Through circumstances beyond my control, I lived in the L.A. suburb of Montebello from my birth in 1948 through my departure for Hawaii in 1968. Montebello was not a place where anybody ever played the local card. And why would they? In fact, I actually did the opposite, and whenever at the beach, I would tell other surfers I was from some other beach town. For some reason it mattered to us that our parents had the good sense to buy into a beachfront zip code.
Sometimes when I was recognized as the inlander I was, I would get hassled by local surfers. The worst it ever got was when a group of locals threatened to pound me for taking off on someone, pearling and breaking the nose from his surfboard. Most of the time, it was simply the old, “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here” sort of jive. To those of us who kept surfing, this was like an initiation, and a cheap price to pay for the joy we felt riding waves.
In the summer of 1970, I left home for the final time and moved to Encinitas. After surfing Swami’s every day for three winters and D Street all summer, I became accepted as a local. Then, I acted like the surfers who had hassled me when I was a kid. While I never pounded anybody, I did tell more than one person to go home. While I am not proud of that, neither am I ashamed of it. It was the only way I, and the friends I surfed with, knew how to manage the crowds.
We were mellow compared to the local boys at Windansea, Hollywood by the Sea and Lunada Bay. We might leave a nasty note on a car, but offenders at the aforenoted surf spots might find their car turned on its side, if they found their car at all. Hollywood by the Sea was so bad in the ’80s that even surfing there with one of the area’s most respected locals, board design genius Malcolm Campbell, did not assure my safety.
As Malcom said to me one day, “Park far away from the beach, and if anything happens, I can’t help you.” Nothing too bad did happen, but someone found my car and wrote a note on the windshield saying, “Go home.” I got the message and never returned.
The surf leash, which came into play in the early ’70s was a mixed blessing. It kept boards ding-free, but ensured that inferior surfers remained in the lineup after they wiped out. Decades later, the cellphone pounded the final nail. Now, everyone within a gas tank from the surf had access to every surf spot and every approaching swell.
Cell cameras pretty much ended hardcore localism. For that, I assume, most of my readers are glad. But consider the following before you break into your happy dance. Localism had the tribal effect of making sure a surf spot was not overrun by anyone with a rubber surfboard. Local tribes were the overseers, enforcing unwritten rules about packing trash, not dropping in, and not being out on a day when you might endanger yourself or others, which is one definition of insanity.
Your spot in the lineup was earned through familiarity, competence and giving something back. My surfing was not what gave me access, it was my daily picking up trash on the beach. I was a proud local after that and am truly sorry if I hurt anyone’s feelings. No, I really am.
If you would like to hear me rant further on localism, please check out our SurfersRule YouTube Channel by hitting the link: https://www.youtube.com/@surfersrule-l3s
