It had been a long time since I read this, and to be honest I was a little nervous about revisiting something I’d done in my early pseudo-gonzo phase nearly 50 years ago.
I wasn’t worried about its re-publication after so long opening up old wounds or causing pain or embarrassment to people who are, like the writer, old men now. Hey, back in the day it was published in several places in different forms – including in my first book, 'The Wave Game' – and I don’t recall anyone getting too badly bent out of shape.
What mainly concerned me was that my take on the events of the eventful, slightly scary and fascinating North Shore season of 1976 might not sit well with the passage of almost half a century, that what seemed funny or cool back then doesn’t stand the test of time. And, inevitably I suppose, parts of this long and highly subjective look at a very small section of the emerging world of pro surfing make me cringe just a little.
For starters my sins of omission are many. Granted, I was writing an international story for an Australian audience, and in the years to come during my half-dozen seasons covering the North Shore for Surfer Magazine I would develop more of a world view, but I was already friends with Jeff Hakman, Mr Sunset himself, and while he was absent quite a bit building the Quiksilver business in California, he was still worthy of more than the cursory mention I gave him.
And I remember being particularly impressed with Michael Ho, just emerging and destined for greatness, yet barely a mention, perhaps because of the strangeness of the older Hawaiians toward us that year, but undeserved for Uncle Mike.
And what about the women? Well, there was no IPS division for them that first year, and no Aussie girls stood out that I can recall, but Margo Oberg and Lynn Boyer both ripped, and I became friendly with Rell Sunn, Jericho Poppler and Becky Benson, all great surfers who don’t rate a mention either. None of this surprises me, but what does is that I also fail to mention photographer Shirley Rogers, the hottest babe on the beach every day of the week.
The time capsule is kind of interesting. On the one hand we have people huddled in hotel lobbies using the landline phone, and Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford battling for the presidency; on the other we have first generation pro surfers sleeping 10 to a condo and watching TV most nights because they can’t afford to do anything else. (At least I didn’t mention the fact that many of us smoked like chimneys, even inside the house.)
And finally, an admission, one that stems from a mention in Half A Winter’s Tale of its author enjoying a late afternoon surf at Kuilima Point, which is at best a C+. There were a few journos – not so many photogs – who could cut it with the pros in those early years, but I was definitely in the category of a writer who surfed, not the other way around.
That year PT took me out at Sunset on a just-overhead day and showed me where to sit, I managed a few leftovers at Rocky Point and, famously Rory Russell showed me where to take off at smallish Pipe. I got a couple I was happy with and my surfer-who-writes buddy Michael Tomson was waiting when I walked up the beach. I told him I was stoked to have surfed Pipe and he laughed and said: “Philthy, you tell everyone you surfed Pipe today, but between you and me, that was Beach Park.”
This story first ran in the January 1977 edition of Tracks.
Rabbit’s been having this dream. He’s in the final of the Pipe Masters and he comes from way, way inside, the tube’s about to spit him out when a shot rings out. He falls off holding his gut and his board washes into the beach. The crowd is stunned. Rabbit staggers into the beach, picks up his board and paddles back out, a pool of blood covering his well-waxed deck. In agony he picks his next wave. A monster. Makes the impossible drop and backside turns up into the cascading lip. It’s the wave of the century and, naturally enough, the contest is his.
Rabbit looks thoughtfully into his third (or was it fourth?) zombie cocktail. I ask: "Well, what happened? Did you die?" Another thoughtful sip of the zombie, “Don't know, I woke up."
Like Rabbit, did the Australians in Hawaii this winter avert death by waking up? Did Ian Cairns lie awake
