I had moved to Encinitas in the summer of 1970. Then, I lived on the porch of an old “plantation” style house at the corner of Third and D. Both the corrugated tin roof and shower leaked rusty water onto the floor. Termites fought over the last splinters of wood that kept the once proud structure standing. My share of the rent, which was split up to 10 ways, depending on what other suburban refugees were living there, was around 20 bucks a month. Not a bad deal when considering that paradise was just steps from the front door.
Self Realization Fellowship (SRF), for which the surf spot Swami’s is named, featured a dirt parking lot and a rusty cyclone fence that remained open. During north swells, I was generally there at daybreak, often conspiring with others on how to get the waves to ourselves. Someone suggested we lock the gate shut and have the place alone for a few hours. Someone else thought to make a sign reading “Shark Attack,” or “Polluted Waters.” We never acted on those impulses because we knew the boys would find a way down the wood stairs, paddle boards out to the kelp, or duct tape us to the lifeguard tower.
Regardless of what anyone tells you, Swami’s was generally crowded in those days. The outside peak, as I recall, was dominated by Cheer Critchlow, Steve Clark, Syd Madden, Steve Oberg and a few dozen others. The inside section was my groove, and I rarely caught a wave there without the Bahne crew, namely Jack and Buttons, and Peter St Pierre out on the latest, greatest boards made by them on “The Hill.” Kneeboarders Akio (never knew his last name) and Wally and his son Buzz Blodgett would go faster and get deeper than anyone.
Two or three times each winter, the surf would top 8 feet, and we would paddle out, pretending we were at Sunset Beach. One trip to face the real Sunset Beach quickly slapped me back to reality.
Thinking I could outsmart the crowd, I began staying home on weekends, rising early Monday morning and arriving as the sun cracked the horizon, and revealed half the surfers from town with the same idea.
Peter “Pinline” St Pierre always tuned me into the latest trend, and it was he who told me to meet him when the full moon was shining directly onto the waves. Our unofficial night surfing club, The Batts, would paddle out around midnight, in mid-winter. We stayed close to each other for company since surf leashes were not yet popular and swimming in was kind of spooky.
Even under a full moon, it was a little difficult to see the waves, so we always rode the smaller waves on the inside reef.
We had been out for about an hour when I looked to see a surfer take off at the outside peak, on a well overhead wave. The trail coming off his board, indicated that he was turning well. He raced past me, and while I could not make out his face, his silhouetted immaculate style was familiar. Upon finishing his wave, the rider stroked hard past me, in pursuit of the next set. I was pretty sure I know who this was, but shouted, “Who are you?”
“Syd” came the faint reply. Moments later, Syd Madden was on another wave, streaking past me, before ripping into a cutback that showered me with spray. It’s all just a magical memory now, but then it was a day (and night) like most any other.
