localswell

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. )