The only time I surfed big Windansea was during the legendary southwest swell of ’75. Butch Van Artsdalen had long since moved to the Islands, there distinguishing himself by becoming the first Mr. Pipeline. This left Hynson to represent the old guard while new kids Close, Rullo and Ortner ripped and nipped at his heels.
The swell had not yet peaked that morning when Hynson shoulder-hopped me and faded me to the rocks while offering a lesson in the latest maneuver, sideslipping, which is done by sliding sideways down the face of the wave. While shoulder hopping (being cut off) by another surfer is considered an infraction of the unwritten rules, I was nearly honored to be hacked by the “The Endless Summer” star.
Debbie Melville was the only girl I recall in the lineup that day. She held her own in the testosterone-infused peak and continued advancing until becoming the 1982 Women’s World Surfing Champion.
By evening, the sets had risen to a solid 8 feet with some 10-foot sets. I paddled directly into the peak, spun around, dropped in, drove to the bottom and cr-ack! Something hit me from behind.
Turning around, I noticed a sunburned gremmie (young, obnoxious surfer) whom I figured was out of his depth. His hair was white, his face streaked like warpaint with zinc oxide. A wide-stretched mouth was cracked and blistered as he screamed, “Go home, you corded kook!”
I was wearing an early version of a surf cord (surf leash,) which was something frowned upon by Windansea purists at the time. While I was under fire and wouldn’t admit it then, I now understand the gremmie’s point. Surf leashes keep inferior surfers attached to their boards, and they no longer pay for their mistakes.
The inference that I was an inferior surfer, coupled with the ding the gremmie put into the rail of my board, pissed me off. I paddled toward him like a shark on the hunt, but he never flinched or broke eye contact. Attempting to bluff, I shouted, “I’ve been surfing here since you were in diapers.”
“Bull—t,” the gremmie snapped, lunging toward me. He then spun around and paddled back into the lineup, occasionally turning to flip me off as I followed closely like a dumb fish chasing a baited hook. Since nothing but settling this thing would purge the foul taste of this punk from my mouth, I continued paddling after him.
He was a strong paddler for gremmie, however, and when I caught him at the peak, I was out of breath. Eight-foot sets rolled beneath us as he smirked, flipped me off again and moved aside. This left me facing local boys Marty Fitch, Root Swan and Brud McGowan. They planned to back the gremmie up and back me, the non-local, down.
Fortunately, I knew Root and Marty, who admonished the gremmie to cool off. He smiled sheepishly, and we apologized simultaneously. I didn’t know then that this gremmie was Chris O’Rourke, that our futures would one day become entwined in a life-and-death struggle, and that I would be at his side, praying with him as he died less than a decade later.
The above story is taken from my soon to be released book, “Windansea: Life. Death. Resurrection.”
