I Can Remember fornt coverDecorative magazine overlayDecorative magazine overlay

I Can Remember

Publication
Surfing Illustrated (Winter 1962) - Volume 1, Issue 1
Year
1962

“I can remember . . . .” Sentimental words from an oldtimer? How old does an oldtimer have to be? Old enough to remember when things were different! In my case, I can still remember taking off way up in the hook, because I did it just yesterday at Malibu when the hodaddies were calling them three or occasionally four feet, yet every good wave I caught at the point was way over my head, with 250 other boards and bodies scattered in a “log jam” between the point and the beach.

I can also remember driving to Malibu in 1942 during the war. Dim-outs and gas rationing were on and I didn’t pass a single car in motion in either direction along the coast highway from Santa Monica north to Malibu.

I can remember the Malibu Beach Patrol, revolvers drawn, forcing us to paddle south beyond the old Pottery (now the Outrigger Storage Club) to get out of the water.

I can remember 120-lb redwoods and a friend with surfing bumps large enough to get him a medical discharge from the Navy.

I can also remember a big day at Malibu in 1943, half a dozen pier rides from the point, but it wasn’t as good as usual — too crowded — what with three cars on PCH and eight boards in the water. Looking back, it is easy to say surfers then were strong and tough. Sure, but bull-headed too. They were resistant to change until a guy with a gimpy elbow named Simmons started throwing boomerangs at the cove and Malibu. He became the first man to apply fiberglass to a surfboard. First man to get tired of jagged torn-up noses on boards and do something about it. While he wasn’t the first to build a light board, he certainly could be termed the Father of the Surfing Explosion.

At the same time came men like Buzzy Trent, famous for his big-wave riding at Makaha. I can remember Buzzy at Santa Monica's State Beach, when he wanted to borrow my old redwood (circa 1942, weight—109 lbs). Buzzy was so small he couldn’t even drag, much less carry it across the sand to the water.

I can remember June 1943, spending a whole month on the beach at San Onofre. No Marines, no people, just surf and sun and more surf. Weekends were considered crowded when there were 10 or 20 cars. During the week it dropped to three cars, Doc Paskowitz' 1939 Willys wreck, Reg Chambers’ '37 Ford, and my '37 Buick convertible.

Talk about crowds now—you’ve never seen anything like San Onofre in 1937, with tents, trailers, and cars packed one against the other from the church beyond what is now the South Beach.

Then there was Sunset Cliffs and a foggy, giant surf day, when any wave over your head was an eight- or ten-footer, and way over your head was a 15-footer. That was before the hodaddy conservatism of the last decade. Sunset Cliffs, and six smashed ribs when I took a drop bodysurfing for my board, and landed right on it.

I can remember Pete Peterson and how he refused to use wax on his varnished boards, so he rubbed them with seaweed instead, which made them even harder to ride.

Yes, son, memories are only relative. Would I trade surfing now for then? The solitude and loneliness then was indescribable. All alone at the cove on a big day, or maybe two people at Haggerty’s when the Cove was too big to ride. Fabulous, yes, but no more so than howling through a tube on a snap-turn job today. The exhilaration of riding a wave is timeless. Boards then were a miracle of idiotic engineering compared to the sleek, well-designed boards of today. Of course, the perfect combination would be to take a modern board under your arm and move back through time 10 or 20 years. Impossible, of course!

What then does the future hold for you when I have your son on my knee twenty years from now? I have ideas, sure, but since you probably don’t believe some of these old stories, why should you believe my predictions?

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