localswell

It¹s probably not the best time of year to be singing the praises of
bennies or inlanders. By this point in the summer, we¹ve all had our fair
share of rude, preening a-holes, traffic jams and kook-filled shoulder-to-shoulder lineups. But there¹s one breed of inlander, whom I¹ve always thought deserves a lot more praise, a lot more props. They get no respect, but deserve tons.I’m talking about the inland dwelling surfer.In the hierarchy of hard core  they sit at the top. In the hierarchy of respect, they’re near the bottom. 

I’m not talking about bennies who emerge in May, flop around like broken-winged gulls for a few months and then fly back to Bergen County after Labor Day.

I’m talking about dedicated surfers, who are simply stuck living far from the ocean.  I’m talking about guys and maybe a few gals, who suffer long drives to get to the beach but still have enough stoke to keep doing it year after year. 

At one of my regular breaks, there are a handful of such guys, and their stories are ones of unrivaled dedication. There’s a guy who gets up at 4 am and drives from his home in Somerset County, surfs DP and then heads to work in Middlesex. There are mornings in March and February when I paddle out and he’s the first one there, the locals all still tucked in their beds. There’s another guy who lives in West Orange, drives down the night before he thinks a swell will arrive and sleeps in his van to catch it early. He somehow pulls this off with a wife and baby at home, too. It’s not just the domestic juggling and commute that make this tough. It’s just flat out tougher in the lineup when you¹re not a local. You could surf for 20 years like this and be one of the best rippers around, but when you paddle out, no one knows who you are.  In the xenophobic localized lineups, if you’re not local, you’re assumed to be a kook. Nobody’s gonna give you a break and you’re gonna have to fight strangers for waves – even if you’ve been surfing that same break for longer than they’ve been alive.

 I write about it, I guess, because I lived like this for a long time before I managed to settle in Monmouth County.  I remember what seems like a zillion pre-dawn drives from Middlesex and Hudson Counties in the pre-Internet surf report days, arriving at the beach only to find frigid blown out ankle slappers. Even after I’d been surfing the same break for 15 years, I’d paddle out and get looks like I was a stranger – because I was.

Thankfully, those days are long gone for me. But not for many. You seem them every swell, plying their cars across Route 195, down the Parkway, boards strapped to the roof as they cut through the predawn darkness, driven by a stoke that overcomes geography

So the next time you them pull up at your break, somebody you don’t recognize, don’t assume they’re some kook stranger. Give em a wave.  Give em some respect. They just might be more hard core than the locals.

Peace. BD.

*Note: this was first written in July, when the first sentence was more accurate than it is now, amid a flat spell.

You know,the surf sure has been pretty good around here lately. It’s been so good, in fact, that you might find yourself thinking that New Jersey is actually a good place to be a surfer. These swells we’re having now, like any good run of waves, can lull you into some sense that the Jersey Juice can be as sweet as whatever nectar ol’ Poseiden squeezes out in more exotic locales.  And then, you travel.  

And that is when you realize how much New Jersey surf sucks.

 It happens every time I travel. I get off the plane, sleepless, frenzied, in whatever surf trip destination I’ve chosen, and catch my first wave. And the first thing that always hits me is – wow. This is what it’s REALLY supposed to be like. Big waves. Long waves. Waves that hold up and peel and let you do things to them. Not just beachbreak sandbar waves that you mainly just outrun, but groundswells, waves you can live with for a while, play with, practice on, sit in barrels wide enough to lay out a picnic blanket and stop for lunch.

 I’m not saying that we should not be proud. Au contraire, Jersey surfers. Proud we should be. 

But what we in New Jersey should be proud of is not how good our surf gets. What we should be proud of is ourselves, how good we are despite it, and all how we surf on – despite of how truly bad it is here. It’s not just the finicky waves or our lack of reefs and points. It’s the crowds, the rat race, the soul-sucking lifestyle, the pollution, the beach badge laws, the cold, the flat spells, the all around suckitude of it all.

All of that is what creates the other main thought that pops into my head every time I’m sitting in a lineup in some other exotic locale.  And that’s how downright EASY it is to be a surfer in other places — places like Puerto Rico or California, or Carolina, or, or, you name it.  

Often when I’m there, I look around at the people in the water and wonder to myself: “how many of these people would still be in the water if they lived in Jersey?” 

Not many, I think.  And that’s why we should be proud. We should be proud that we surf through all the crap we surf through. 

 We should be proud every time we hear a California wuss call 55 degree water “cold.” We should be proud when people laugh at our bureaucratic beach badge laws, our lifeguard blackballs, our history of pollution. Our finicky surf, our hit and run swells, our wave-killing geography, our cold winters, our high property taxes and cost of living that keeps us working, working working when we should be surfing, surfing, surfing.  

But we surf through it all. And THAT - that spirit -  is the real Jersey Juice. It’s not in the water. It’s running through our veins, bro. It’s in us. It is us. Be proud of that.

  

Surfing will surprise you with every chance it gets. (And so will life for that matter). An escape, and a social activity, both at the same time. It’s duality, when you think about it, is seriously confounding. Something where the same person, in the same place, can find both things out about himself, and still be surrounded by friends.

Making that transition between groups of buddies can be precarious, but it’s manageable. It can take a while to find a group that meshes well together. There is always the coming and going of people before things feel like they’re “comfortable.” I got lucky, and, upon moving from Jersey to Florida, I found another bunch where contentment and enjoyment were plenty. But it was different. Adventurous, compelling, and doused with a ton of shit talking, but different.

When you relocate you ultimately have to know this going in. You’re never going to find individuals that become that first group of surf buddies. You grew up surfing together. You were a group of guys that experienced the same challenges in learning to surf during a point in life where days were entirely care free. Surfing made you who you all were together. That already all happened. You can’t experience that again.

Where do you go from there? You pushed each other to better yourselves. You saw one guy doing something cleaner or faster than you and you worked your butt off to be able to do the same thing. You were all in it together.
But out in the wilderness, everyone’s in it for themselves. Not in a bad way, necessarily. Not everyone at least.

Surfers can be extremely idiosyncratic, especially when it has anything to do with surfing. Tendencies in the water are already developed. My focus no being in a sense of skills, but how you act and react with others in the ocean. So the question begs to be asked: Do you continue those tendencies when faced with the opportunity of a new slate, or do you start anew?

When it comes down to it, it will be a blending of the two, to continue one’s development and progression in life. Because you’re never going to find that thing that presents the same opportunities, the same people, or the same experiences, especially like those of that first one. That’s something you usually leave it in the place you say you’re from.

What’s the longest layoff you’ve had from surfing? Do you remember what it felt like when you first hit the water again?

 

It had been more than a month – a crazy, sleep deprived, identity questioning new baby new job month – when I finally grabbed the old 9’0’ from under my sister’s house over the July 4^th weekend. The second the lifeguards whistled their 6 o’clock farewell, I was running toward the water.

It was small, summer  afternoon windswell, but glassy enough and fun. The kind of day you watch from the beach and think you’ll get nothing, but when you get out, you are surprised by what a good longboard can do on small waves. Still, it wasn’t waves I caught that still stick with me from that session. It was just being there again, just being in the water, on a board.  

It was like I had been in a sensory deprivation chamber for eight weeks and suddenly was back, feeling and seeing again. I hadn’t thought about this much, but it struck me that minute I hit the water and started paddling out, how surfing so completely involves every sense you have. Is there another sport that does that? Is there another sport in which you are feeling so much – the water on your skin, the temperature, the motion and power of the ocean. Where you are actually tasting – (and yes, I find the ocean tastes varies from season to season and place to place) the medium in which you are performing? Any sport with such unique sounds – from the roar of the ocean to seagulls? Never mind any sport - is there any other activity - any art, any religious ritual, any pricey luxury spa treatment that can do all that?

 

The waves were fun that day. It was a classic midsummer, end of the day silly sesh with lots of groms and kooks and everyone having fun. I took to sitting on the board and finally sitting down during a few rides and doing some coffins. There are times to keep it light like that, and this was one of those times. It felt so good. It sounded good. It tasted good. And man, oh man, was it good.

The Shaun Board

By: TJ Forkin / Maso

I remember as a grom attending surf movies at the Community Center in Ocean City and the anticipation of seeing Shaun, Rabbit and Mark Richards surfing perfect waves in Hawaii, the smell of grape surf wax and whooting with your best friends at Shaun getting the “longest tube rides ever”. None of us could wait until the next day to get in the water for a surf. They were our idols our surf heroes and they were changing our sport forever.

A few years later I was fortunate enough to make the NSSA National Team (82-84) and had the opportunity to surf with Tommy Curren, Mike Parsons, Jeff Booth and Brad Gerlach to name a few. Peter Townend and Ian Cairns were our coaches; brought on board by NSSA co founder Chuck Allen to ramp up our training. Hawaii was the proving ground and PT and Ian were committed to having us there for a month. Four months after making the Team I was packing for Hawaii and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

At the time, I was riding for Stewart Surfboards out of San Clemente California were I spent a few summers working in his old shop on El Camino Reale. Bill was a great guy and excellent shaper. I had ordered a small quiver of boards for Hawaii, a 5’10” a 6’6” and a 6’10”. I figured if it was too big for the 6’10” I figured I would just sit on the beach and watch.

I flew out of Philly International to LAX and stayed with Chris Frohoff and his family for a few days in the South Bay Area. We surfed Manhattan Beach Pier and Redondo Break Water with friends and fellow teammates Kelly Gibson and Nick Christensen. The crew wanted to try out their new shapes for Hawaii, and I had a chance to see some 7’6” rhino chasers, and started to feel, well a little “short”.

Parsons came up the night before we flew out for the Islands as Frohoff lived about 20 minutes from the airport as opposed to two hours for Snips from San Clemente. Parsons got his nick-name from Ian’s wife Pat, who called him “Parsnips”, which we soon shortened to Snips. Mike wasn’t one to chance being late for a flight or a surf session and to avoid traffic he came up early. We stayed up late that night talking about what to expect and the schedule of events we had and breaks we would surf. Most of the guys on the NSSA team had boards shaped for the trip by Hawaiian Shapers, while other picked up used boards there from some of the touring pros.

The flight was relatively uneventful. No one lost their boards and we arrived with a sense of anticipation in the air, which was fresh with Aloha and island flowers. Driving over the hills and through the pineapple fields to the North Shore, I had my first chance to see Hawaiian surf.

We had three vans and a bit of a caravan driving through Haleiwa, seeing all the places I had only seen in the magazines and movies. I was stoked. Our destination was the Kui Lima condos for what would be roughly a month of surfing the North Shore.

Unloading our boards, Ian and PT had their first glimpse at what they perceived as my equipment problem. “Forkin what the fuck do you think you are riding with those boards? This isn’t Puerto Rico mate”. I related that if it was too big for my 6’10” I would simply sit out and become a spectator. Neither PT nor Ian were having it. I was informed off the bat that we were there to ride big waves and get experience. PT then told me to set aside $100.00 and he was going to find me a used board from one of his “mates”.

It was late in the afternoon and the winds were side shore so we all slipped out for a quick session in front of the condos at “Turtle Bay”. The surf was a little overhead and lined up, with some hollow sections. This was a super fun session, and I began to think, “Hell this isn’t so big. I can surf Hawaii”…

Snips and Froh had been to Hawaii the year before so they knew what to expect. Mike had a few boards that he picked up from Bobby Owens and was kind enough to loan me one for our first session at Sunset the following morning. The swell had developed over night and we could hear the surf from our rooms.

The Hawaiians loved us (ha ha). We were “porta crowd”, we would show up with 15 kids and people simply shook their heads. We pulled up to Sunset and it looked good, not too big but large enough to say “hey we’re out there”. Suddenly I saw what appeared to be a person dropping in way outside, and I had this lump in my throat the size of a tennis ball. Easily triple overhead. The great thing about Sunset is that you can paddle out in the channel and sit there for a while and gradually work yourself into the lineup, which is exactly what I did for an hour. Sitting there taking it all in. The bad thing about Sunset is the constantly shifting peaks, right, left, inside OUTSIDE. After getting caught with a couple of cleanup sets I worked up the nutz to take off on what had been the biggest wave I had ever surfed to that moment. I made the drop and bottom turn and raced to the Channel. Not a big set wave, but huge by my standards. While some of the guys were ripping, I just wanted to “make the waves”. I was so happy to be on my borrowed 7’6” Bobby Owens, and needed every inch of that board.

One wave in particular was an inside section that jacked up, I slotted myself and got a nice tube ride for about 20 brief yards before I bailed out the back. However, no sooner did I take a gasp of air out the back of the wave, I felt myself getting sucked back into the pit. Worse fear becoming a reality, being stuck and drilled at inside Sunset. I thought for sure I was going to drown. Pitched over the falls backwards and tossed around like a ragdoll. Nothing in my swimming / lifeguard background had prepped me for that. After a five wave set on my head, I threw up about a gallon of water clutching to my board and paddled toward the channel were PT was shaking his head laughing; “Forkin, are you finished trying to drown yourself and start surfing”. Apparently eating shit in Hawaiian surf is some sort of right of passage.

When we got back to the Kui, Ian came and got me and informed me he had a friend who had a used gun for me. After a few knocks on the door of a beachfront unit across the way from were we were lodged, the door opens and who stands there? Shaun Tomson, my idol. I was speechless and simply stood there with my mouth open. “Shaun this is Tom one of our lads from the team and he needs a board for Sunset”; “Please to meet you Tom”; like a total kook I responded, “I am a huge fan Shaun and I am so stoked to finally meet you”. Ian and Shaun laughed and I felt, well like a kid meeting his childhood hero. Immediately Shaun Tomson makes that impression of a kind and all round good guy.

Shaun’s Mom and Cousin Mike were there as well, as I was introduced as “the kid from New Jersey”; Mrs. Tomson fixed some Ice Tea and Mike seemed fascinated that “people surf in New Jersey?”…”In the Snow?” Shaun walked Ian and me in the back of the condo where there had to be roughly 20 plus boards of all different shapes colors and sizes. After briefly sizing me up, Shaun picks a board, a 7’6” Tom Parish with a glassed in fin; “Tom this should do the trick, it’s one of my favorite boards, so when you head back to the mainland I would like it back”. I was stoked for the board, but bummed that I would have to return it at end of the trip.

Ian and PT had set up some tutorials with Shaun, Mark Richards and Gerry Lopez. They would meet us at spots or at the Kui and give us some pointers and sit in for some post mortem Q & A.

Over the course of the month we were there, my life became very surreal. Surfing spots I only dreamed of and with surfers that I worshipped. While I wasn’t surfing anywhere near their level, I was making waves and having the time of my life on my “new” board. I never really rode the 5”10 or 6’6” again that trip other than at a smallish day at Makaha. The “Shaun board” had a mind of it’s own, it flew around sections at Sunset, Off The Wall, Back Door and Rocky Rights with a few memorable sessions at Laniakia.

I loved that board and it showed. The smile would not come off my face for the entire trip, until the final day when the board had to be returned. After surfing a few sessions with Shaun and our group, I was a bit more comfortable speaking to him, while still a little nervous. I walked over to his condo with the board tucked firmly under my arm. Shaun opens the door with a big smile, “Tom how was your surfing today”? We talked about the session that day and a brief review of the trip and how Hawaii factored into every surfers life. When I reminded him I was there to return the board, Shaun made the surprising statement “Tom you surfed well on the board and I would like you to keep it”. I was STOKED! Shaun walked me to the door and shook my hand “Tom it was a pleasure”…Cloud nine was mine, what an amazing guy. “Surfed well?”..I suppose that was less than “surfing good”, but I came out unscathed and now had a board from my childhood idol. We packed that night to fly out early the next morning, as I took some extra care in securing my treasure for the flight home. Today it truly seems like another lifetime ago.

As the years passed, I returned to Hawaii only twice and never met up with Shaun again. My focus was on completing my undergraduate studies and then law school. I rode the board only a few times after that first year. It became a fixture in my home in Villanova and later in Stone Harbor where I owned a restaurant (Mimi’s) with two condo’s above. In 96 when I sold Mimi’s, the board went missing one winter when the property was empty and being shown by our real estate agent.

In 2002, I received a phone call from my cousin Greg at Surfers Supplies who informs me “your board’s here, I’m looking at it right now”. My board? I thought he was trying to get me on a new vehicle and giving me the family hard sell. “Your Shaun Board, it’s here!”. Apparently, years prior, the real estate agents son had liberated the board from my shore place and had sold it to his friend who was in buying a board bag for a trip to Hawaii. Greg held the board, which I rushed to pick up. While a few unkept dings led to some discoloration, the board was still in good shape and hung for another six years in my home. I never pressed criminal charges as I was just happy to have it back.

Last Sunday night I could not help but bring the board with me to Shaun and Rabbits “Busting Down The Door” premier at the Paramount in Asbury Park. After all they would be there in person, and I wanted my son to meet a living legend and have him sign the board that he had given me 25 years earlier.

I felt like a grom again, with my ten year old son by my side, we were the first ones at the door. The memories filled my head, the smell of grape surf wax and the sound of a skateboard as my boy skated back and forth waiting for the doors to open. We sat in the first row with board in tow and Shaun’s book “The Surfers Code”, as well as a new digital camera, which I had no clue on how to use. The crowd started out light but as 7:30 neared, Jersey came out enforce to support the event. The place was packed.

Shaun and Rabbit took the stage for introductions, and Shaun spotted the board and gave my son and I a smile and a nod. I would try to approach him after the show during the questions and answer session following the movie.

“Busting Down The Door” was a great flick, a documentary filled with prime cuts from classics, like “Super Session”; “Free Ride” and “Tales from The Tube”, along with some classic tales of the events leading up to the pro surfing revolution.

After the show Shaun and Rabbit casually answered some questions about the movie and gave advice to the groms in the audience. An experience to cherish in and of itself. As they walked off stage, I approached Shaun who had this big smile and looking at the board “that is a classic. One of my favorite boards. Where did you get that”. I reminded Shaun he had sold it to me in 1982 for $100.00 on the North Shore. He was amazed that I held onto it, and instantly remembered me as “the kid from New Jersey”. “$100.00 I recently sold one of my old classics for $10,000.00” as we both laughed and briefly spoke about that winter and my son’s surfing. My boy was so stoked, sporting an ear to ear grin. I assured Shaun, as he signed the board along the stringer, that this board would hang in our home until someday my son can tell his son this story.

However the night was not about autographs or pictures, it was about passing on the stoke and the look on my son’s and the other groms faces as they had a chance to meet the fathers of modern day surfing Shaun Tomson and Wayne “Rabbit” Bartholomew.

Here’s a phrase I have heard quite a few people say, but have never, ever understood: “I used to surf.”

“You used to surf?” I think to myself whenever I hear somebody say it. “You mean you stopped?”

See, I simply cannot fathom how anyone could start surfing, then stop. Short of being forced to move inland or becoming too old or injured, I could never understand someone just giving it up. It’s way too addicting, like heroin, only good for you. And I have always scratched my head at the idea of someone just stopping. For me, it always seemed simply impossible, beyond the realm of possiblity.

Until this summer, that is. I find myself, now, for the first time, wracked by a self surf doubt crisis of epic proportions. I am wondering if this life I have built, in a large part with surfing at its core, is sustainable.

It is brought on by a perfect storm of factors, from the economic, to the personal, to the meteorological. Among them:

1. The baby. I mentioned in my previous post, written a few days after my second daughter was born in May, how the second child was going to make it tougher to get in the water. Things haven’t changed. That wasn’t so bad during June’s weeks long flat spell, when I felt like I wasn’t missing much. But this week it got good for five straight days and I was still unable to get out. Painful. Brutally painful. In New Jersey, you simply cannot afford to miss swells. Especially in June. That kind of stuff will kill your soul.

2. The job: I have a new position at work and my boss wants me to start earlier. So far, I have resisted. It would mean the end of dawn patrol. And weekday dawn patrols are the bread and butter of my surf schedule.

3. The commute: I work in Newark. I live in Red Bank. It’s a fairly long commute. I have a tiny fuel sipping Hyundai, but gas prices of four bucks a gallon are starting to take a toll on the family budget, which has gone from two incomes/two people to one income/four people in just two years. Also, the 8-10 hours I spend driving to work each week is essentially another day at the office, another full day away from the family. The long hours behind the wheel are also causing lots of back pain. I live where I do largely so I can surf, although there are also a ton other reasons (including cheaper home prices and ties we’ve made to our community). But if I’m not surfing anyway, what the hell am I doing?

So the push to move North, to become a benny, is strong, and growing. It would mean, essentially the end of surfing for me. I would become one of those pale kooks you see blowing drops for rusty timing weekend mornings in the summer.

And that’s if I’m lucky.

I’m hoping all this is just a phase. That the family will settle into a routine, the baby will sleep, my new work schedule will allow me to hit it at dusk, if not dawn.

And I’m thinking that maybe, maybe all this doubt is fueled by the fact that I haven’t surfed in so long. (it’s my longest no surf stint for me since 1998, when I was landlocked in the Andes). I’m clinging to the faith that all this doubt will be cured by the next wave I ride, that when it comes and I catch it, it will wipe all this clean and restore my resolve to keep surfing, no matter what life, or work, or greedy oil speculators can throw at me. Because if I ever hear myself say those words, “I used to surf”, well, it must might be the saddest words to ever come out of my mouth.

ps

Has anyone else been through this kind of thing? I’d love to hear some comments. I could use em..

Peace, BD.

I love the Localswell forum, including all the trash talking that goes on between various sectors of the surfing community. It’s not my bag these days, but it reminds of when I was younger and more inclined to be dogmatic about things – longboarders vs. shortboarders, surfers vs. boogie boarders.

It’s not what I want this blog to be however. I’m trying not to make this just a trail of invectives against this group or that. But recent news has highlighted one group of people on the water who absolutely deserve my utter disdain and will continue to get it no matter how gray and equanimous I become: jet skiers.

To put it simply, they suck. How bad? Well, there’s more proof here this week, with news about the dolphin pod in the Shrewsbury River. Animal activists are worried about the dolphins partly because boaters, and yes, jet skiers, continue to get so close, endangering the dolphins.

I was not surprised at all to read it. There are tons of things I hate about personal water craft. They’re noisy. They’re annoying. But also because of all the craft on the water – from fishing boats to boogie boards to inflatable rafts, they’re simply the most oafish and least fun craft on the water. It takes no skill whatsoever to drive one. And, I am convinced, it takes a true cretin to enjoy doing so.

I have tried them periodically over the years, most recently a couple of years ago when my buddy was housesitting in Oceanport and told me to take the one in his aunt’s yard for a spin. I had surfed that whole morning in Bay Head. It was one of those June days, hot air, cold water, foggy, the Jersey ocean still shaking off its winter greyness. But the drops were fun, the walls glassy and head high and I surfed until my arms turned spaghetti.

So it was striking hours later when I sat on the PWC and took it for a ride. First I went fast straight. Then I went fast on a turn. And then, well, I realized, that’s about all the thing does. It goes fast. It goes straight. It turns. Oh yeah, and it spews smoke in my face.

Compared to the surfboard I had been on, trimming and carving along the waves, the thing felt like I had hopped off a graceful thoroughbred and saddled up on a hippo. It was bulky, loud and dopey. There was no skill required. After ten minutes of this inanity, I was bored and thinking about lunch.

Here’s the difference: When you surf, you are harnessing, literally, a wave of energy born hundreds or thousands of miles away. Using your years of experience and practice and conditioning, you work to put yourself in precisely that spot where that long traveled wave will release its energy, it’s most kinetic point before it disperses back into oblivion. If done right, it is graceful beyond words.

When you ride a jet ski, you press a button, make a loud noise and go “Weeeee!”

So I’m not surprised the jet skiers are bothering the dolphins. It’s a frustrating experience driving a PWC, and a boring one, too. It does so little, and requires even less. Nothing, really, than a mind small enough to delight in the inanity of such pursuits.

    “I guarantee we’ll have waves while you’re back Ry.”

Shit. I cringed. What was a completely innocent slip by an upbeat friend quickly decided what the surf was going to be like when I went back in a week.

The debate of whether or not to bring a board was now completely out of the question. I had a few old things to ride at the house, and I could always pick up a board from the Shack if necessary. I even contemplated not packing my 3/2 and boots, but decided that a decision like that could end in a blow-up of epic ironic proportions, the likes of which I had never been dealt before.

The weekend before I headed back to my beloved homestate of New Jersey, Trestles produced some really fun surf, crumbling along the point at chest to head high and really working like the summer spot it is known as. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back in boots and gloves, and probably a hood, with not much on the horizon for my return for the week in late May.

That Monday evening I arrived back in Jersey. There was to be no surf until possibly Wednesday morning, and even that looked grim.

I got pretty torn up about this, and it nagged at me, like situations as these do so often. And I almost let it consume me like usual.

The only session of the week, that Wednesday morning, ending up being surfable windswell, but nothing like what had been gracing the coast of New Jersey before I had arrived.

It’s almost like voicing out loud, “one more wave.” It’s just doomed from the start. Catching that one more wave will take twenty minutes, which will be spent bobbing in flatness or getting three or four bad ones before that one good one comes through.

But there’s the other side of it too. There’s always those times when getting that last one consists of catching three or four really good ones and paddling back out because you can’t get enough of it. It’s all about how you look at things. I think that’s fitting for us Garden Staters, and is something we take around the world with us. Going out in anything and just being happy to have swell is never a bad thing, that’s for sure.

BEFORE HE WAS KING: PART II:  The San Clemente Story 

I often tell my sons “the best friends you have in life, you meet surfing”.  While high school and college friends may drift away, your surfing buddies are for LIFE. I still surf with friends I’ve had since I was 10.  One of the things that make these friendships so special and lasting are the surf trips and the classic memories we share. 

One such trip, wasn’t really a trip at all.  I had rented an apartment in San Clemente for the summer of 84 and was working for Bill Stewart back when his shop was on El Camino Reale.  I had originally met Bill after the 1982 NSSA Nationals, when I started riding for him on the Right Coast.  Bill suggested that I come out and help him for the summer during college break.  I was stoked. 

The apartment was a small studio in a converted garage in the rear of a beautiful home near T Street, a couple of blocks from the beach.  Soon after I settled in I had a “few guests” from Jersey.  Tom Matthews, Bruce Beach, Rick Ford and Dean Randazzo flew out the following week to tune up for the NSSA Nationals. It was Dean and Ricks first time to California.  Originally the stay was only suppose to be a week, but ended up being for the summer because we were just having too much fun.  Tom and I had been out the previous summer competing in the Body Glove Pro Am Series and stayed with Bill Stewart and his family.  So we were familiar with the territory which came in handy. 

There were some special “guest appearance” that summer as well; including Dave and Adam Tarrantini, Tom Obrien, Kim Firiglio, Rick Zapone, Eric Adams, Jim Devereaux, Joe Randazzo, Rich Sless and Jim Bowdler to name a few.  We surfed all day and when we got back to the flat, floor space was at a premium.  Bodies everywhere with Joe Randazzo opting to literally pitch a tent in the side yard, until the landlord asked us to take it down.  I was never sure if that was because it inhibited the esthetics of his back yard or whether it was because his daughter was getting porked by some of his new tenants in the rear (living in the rear of the house).

For most of the summer there was at least eight to ten South Jersey Surfers crammed into the flat, with one shower, a two burner stove and a pull out couch.  However, for the first few weeks it was just Matthews, Ford, Beach, Randazzo and myself. 

We ended up surfing T Street each day because it was a few blocks away. We also surfed Trestles and Salt Creek a lot because they were also pretty close, with some periodic trips South to San Diego and Mexico.

 However, it’s the T Street sessions that stand out in my mind because of the crew there.  It was a very tight knit bunch similar to our home break at 7^th Street in The OC. Some refer to it today as the San Clemente Mafia, with Herbie and Christian Fletcher, Dean Reynolds, Steve Ward, Shane Beshen, Dino Andino and Matt Archibald.   Matthews and I were friends with Andino and Archibald as we surfed on the National Team together, with Ward and Reynolds surfing for Stewart, the Beshens were originally from Ventnor NJ and the Fletcher’s Astrodeck was directly next door to Stewarts on El Comino Reale.  We were stoked and dialed in, and you had to be because T Street was LONO (Locals Only No Outsiders). 

Tom had come out a few days before Dean, Bruce and Ricky, and was surfing unreal. There was a swell running so we picked the boys up at LAX that first day and headed directly to Trestles.  It was still dark and the asphalt on the path to the beach was still moist and chilly with the morning dew underneath our feet.  You could hear the surf rumbling in the background and the smell of some campfires made to warm up until it was light enough to paddle out. 

We got to Lowers just in time to have barely enough light to see some surfers already in the lineup.  We scrambled to get our wetsuits on and paddled out.  Dean and Ricky were the first ones in with Tom, Bruce and myself close behind.  Dino Andino was out with another friend, Mike Parsons, other than that there was only about fifteen guys out, which isn’t bad for Lowers on an overhead swell.

Everyone was getting good waves, especially Dean.  It didn’t take Dean long to acclimate to his new surroundings.  Wave after wave, he tore the tops off of each, throwing spray almost back into the lineup.  One particular wave, I was paddling back out with Parsons and Dean took off on a big right; driving hard off the bottom and ripping hard off the top, breaking his fins out the back, then dropping again and getting out front for a nice round house cutty buried to the rail.  Parsons looked over to me and asked “Forkin is he from Jersey too”, after answering in the affirmative, Snips simply chuckled and smiled and shook his head in disbelief. 

As the morning went on, the surf got a little bigger and a lot more crowded.  Not to be put off, after every wave, Dean paddled right back out to the peak and jockeyed for wave position.  He “casually” worked his way into the elite line-up and went wave for wave with two of the best surfers on the West Coast; Dino & Snips.  Now the use of the word “casually” in this context is Dean paddling up next to you, and when a set wave comes, he paddles around you and whoever else to get that wave.  Anyone who’s surfed with Dean knows what this means.

We surfed for six hours that day, with Dean leading the way and taking everyone’s surfing to their personal best, including Dino & Snips. Tom and Bruce also put in some real solid performances as well followed by Ricky Ford.  We had a blast and it was great to have friends from home there to enjoy it. 

That night we got back to the house and cooked some burgers on a grill I picked up at a yard-sale..  We sat in our yard, cracked a couple of cold beers and talked about the day. However, Dean was inside standing over a pot of boiling water on the two burner stove.  When Ricky asked him what he was making, Dean responded “cheese noodles and tuna”…He then proceeded to strain the noodles from the pot and pour in powdered cheese and two cans of tuna, stirring the concoction into a kind of soufflé.

To get to T Street we would head down the end of our street and walk down a cliff like path to the beach. One evening after work Bill Stewart was hosting a picnic at T Street for his team guys and their families, with a little surf contest for “fun”.  As soon as I got off work I headed home to get my board and the boys and head to the beach.  When I got back, Tom, Bruce and Rick were just waking up from a late siesta following their afternoon session.  Dean was no where to be found and the boys had no idea where he was.  So we packed together our gear and started down the beach, when Dean rode up on a borrowed beach cruiser, smiling; “T Streets good right now, lets go!”.    Dean had been putting in some quality water time and making some new friends.  I had gotten him onto one of Stewart’s quad fin demo boards and he was turning some heads, even in talent laden San Clemente.

As we passed under the San Clemente Pier and got closer to T Street, you could see there was a little size.  We could see someone drop in, drive down the line and launch what looked like an eight foot aerial, holding the board with both hands and disappearing in the white water.  It was Matt Archibald, who had been trying these moves one after another with Christian Fletcher, just flying down the line and hitting a section and launching with reckless abandon.  Archie was out and on fire.  He was a common fixture at our flat as he could score free beer and was good friends with Tom who would regularly break balls about his “shit eating” grin and Cali accent.  This was Archie before the tattoos and race cars. He was a grom, Dean and Ricky’s age, and interested in what these Jerseyites were up to, especially this Randazzo kid.

We got to T Street and Bill was just getting some steaks on the grill with Dean Reynolds and Mike Beshen carrying a rather large cooler of beer.  Beshen lived on T Street with his wife and two sons, Shane and Gavin.  He had moved out to San Clemente from Ventnor New Jersey a few years earlier.  Mikes’ Jersey roots ran deep as he came up with a legendary Absecon Island crew that included Mike May, Mark Neustader, Duke Humphries (Zacks Dad), and Glenn McGill to name a few. 

Mike’s son Shane was cutting his teeth in the NSSA Boys Division as defending camp, with Gavin about age 8 still riding a boogie board, but still getting barreled. Parsons showed up soon thereafter as Bill and I cooked some burgers had a couple of beers with Mike and watched the crew surf.  It was an expression session with Mike Parsons, a young Shane Beshen, Dean Randazzo, Bruce Beach, Tom Matthews, Ricky Ford, Dean Reynold, Steve Ward and the Millards, with special guest Matt Archibald. 

Dean was sitting outside with Archie when a nice set came in.  There are two primary peaks at T Street, a right directly off the steps and a left a little further to the South.  The peaks will shift as per the sand bars on the outside of the peak, which keep the spot difficult to get wired, for some.  Not for Dean.  He gives Archie the first wave, which Arch drives hard off the bottom and down the line, exploding off the top and launching into yet another aerial only to loose it in the white water.  Dean picks up the next wave, drives hard off the bottom, explodes off the top, and does the same twice more on the same wave.  Mike looks over at Bill and asks “is that the kids you were telling me about?”; Bill simply nods and smiles. The concensus on the beach that evening was that Dean dominated the session and with Mike and Bill predicting there were great things to come for the “Jersey Devil”.

For the rest of the summer of 84 we lived and surfed in and around San Clemete.  Making friends, surfing some classic waves and sharing epic memories.  Dean was beginning to earn his reputation on the West Coast as well and lay the foundation for what has become his legend today.

BEFORE HE WAS KING:Part I 

Dean Randazzo is without a doubt the greatest surfer to ever come out of the Garden State, if not the entire East Coast, especially considering his battles with cancer.  He has overcome extreme adversity that would have any normal human being folding over and giving up. 

This superhuman strength that Dean has used to beat back cancer, surprises many but not those who watched Dean come up.  I first met Dean when he was about 10 years old. Here’s some insight on what it takes to be King.

 The year was 1981 and the park was closed, so we had to hop the fence. Bruce Beach, Guy Loggi, Tom Matthews, Ricky Atlas and myself were skating the Somers Point skate park.  Kids gotta do what a kids gotta do when there’s no surf, and the park was a perfect spot.

Already skating around was this little kid with his “afro” poking out the side of his helmet.  This kid was killing it and he was only about ten or eleven years old.  We all took turns skating the bowl.  The kid was there solo and would casually work his way into the rotation without saying a word.  When I say no word, I mean he did not speak for the entire two -three hour session.  Tom asked the kid his name and the kid just looks at him and drops into the bowl without saying a word.  Tom then looks at me and says, “yeah he can skate but he can’t surf”.  He said it just loud enough so the kid could hear it.  This was an effort to put this grom in his place, because he was obviously outskating all of us and we perceived his not talking to us as simply being conceited. 

Tom’s statement about this kid not surfing was pretty accurate.  I mean we surfed 7^th Street in The OC every day and knew “everyone” who surfed well.  The legends, Jim Kirk, Wally Meyers, Bob McGlaughlin, Eric Wilkenson and Toms older brother Bob Matthews.  This was our time and few years before Tom, Bruce or I made the National Team, but we were still confident we could surf and skate with most.  However there was something about this kid that didn’t talk, something extraordinary.  Who was he? Where was he from? 

I was 17 and had this old Ford pick up that I would load up my buddies from “The Mainland” and we would head to 7^th Street, or LBI, or States Ave.  Anywhere were there was good surf. I was the first out of crew to drive, so I was chaffuer by default.  One morning early Spring 1981, Loggi, Atlas and I would swing by Dunkin Donuts, around 6:30am, and pic up Tommy Matthews who had been there since 4:00am “making the donuts”.  None of  us actually ate the Donuts there because Tom had this nose picking thing, and had no qualms about stuffing a boogie or two in one of his products.  We all worked when we were kids and spent all our money on boards, wetsuits and wax.

It was late April and still kind of cold so the four of us sat in the cab of the truck, with the heat and the Devo cranking.  There was a good south swell so 7^th street was the destination of choice.  We crusied through Somers point and over the bridge on the Somers Point / OC Causeway.  A dangerous two mile stretch of road, with no shoulder and cars speeding to and from Ocean City.  Nevertheless, we see somebody peddling their bike and carrying their board?  Loggi asked “who the fuck is that?” Matthews noted it was that same kid from the skate park we saw the month or so before. 

Wearing sneakers, shorts and an old beavertail wetsuit the kid was peddling some dilapidated beach cruiser, steering with one hand and holding onto an old Bunger single fin with the other.  We decided to pull over and see if the kid wanted a ride.  Sure enough the kid tosses his bike and board in the back.  With no room up front the kid had to ride in the back as well.  We all looked at each other and smiled; doing our good deed for the day, helping out “a grom in need”.  He looked a little out of place in the back of the truck, not only because it was freezing and he was wearing shorts, but his board was brown from sun exposure with one fin and we had new twinies with 80’s neon and checkers.  Once again the kid said nothing, but was clearly happy for the ride. 

We got to 7^th Street and parked in the dirt lot that use to be The Wonder Wave, next to “Hole in One Donuts”.  The Kid hops out of the back of the truck with his gear, thanks us and heads directly to the beach as we put on our 3 mils. 

It was cold that morning for sure, and the water wasn’t much warmer. There was a cold front that pushed through and the wind was offshore and it was sunny with a solid three foot swell. By the time we walked over the boards and onto the beach, this kid already was out and paddling into a set wave.  He makes a smooth bottom turn and drives down the line on a solid head high wave.  Nothing special but it was clear, the kid could surf. 

We get to the water’s edge, and… “FUCK that waters cold”…First session with no boots usually feels a little nipply, but hell that grom is out in trunks so we manned up and paddled out, with word from no one about fetching our boots out of the truck.  It was a fun session, with this grom again casually working his way into the pecking order of the lineup. Not one of us had seen him out at 7^th Street before, but he seemed like a good kid, a little on the quiet side, but cool.  Another set rolls in, Matthews picks off the first wave and I get the second.  On the paddle back out the grom picks off a nice set wave makes a bottom turn and gets a little cover.  I laugh and said to Tom “hey it looks like that kid can surf”…, Toms response was a loud WEEEEE.  We get back out to the line-up and this kid paddles right over and has this big smile on his face, his lips are blue from the chill and he’s shivering, but clearly stoked…Matthews asks “hey what’s your name”  still smiling after a good wave the kids responds “Dean Randazzo. 

About a couple of weeks later Deans out again and he’s ripping.  Strong bottom turns, off the tops and round house cutties.  One wave in particular that sets the tone for the session is a nice little left at the middle peak at 7^th. Dean drives down the line, gets some speed and flips a backside 360?!  We were amazed.  Dean brought his skate talent to the surf.  Funny thing though was he was still riding that same Bunger single fin and wearing that same beavertail wetsuit.   When I got home to 51^st Street I saw my neighbor Mitch Leonard who managed Surfers Supplies and told him about this grom phenom.  Soon thereafter Dean was riding for George and the guys at Supplies.  Sporting a new Linden twin fin and a Rip Curl wetsuit, Dean was off to the races.  This was a help, as Dean’s family was of modest means.  He lived in Somers Point with his Mom and brother Joe.  His Mom worked all day to support the family which meant Dean was own his own to get to the beach every day.  Which meant riding his bike or hitching a ride with someone, anyone who could get him to the water.  Dean learned to over come adversity at an early age and will things to happen.

In the years to come Dean became a regular traveling companion. Whether it was driving to the Watersheds Winter Surf Fest in Rhode Island with Mitch Leonard and Ev. Bauer, circa 1983; traveling through Southern California and  Mexico with the crew or living together in San Clemente for the Summer of 1984, the Dean Randazzo era had arrived and Surfing in New Jersey hasn’t been the same since.  All stories for another day.

(EDITORS NOTE: This is the first in a series of “Before he was King”, about the living Surf Legend Dean Randazzo and some fun stories about how he made it and how he continues to rock the surfing world.  The writer Tom “Johnny” Forkin is a former National Team Member (82-84) and is presently a corporate attorney in New York and Philadelphia, residing in Toms River with wife and four sons. )