Dylan Lightfoot is a hard working and dedicated campaigner, and is always on, or near, the winner's podium. He showed fine form on day two of the Zigzag Durban Surf Pro pres. Sunday, May 20, Craig Jarvis. Sunday, May 20, Paul Botha.
Saturday, May 19, Paul Botha. Friday, May 18, Paul Botha. Sunday, June 30, Nicolas Leroy. Saturday, June 29, Saturday, June 29, Jen See. Saturday, June 29, Bianca van Aardt. World Surf League.
http://thisislamu.com/mabiw-2015-durango-manual.php I paid a hundred bucks for it, and it probably went for two hundred new. A lot of coin back then, almost thirty years ago, and a long ways away, out on the west coast, where I grew up. N ow, you say "west coast" and it brings to mind all kinds of gaudy images, of palm trees and bikinied blonds and crashing waves on broad sandy beaches—but I was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, where the closest thing to a beach was the narrow concrete banks of the L.
River flood control system.
And the closest I ever got to surfers was viewing The Endless Summer on TV, which the local channels would show now and then on Saturday afternoons. I'd sit cross-legged on the shag carpet in our wood-paneled den and watch Robert and Mike traveling the globe, going from one airport to the next with their short haircuts and black suits, longboards under their arms, and for all the world looking like a couple Mormon missionaries wanting to squeeze in a little surfing between conversions.
But Robert and Mike weren't bent on saving souls—they were on a quest for the Holy Grail: the perfect wave. And wonder of wonders they found it, at a secret spot called Cape St.
Francis, a place of healing waters on a par with Lourdes but a heck of a lot more fun. Then after the credits rolled I'd switch off our console Magnavox and go outside to hop my clay-wheeled skateboard, riding clickety-clack down the street and pretending to shoot the curl at Cape St. Francis, old ladies and their schnauzers diving from the sidewalk as this pint-sized hellion streaked past. Gang way! Surfers rule! And maybe I'd keep it going to Sav-On to get an ice cream cone, paying my nickel and wandering over to the magazine rack where there'd be copies of Surfer and Surfing on display, one or both of their covers always showing a mammoth wave whose doomsday crest threatened to engulf the surfing Evel Knievel racing for his life down the heaving liquid slope.
Other boys I knew at the time were into astronauts, and I remembered reading or hearing somewhere that NASA had once considered recruiting big-wave riders to blast off into space—the idea being, I suppose, to find guys who were on the absolute edge and ready for anything—but apparently the surfers were too busy having a blast in the waves. I could see their point. Nothing seemed quite so glorious. Not even flying to the moon. But my chances of doing that appeared somehow less remote What was so tough about sitting atop a thirty-story rocket and letting someone light the fuse?
Then in seventh grade I started paling around with Jim Kalahani.
Surfers Rule Lyrics: It's a genuine fact that the surfers rule / It's plastered on the walls all around the school, now / (Surfers rule, surfers rule) / Becoming just as. Surfer Girl is the third album by American rock band the Beach Boys and their second in "Surfers Rule", B. Wilson/Love, Dennis Wilson/B. Wilson, 4.
He was a full-blooded Hawaiian who could run faster and punt or throw a football farther and smack harder line drives than me or most anyone in our class. But in one sport I'd attained rough parity: basketball. We were starting guards for the Saint Teresa team. Jim was a neat friend to have. Even neater was that his father worked as bartender at a Malibu seaview restaurant called the Tonga Lei, and summers we'd leave behind the muggy swelter of the San Fernando Valley with Mr.
Jim's musical taste was informed by his brother's record collection, and as we drove along he'd keep the radio tuned to "Too Hip" KMET, which featured a surf report that came on at a. Today we got a low pressure system making for some hot-doggy, three-to-five foot surf with occasional larger sets. A slight grit taking the bloom off that morning glass but still very workable, and it can only get better with the low Welcome to the space world of cosmic surfing, earthlings, this is Tamarack Mack's in Carlsbad.
Got some solar cruelty in the offing and it's hottin' up in the water too, some grinding overhead barrels that might be hazardous to the health of the Surgeon General but they're just what the surf doc ordered Roger that, Carlsbad, this is Paradise Surfboards in Newport Beach and today we got some Orange County juice pumpin' in—a clean swell outta the southwest that's just startin' to blaze. I give it a six on the fun-o-meter-six foot and hollow! Then the report would finally check in at Malibu, whose hookup, Natural Progression, gave all those eager listeners in the hinterland deliberate bum steers so as to keep the water free of detested "Vals" and other non-locals.
Here's the Flea from Natural Progression, came the drawling, deviated-septum surfer voice, and we got a fabuloso day shaping up: air temp seventy-eight, water temp sixty-nine, but the waves—sorry guys—a sloppy three foot with onshore winds picking up. Unless ya wanna put a bag over its head and do it for Old Glory, best bet today is just take your board to the pool and have Brian Wilson jump in.
That would be the report. Then fifteen minutes later, after driving through Malibu Canyon, you crested the rise near the church and more often than not the ocean would be ribbed with swell and the waves peeling into shore with a smooth geometric precision. After arriving at the Tonga Lei, Mr. Kalahani would start in to polishing up his glasses while we caught the bus on Pacific Coast Highway the famous "PCH" and rode it to Zuma Beach, bellyboards braced between our knees. Jim had once rented a surfboard for the day at Waikiki, and I'd picked up rudimentary body-surfing on occasional family outings to Santa Monica Beach, but it was at Zuma that we gained our first real lessons in wave-riding.
Here we learned how to judge the swells, time a takeoff, and keep cool on wipeouts as we got held under and tossed around like gnats in a high-speed blender.
We also learned how to maneuver, riding a slalom course through all the fully dressed Mexicans and other waders splashing around in the shorebreak—no mean feat—and after swallowing our limit of saltwater we'd emerge from the surf and pick our way through all the dead jellyfish and kids digging for sandcrabs and then flop onto our towels before switching to our backs and staying propped on our elbows, watching the beads of water dry on our chests and breathing an air spiked with the fragrance of suntan oil as tinny transistors sounded from neighboring blankets and loud-mouth mothers warned their children not to go in the water if they'd eaten the potato salad in the past half hour.
After awhile we'd pick up and return to the Tonga Lei. Arriving there with bellyboards under our arms and sand still caking our ankles, we'd pass between carved tiki gods into a chill dark lobby and shiver and grope our way through to the lounge, its thatch ceiling hung with exotic lamps and its walls decorated with South Sea artifacts. Propped on the bamboo-trimmed bar would be middle-aged men in cardigan sweaters rolled to mid-forearm and scooping salted peanuts out of iridescent abalone shells and sipping vivid drinks with parasols and plastic monkeys hanging from the rims, and stationed behind the bar would be a stocky chocolate-skinned guy with thick black hair parted on the side and a double row of white Chicelets teeth.
Our authentic kanaka barkeep. In his aloha shirt and in this kitsch tropical paradise, you half-expected him to grab up a yuke and start crooning Tiny Bubbles , hula girls in coconut bras swaying in from the wings. You wunna eat?
Broke da mout! Ono ono! Kalahani would first set us up with a couple tall cokes with cherries skewered on toothpicks bobbing in small cubes of ice, then we'd take our place in one of the red naugahyde booths in that part of the restaurant built on pilings over the water and affording a view to the pier. Beyond the pier we could make out the white lines of breakers peeling off the first point at Malibu, and just ahead of the white were upright figures, sovereign and in command.
Real ones. Guys who rode waves standing up.
A fter eighth grade Jim and I temporarily parted ways when we graduated St. Teresa's and enrolled at different high schools. He went to Reseda High and I was placed in an all-boys Catholic academy, where in the spring I joined the track team and started polevaulting.
I showed some aptitude for the event.