Some 30 years ago I rode one of the most memorable waves of my life. The wave was a curling storm of beauty, seemed to break forever and I surfed it through several sections with good balance and control. My ride began at Second Peak at Pleasure Point on the Eastside, one of a series of Santa Cruz's notorious surf breaks.

I had lined up with two friends, Ron Harsh and Derrick Clark. As the wave approached, Ron turned his board as if he were going for it. As compadres we had ridden waves together so I turned and caught the wave believing Ron was behind me. I heard what I thought was a whoop behind me, like woowee!

Through every section I heard Ron whooping it up. Only it was not Ron. The rider behind me was a Point local who was telling me to get out of his way. I found that out at the end of the ride. "Hey, don't let that happen again," he said in an angry tone.

I felt deflated, like a kook. Which I was. You don't jump in front of someone already on the wave. I had been stoked the entire ride. Now this.

When I paddled back, Derrick said, "If you get into a fight, we're not going to back you up."

"I thought you were riding behind me, Ron."

"Oh no. I got out of the way. That was Kevin Miske, one of the best longboarders out here." 

In retrospect, the ride was worth the tongue lashing.

I had returned to surfing at age 50, after more than 30 years of mostly dry dock. I was riding my new custom surfboard shaped by my friend Johnny Rice, a Santa Cruz legend. Johnny was probably in his mid-60s. 

I took the pleasure of riding waves with Johnny and his wife Rosemari (see photo below). We were among a lineup of locals who surfed the long-peeling and mostly gentle waves at Cowells, the local Westside break where "everyone starts and ends," according to local lore.

Rosemari Reimers Rice surfs a wave at Hermosa Beach 1962. Rosemarie is among those honored in the Three Princes exhibit at the Santa Cruz MAH through January 5.

Cowells is a family wave where you meet your neighbors in the water. Here's a few I remember: Longboard Tim who never wore a wetsuit, Talking Todd who never stopped talking, Door-Shop Dave, Rail-Ding Bob, Big Steiny and Little Steiny, Mac Reed, Matt Micuda, Dave Gardner, Jeff Larkey, Nesh Dhillon, sisters Joni and Bonnie MacFarland, Jane “the Lane” MacKenzie, David "the Buddha" Anderson, Kim Stoner, Ed James, noserider Raney Oullette, Jason "Rat Boy" Collins, Joe Collins, Bob Collins, Dave Collins (none related), Carpenter-Dave (Rogers), Juan Hernandez and his buddy Ron, Fritz Bensusan and Laura, Mindy and Jock Martin, Michel Junod, Fitness Todd (Smith), Nel Newman, Corey Salzman, Lisa McGinnis, Leigh Miller, Brian and Meg, Jen Coco, Laura Williams, Susan Coffey, Kai Cole, Michael the “Flyin’ Hawaiian,” Chris Murren, Clarke Shultes, Maureen Niehaus, identical twins Sarah and Rachael Raskin, Sarah Gerhardt (first woman to ride Mavericks) and hubby Mike, Doc Scott, Jeff and Michelle Scott, Greg Kohler, Steve Kurtz, enforcer Vince Collier and Pat Farley, who produced a documentary film, Cowells and the New Millennium (2004),  that was first screened at the nearby historic Cocoanut Grove and everybody came. A fine effort by a rookie filmmaker, Farley's documentary won awards at several film festivals.

I'm sure I missed a few names. But you get the picture. At times it was a love fest. All the local kids surfed here at one time, before graduating to the bigger waves at Steamer Lane and in some cases the monster waves up the coast at Mavericks.

Pat Farley prepares for a paddle on a flat day in September 2025. PHOTO:KCS

 Santa Cruz surfer girls (left to right) Taryn, Bryna, Becca and Paige party before launching on their Costa Rica and points south adventure, year 2000.

Family vacations became surfing holidays in Hawaii and Mexico. We traveled with our friends Nancy and Steve Howells. Steve was a shredder. He rode short and longboards, on all kinds of waves. He had been employed in the nascent surf industry of the 60s in shops where the holy grail surfboards themselves were first born and John Severson’s Surfer magazine and logo decals for your car windows were distributed. Steve had tested new boards for shapers out of Santa Barbara. 

Our youngest daughter, Isabel Bryna, joined us on these trips. She established bonafide cred as the surfer in our family, having grown up with the waves, competing in various contests and school-sponsored events, a charger who nearly lost her leg when the fin of her board sliced into her thigh. 

Following graduation from Santa Cruz High School, she and a pod of surfer girls -- Bonnie Salter, Becca Davis, Sara Stewart, Paige Nutt and Taryn Craig -- split for Costa Rica and points beyond, including the beaches of Australia. They spread out and beyond, fearlessly chasing waves and life experiences in the Southern Hemisphere. We parents hugged them goodbye and held our breath in the terminal at San Francisco International Airport.

My claim that I have surfed the Atlantic Ocean in Uruguay is due to our adventuresome daughter. Barbara and I made two trips to the far coast of Atlantica in Uruguay, where our granddaughter Viva was born. Today, Bryna and Taryn reside on the island of Kauai where, as surfer moms, they continue to ride waves of the Pacific with their children.

Since that wild ride where I got yelled at at Pleasure Point on my new Johnny Rice board, I have surfed through six surfboards, four of them shaped by Bob Pearson, one by Ward Coffee, both Westside shapers. That’s a paltry number for my surf buddies who have accumulated quivers of boards for all conditions. For many who ride waves, the surfboard is not merely an aquadymanic vessel for riding, but a finely shaped objet d'art that merits a place on the wall.

The iconic longboard is built to glide through water like a dolphin and turn gracefully as directed by the rider through footwork and weight balance. The rider becomes one with the wave resulting in being stoked, having been fed the fire that fulfills your being. Or so the soul surfer believes.

My surf buddies Tony Lorero, Rob Butterfield, Don Iglesias and I -- continue through our seventh decade to live for another wave. When the ocean turns calm and there are none, we paddle on our boards, tell stories and complain just enough so that we never lose our stoke and good humor. Fellow paddlers are welcome.

According to Don, "Surfing makes you a better person." 

Tony finds that debatable.

Rob says hello to everyone.

COVID, which sent thousands of wannabes into the water, was a boon to the surf industry that has morphed into clothing and related gear that the old timers would never believe, like the wetsuit wrench. Hell, Rod Lundquist, one of the early Santa Cruz surfers of the 50s says they entered the cold water in second-hand wool sweaters from Goodwill. There were no wetsuits! Or surf contests. The crowds drove Rod to hang-gliding.

With so many people in the water today riding new iterations of the noble surfboard -- including kite boards and motorized hydrofoils -- and with technology making secret spots widely known, localism seems fairly quaint. 

Old surfing maxim: We were all kooks at one time.

Left to right: Don Iglasias, Rob Butterfield and Tony Loreo ham it up at the Three Princes surf exhibit currently showing at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History through January 5. The exhibit chronicles the history of surfing in North America that began in Santa Cruz with three Hawaiian princes (not these guys). The show features replicas of early surfboards made by the Hawaiians, reproduced here by local shaper Bob Pearson of Arrow Surfboards. Also on display: a retrospective of early surf shops and key local surfers as well as the "guns" (big wave surfboards) that were ridden on the 30-foot wave faces at world-famous Mavericks. A tribute to Johnny Rice is shown in the background.

 

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to all from the Surfer Statue on West Cliff Drive in the Westside of town. PHOTO:KCS 2023