PHIL JARRATT, LIVE FROM THE 1977 STUBBIES CLASSIC
Phil Jarratt's coverage of the 1977 Stubbies Classic originally ran in The Wave Game: An Inside Look at Professional Surfing, published in 1977. This version has been slightly edited.
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Early in 1976, Edward Fletcher & Co. Pty Ltd, a Brisbane-based clothing company, threw a party at a Gold Coast hotel and announced plans for the sponsorship of a professional surfing contest the following year. A launch, in other words—the sort of thing that happens all the time in the business world. Free booze and the assurance of support throughout the venture.
But this was totally new to surfing. These guys actually knew, 12 months in advance, what they would be doing in March 1977! At the same time, the company took the opportunity to announce a new range of bargain-priced boardshorts, a surfing adaptation of their incredibly successful “Stubbies” football shorts. A couple of months later, Stubbies had become the fastest-selling boardshorts on the market, the Stubbies Classic had become the most talked-about subject in the surf industry, and Edward Fletcher & Co. Pty Ltd had proven themselves to be the smartest commercial cookies to ever become involved with surfing in Australia.
The Stubbies’ 12-month plan doesn’t appear to be such an inspired piece of opportunism until you compare it to the efforts of other surfing sponsors. More often than not the plan has been quickly conceived as a tax write-off, a few mentions in the media, and an opportunity to be seen giving money away to healthy young people. In comparison, Stubbies’ surfing involvement was masterminded. While surfing buzzed with speculation about the upcoming contest, they used their instant credibility as a “surfing company” to sell shorts through chain stores across Australia to thousands of kids who would refuse to wear anything but the shorts the “real surfers’ were wearing. Stubbies Contest, Stubbies board shorts. All a part of today’s surfing world.
Stubbies kept the press releases rolling throughout the winter of '76, leaking just enough information each time to keep the speculation building. For a start, the appointment of the unpredictable Peter Drouyn as the Stubbies contest director had people wondering, and Drouyn's plan to revolutionize the format of surfing contests gave them further cause for thought. The engagement of former wrestling champ Lord James "Tally-Ho" Blears as the on-site contest announcer created additional interest outside of surfing.
And with a vibe steadily building, Drouyn set off for Hawaii that December with a suitcase full of contest invitations.
Drouyn’s reappearance on the North Shore after six winters absence was an event in itself. His big-wave surfing in the sixties had earned him respect amongst the Hawaiians, but Drouyn has never been big on diplomacy and—the situation he flew into last winter was somewhat more delicate than the North Shore he remembered. The story of the '76-'77 North Shore Jaw War has already been told. Suffice to say that when I arrived at the beginning of November, Drouyn had already been and gone, leaving tales of ocker brashness and some hot surfing in his wake. Various explanations were circulating for his premature departure but there can be no doubt that Drouyn’s overt Australian pride had a lot to do with it. But instead of going home to sulk, he went home to capitalize on the drama of the situation.
Reports appeared in the Australian press under such arresting headlines as “AUSSIE SURF CHAMPS THREATENED” and Drouyn’s comments figured prominently. This was perfect, wasn’t it? A couple of months away from his much-vaunted contest and here we have our boys threatened with violence by their major surfing rivals. The reports began filtering back to Hawaii and Drouyn’s part in in all this would have been dismissed as cheapskate grandstanding—had he not flown back to Hawaii two weeks later.
Again, his timing was perfect. The Beachcomber Bills company, whose rubber footwear is part of the standard surfers’ uniform, had put up some prizemoney for the best performer on the 1977 world pro surfing circuit and this was to be celebrated at a party in the Kuilima Hotel. Drouyn arrived just in time to take the stage. According to the master of ceremonies, Beachcomber Bills’ Al Patterson, the address would center on the Stubbies meet and an explanation of the new judging system, and to that end he provided a chalkboard so that the explanation would be kept simple. But Drouyn pushed the board aside and got to the meat of the matter. “I went home,” he began “and made a big production of everything that’s been happening over here. A lot of you may not know this, but I trained to be an actor and over the past few weeks I’ve used every acting trick I picked up. I’ve dramatized the whole situation. And you know what it’s done? It’s brought surfing to the attention of the general public. And that’s something every professional surfer should be pleased about. All publicity is good publicity and in the long run this whole little episode will benefit surfing.”
Of course, he’d also benefited the Stubbies Classic to the extent that almost every non-surfing spectator would later watch the event anticipating racial flare-ups and the shedding of Hawaiian blood. But so what? At least they would be interested. Drouyn, perhaps more than anybody else people in surfing, understands the value of hoopla. And his antics in the Islands last winter did benefit surfing. They were at least partly responsible for the arrival of a planeload of revenge-hungry Hawaiians at Sydney Airport a couple of months later.
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The influx began early in March. Surfers, judges, photographers, and friends from Hawaii, mainland USA, Brazil, and lone representatives of Britain and South Africa. But attention was focused on the Hawaiians—a mixed bag of hopeful first-timers and veteran pros. Drouyn had drawn up his list of 44 invitees carefully, with berths for unknown newcomers like Buzzy Kerbox and Wayne Inouye, and big names from seasons gone by like Owl Chapman, Mark Sedlak, and the Aikau brothers. In his own words, he’d gone for surfers with “a bit of bloody flair" and, of course, he hadn’t overlooked Australia’s own Nat Young.
Nat is still considered one of the world’s greatest surfers, more than a decade after his World Title win in California, but he’d been somewhat preoccupied in the months leading up to the Stubbies. In December 1976, he successfully defended hashish possession charges laid by the Queensland Police, but in doing so he incurred the wrath of the already-discredited Brisbane Drug Squad, and his legal advisers felt that his presence at the Stubbies might lead to further trouble. A couple of days before I left for Queensland, Nat dropped in during breakfast to talk over the problem. I jokingly suggested that he compete in disguise. Nat jumped at the idea and went away to make arrangements for an Aquaman outfit. Later in the day he phoned back to tell me that Drouyn had vetoed the plan and that he wouldn’t be competing. I still don’t know whether Nat did call Drouyn and ask or whether he simply rejected the plan himself in a more sober moment.
What follows here is more or less a diary account of the week that Paul Holmes and I spent in Queensland covering the Stubbies Classic for Tracks magazine, Sydney radio station 2JJ, the Australian Associated Press and anyone else who’d listen. The Queensland leg was the first in a total of five weeks Paul and I spent on the road with the traveling surf show. By way of explaining the sometimes-emotional tone of this piece, let me say that we were both physically exhausted before we left Sydney. We’d been up for 72 hours putting together an issue of Tracks to cover our absence, and our behavior patterns were thus totally deranged before we reached Newcastle. The bits and pieces in italics I’ve added later in a more balanced state of mind.
FRIDAY, MARCH 11
Jesus Christ! The lights of Burleigh are finally in view, and it’s just as well because the No-Doz is running out fast and Holmes has slipped into his Cornish lighthouse keeper’s dialect and I can’t take much more of it. Eleven hours and 45 minutes of incessant talk and lunatic overtaking on blind corners is more than enough and we are both in dire need of a beer. Former Australian Champion Richard Harvey is holding up the public bar of the Gold Coaster Hotel in a somewhat similar position to the one I left him in a few weeks previous. He says he’s going to Noosa until the circus leaves town.
The circus in fact is not only already in town but nine-tenths of it is squeezed into the lounge on the other side of this cream tile wall Harvey has nonchalantly turned his back on, and judging by the noise level the wall may not last the night. Holmes and I decide to investigate. Ah yes. I’ve seen these people before. In fact my road-map eyeballs are telling me that everybody I’ve ever met is somewhere in this sweaty, boozy, smoky pit of a room. I may well be dead and my life is flashing before me—but is this heaven or hell? A beer is thrust into my hand from an unknown origin. Let’s assume it’s heaven and see who’s here.
Paul Neilsen (of course) is pouring beers down the neck of big affable Colonel Benson. Reno Abellira and top South African surfer Shaun Tomson are casing the joint like Arab terrorists at a bar mitzvah. Rory Russell is in a cuddling mood and the objects of his affections are anyone, man or woman, within arm’s reach. Clyde Aikau is nestled in a corner tellin' the local girls ‘bout Makaha and Makapuu and such. I find out that the Stubbies judges’ meeting is being held across the street in another hotel. I further learn that the judges have totalled themselves and Doc Scott of Santa Cruz has taken to pouring beer and champagne on people’s heads —his own included. Oh yeah, this is going to be some contest. I’d better go have a beauty sleep.
While the Burleigh Heads Hotel was the official contest headquarters and the place where many of the officials were holed up for the duration, the social hub was the Gold Coaster, an overcrowded sweatbox of a place with surfing murals in the public bar, live entertainment, and a later license. This dual pub set-up turned out to be advantageous for us. We could agree with the judges as they bemoaned the contestants in one pub, then cross the road and agree with the contestants in the other. This sort of double talk is an essential ingredient for survival at a surfing contest, where the press is not supposed to have an opinion on anything.
SATURDAY, MARCH 12
The banging on the door is horrendous. I’ve got my fingers in my ears and a pillow over my head and still it won’t go away. Through the eye I’ve managed to prise open I can see Holmes acting on instinct and madly throwing many of his personal possessions under the mattress. The fool; it’s the first place they look. I drape what the Classic Motel laughingly calls a bath towel around my torso and stagger three feet to the door. If they’ve taken it upon themselves to bring bacon and eggs I’m going to throw up all over the tray.
“Are you staying on another day, sir?”
Aah, ten o’clock. Motel Armageddin. Geddin the office and pay for another day or geddin your car and geddout. We pay up.
It seems to have rained all night but there are breaks in the clouds and the stench that rises off the Mermaid Waters swamp tells me that the wind is offshore we head down to the contest site.
Burleigh is not quite pumping but the thirty or forty hotties out are making it look pretty good. A quick surf to clear the head. As I am paddling around from the Cove I can sense this is a mistake, which can best be illustrated by describing the first wave I saw. Midget Farrelly and Terry Fitzgerald take off together and share the first section. Michael Ho drops in on his 5' 4", works it for a while and flicks off. Shaun Tomson takes the inside section and disappears inside in tube, leaving the rest to Reno Abellira and Col Smith. That was just one wave!
Back on the beach things are happening. The contest doesn’t start until Monday but already there’s an air of the carnival about it. Enterprising hamburger salesmen are setting up in the good spots. Little kids are clambering all over the strategically placed shark towers the judges will inhabit. People are moving around carrying things and generally appearing busy.
Just across the road, Paul Neilsen is moving his whole filthy act into the penthouse suite in Goodwin Towers—the biggest block of units on the beachfront. From a prone position on the double bed he can watch the waves from the Cove to the pool. A hundreds yards up the street, the Hawaiian contingent seems fairly well entrenched, except for Barry Kanaiaupuni and the Aikaus who have missed out on the view and are in egg-throwing range of Neilsen’s kitchen.
Beach gossip: Ian Cairns a doubtful starter owing to stitches from a leg injury suffered at Kirra. Peter Townend is definitely in. Hollywood stardom delayed one week. A vicious rumor has it that someone dressed up as me danced on the tabletops with PT at the Penthouse nightclub last night. Glad I wasn’t there.
Cairns recovered sufficiently to compete in the Stubbies. He surfed through two rounds with a heavily bandaged leg and put up a creditable performance. But later in the season the injury developed into a nasty ulcer that was still bothering him when he left to join Townend in El Salvador for the filming of the upcoming Hollywood surf epic Big Wednesday.
SUNDAY, MARCH 13
There are so many surfers in this place it’s ridiculous. I’m sure that individually they’re very nice people, but when you’re totally surrounded by “Didja see that wave where I . . . " it’s a bit—as they say in the classics—too much for the human unit. But there’s no escaping. The media buildup to this contest is like nothing I've seen before. It’s a total blitz and it's had the desired effect. “Are you here for the surf championships?” asks the lady behind the counter at Vai and Bill’s hamburger shop. And before we can deny any such thing she is thrusting an autograph book (which she claims is her daughter’s) at us. But we’re not surf stars, we protest. “He can barely stand up,” says Holmes with a nod in my direction, taking advantage of the moment.
The evening’s activities are centered around the Stubbies' opening function, which turns out to be an invitation-only affair in the lounge of the Burleigh Heads Hotel, at which we are introduced to the Man With The Money. Mr Stubbies turns out to be a cherubic gentleman in a safari suit called Brian Calvert. And, not to put too fine a point on it, he doesn’t throw a bad pissup. For a man who’s just placed all his faith in God and Peter Drouyn, Calvert’s nerves are remarkably unfrayed. In fact, the whole crew running this show seems to pretty well have it pretty well down. Lord Tally-Ho Blears, the former wrestling champ who Stubbies has flown in at great expense to man the microphone, informs us that there will be surf and we will have a good time. The latter was already obvious to the couple of hundred surf rats who had just annihilated the world’s biggest smorgasbord. Drouyn, at the front, explains the rules again and the general consensus is that it’s more or less the 20-point system divided by two. The rest is merely to confuse the surfers. Like electricity, the motorcar, and other modern miracles, I’ll just accept its existence and leave it at that.
And indeed, at the time that seemed the best thing to do but I should now attempt a brief explanation of the system. Five judges gave surfers in each heat points out of 10, which were supposed to relate to such things as style, execution, and maneuvers. The difference between this and other contests— and the reason the judging was basically subjective—was the judges assessed the surfer’s performance throughout each heat and tallied a score at its conclusion. So the winner chosen by each judge was the surfer whose performance impressed him most; the winning margin indicated the difference in the performances of winner and loser, and not much else. Like I said, a pretty basic subjective system that relies heavily on the assumption that each judge can define “good surfing." More on this point coming up.
Stubbies’ Brian Calvert managed to keep his cool throughout the contest, even to the point of retaining a dignified air as he threw a drunk out of the presentation party. Late one night at the bar, he confessed an admiration for Queensland Premier Joh Bjelke-Petersen but nonetheless Holmes and I couldn’t help liking the bastard.
MONDAY, MARCH 14
It appears that the Queensland government has taken over Burleigh Point and turned it into a refugee camp. A brown hessian wall has appeared overnight and it is now impossible to check the surf from the safety of your car. Worse, there are men at either end in official-looking white coats demanding money. The refugees are looking very busy again and Lord Blears (from here on known as “the Lord”) is politely clearing the water so the contest can start. There had been a lot of talk amongst the more vocal locals about surfing right through the contest, but most had decided the odds weren’t good. If the shark boat didn’t get you then the flotilla of hit men on surf skis probably would. And while you’re going under for the third time nursing cracked ribs, someone on the microphone is informing the world that your mother wears army boots. No, it would be a whole lot better to come in quietly.
The elimination heats produce no real surprises. Midget Farrelly, who had been ripping it up over the weekend, couldn’t cut the mustard in a contest situation. Neither of the Aikaus could get going in the shoulder-high waves, and Owl Chapman bit the dust along with Santa Cruz’s Bob Pearson, Rico de Souza from Brazil, Wally Tibballs, and a few of the younger Hawaiians.
But the standard set by the qualifiers was hot. Narrabeen’s Col Smith stood out, pulling those radical backside re-entries one after another, but with a lot more grace on the face than he's shown in the past. For Hawaii, newcomers Wayne Inouye and Buzzy Kerbox looked threatening, and Mark Sedlak, who’s been around since they started this silly little game, was back and looking good.
But all this was hours ago. Right now I’ve just come from the Southport Yacht Club where Mr Calvert has insisted on opening his wallet again while the Lord cracked us up over a joke session. A very entertaining man. Earlier in the afternoon, in keeping with surfing’s new image on the Gold Coast, the surf stars were dragged off to meet the mayor, the ancient and hideously wealthy Sir Bruce Small. Old Bruce, dapper as ever in a floral print number, told a joke to break the ice and then shook the fist of everyone present. Cairns and Townend stole the fashion stakes in Bermuda shorts and socks from their new range while Clyde Aikau came on very butch in a workingman’s singlet and rubber thongs.
Oh my God! Am I reduced to this already? Three days on the Gold Coast and I’m a gibbering idiot telling you what they wore. But it’s not entirely my fault. Simon Anderson moved into this pit we’re calling home only this morning and filled the fridge with sausages. Now he’s sitting over there not three feet away from the television set with the volume up all the way up, filling his face with a small snack of thirty or so of the gruesome brown buggers. It’s more than I can stand.
More later on the amazing Simon Anderson, but right here a few words about Lord Blears are called for. For a start his roots are in workingclass Manchester, not in the English aristocracy. But he was a professional wrestler which of course gives him license to call himself whatever he likes. After a distinguished career in the ring, the Lord made his home in Hawaii, at Makaha, and took to the surf on a very large board. His son Jimmy won the world amateur title in 1972, and daughter Laura became the world’s first female professional surfer. Meanwhile, the Lord himself was not being left out of the action. He took over the PA system at all the major Hawaiian surf meets and his commentaries became world-renowned. The former wrestling champ may not have always been au fait with what the surfers were doing, but he kept the spectators amused and enthralled. Hiring him to work the Stubbies was a masterstroke.
TUESDAY, MARCH 15
I know it’s morning because I can hear the gentle strains of music accompanying the TV test patterns and I can smell another 30 sausages cooking in their own sickly juice.
It’s worth digressing here to explain the strange psyche-up programs that pro surfers subject themselves to. Some of them drink heavily, others don’t drink at all. Some of them read serious literature and go to bed early, others watch television and eat sausages.
In Simon’s case the program seems to be working. He’s surfing better than ever and we think we know why. After 15 solid hours of TV watching, can you imagine the energy and frustration that boils up inside the head and has to get loose? It’s a frightening sight. Halfway through Days Of Our Lives I see it coming on. The living room is quickly vacated as Simon hauls himself up from the sofa, grunting, nostrils twitching. His giant arms flail madly for the TV Week that Holmes has used to wrap the rubbish. I know that something terrible is about to happen. The grunting is getting louder. Now the vertical hold has gone. With a gnashing of the teeth, Simon tears through the skin of the last remaining sausage and pushes the plate aside. Even more grunting and—yes, a word. Surfboard! He clearly said "surfboard." With sweating palms we thrust a board in Simon's general direction and within seconds the old gray Holden is burning rubber to Burleigh, where Simon will crush and kill and get his own back on all those TV heroes.
Drouyn and the Lord seem to have the weather and the surf firmly in their control and they’ve called a lay day despite very surfable waves at Burleigh. There’s definitely a pattern developing. Every second night they ply us with free alcohol and give us the next day off to recover.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 16
I knew this chronological bullshit wouldn’t work. I’ll have to disregard that dateline up there for a minute while I scribble about last night, which was the heat draw. Given the standard of all the competing surfers, who you draw for the opening round is most important. Thus the drawing of the pairs was a pretty exciting event in itself. Michael Peterson sat by himself sipping a Scotch and didn’t bat an eyelid when he drew Reno Abellira. Neilsen drew his partner in crime, Bruce Raymond, which prompted a few chuckles. But the real hair-raiser of the night came when Michael Ho drew Shaun Tomson. There was momentary silence, something that never happens in Australian drinking establishments save for the nine o’clock remembering of the dead in RSL clubs. This was much more tense because who was going to die was not at all certain. The rabble finally got rowdy again, but both Tomson and Ho filed quietly out to rest and worry. At some point during the course of the evening I got talking to Owl Chapman. “These surfers are so serious you’d think they just walked through customs with a suitcase of smack,” the Owl observed.
And I thought it was a very astute and humorous observation. Owl Chapman, despite his surface-level lunacy, is full of such wisdom, but seeing it in print didn’t make him happy. A few weeks later he strode up to me and made an observation I found somewhat less astute. “Jarratt, I read what you wrote, man, and it stinks. You’re just vermin." Just when were developing some sort of connection, too.
Which brings us to this morning at last. With the Lord waffling into the microphone and Burleigh four-foot and doing it, Brian Cregan was first to go, flushed down the dunny by Mark Warren, who chose better waves. Neilsen and Raymond were next on the bill but the judges couldn’t split them. Tied—which meant a re-surf. This was getting exciting already. Second time out, Bruce choked and Neilsen took it on experience.
The crowd was building and by mid-morning it looked like a real event. Reno and Peterson were evenly matched and the first PA announcement had it for Reno. But someone had got it by the balls and it was Peterson by three points. Reno was out.
Californian Randy Laine snapped his board on his opening wave and couldn’t recover in time to beat a below-form Rabbit.
Hawaii’s Mark Sedlak was the first to use the cheating rule to harass Cairns but it wasn’t enough to take the heat.
And speaking of heat, with the sun burning holes in my back I judged it time to repair to the Goodwin Towers penthouse where the fridge was said to be full and the vibe high. Harry Hodge was watching the cricket on television, but for everybody else the main event of the day was about to start down below. We assumed balcony seats as Mike Ho and Shaun Tomson paddled around from the Cove to do battle. And it was fan-fucking-tastic. We all jumped up and down and screamed and applauded. Contrary to popular belief, Peter Drouyn is not mad. He’s turned surfing into an exciting competitive spectacle and it was never more evident than during that heat on a steamy Burleigh afternoon with the southerly building on the horizon and the swell coming up and half a dozen lunatics hanging over a 10th-story balcony calling for an encore.
Ho lost to Tomson in a controversial decision. Judge Bob Cooper was the major factor in that decision and later in the pub I attempted to question him about that call, and his low scoring of other heats. This was a mistake. An understandably amped-up Drouyn screamed across the table, “I will NOT have you questioning my judges! You have no right to talk to ANYBODY but me!” That was a few hours ago and I’m still shaking. I hope it hasn’t slanted my impressions of the whole day because I really had a good time. Honest. I was going to ask them if Paul and I could sit in the competitors' tent tomorrow before I get sunstroke but this is obviously out of the question now. I’ve crossed the line and hell hath no fury like a contest director scorned.
Drouyn's intervention during my talk with Cooper reminded me of a comment Peter had made in our interview a few weeks earlier: “I’m the sort of guy who can put enough pressure on the judges to make them forget their backgrounds and lift them to a point where they become really top, responsible people who are influencing the future of surfing."
Obviously Drouyn didn't think Cooper had been lifted to a responsible enough point to explain his judging decisions, which was a pity, because the tall, quiet Mormon probably had very good reasons for giving the heat to Tomson. As with judging panels in all surfing contests, certain judges get labeled as kooks if their scores consistently fall out of line with the majority assessment. In this case Cooper, California’s Dr Bob Scott and Brazil's Mark Jackola copped most of the flak. By and large their questionable decisions made little difference to the end result of the heats they worked, but Cooper alone was very much responsible for Michael Ho’s first-round elimination. Later in the contest, when that incident had been all but forgotten, Cooper gave further evidence of his solitary view of surfing by awarding scores of 4.5 and 5.0 out of the possible 10 to Shaun Tomson and Mark Richards in a heat where other judges were moved to give the perfect score.
THURSDAY, MARCH 17
Made it. Jesus, last night I was beginning to wonder if I would. At first I thought it was a heart attack but Holmes assures me that part of the chest is where the liver is kept—and he ought to know. The pain isn’t too bad this morning but the Penthouse has to be stricken from our go-to list. I don’t mind wearing white slacks and dancing pumps and I can even handle paying two bucks for a beer. But I’m discoed out. That awful boompadoompdoomp is driving me to the brink. There’s Adolf Hitler, then Idi Amin, and then comes the Ritchie Family in my book of international villainy. Now Bernie Baker is rubbing salt into the wounds. Do you know what he just called me? Disco Duck. He thinks that’s very funny. I’d like to smash his stupid little CB radio receiver but he looks like it wouldn’t take much to get him violent. I ’ll just sit here and stare out to sea where, according to the Lord, surfers are creating something out of nothing.
Bernie Baker and Leonard Brady constitute the Hawaiian photographic agency known as Island Style. They're like chalk and cheese. Baker is fast-talking, Jewish, intelligent, confident, and slightly eccentric. Brady is Hawaiian, smooth with a caustic wit, and slightly eccentric. They film surfing from two angles and communicate by means of CB radio receivers. Most of their communication consists of bad jokes and insults. After the Stubbies, they drove down the coast to Sydney with surf writer-philosopher John Witzig and Lightning Bolt's Jack Shipley in a two-car convoy, the lead car transmitting traffic information via CB to the car behind. Coming through the hills behind Byron Bay, Shipley and Baker radioed to Witzig and Brady that it was safe to pass. Witzig made his move and nearly collided with an oncoming truck. Baker nearly wet himself laughing.
Simon Anderson just scraped through against a very determined little Cheyne Horan. Cheyne winds it up like Dappa used to and he’s got some funny moves but he’s going to be white hot. There’s no stopping Simon today, though. He just had his revenge on Charlie’s Angels and the Love Boat cast better
watch out next time he hits the water. He’s surfing beautifully and it’s going to be interesting when he meets Shaun in the next round.
Rory Russell has a much better act in Australia this year, and I say that even though he’s just been beaten by Ron Ford. He’s the only person who’s ever been able to make the arse-wriggle functional and his backhand surfing at Burleigh has been exceptional. And he’s got a deviant sense of humor. He spent most of that last heat cajoling and splashing water at Ford, who’s not renowned for keeping his cool in contests. Unfortunately, Rory’s in love and will probably soon retire to make babies. I hope he doesn’t because surfing needs all the comedians it can get. The only other point worth making about this first round is that Wayne Inouye gave Mark “Seagull” Richards a run for the money. It must be a bummer to get matched against the most consistent surfer in the world, but Inouye was by no means disgraced.
So the Second Round begins and the tension builds. Mark Warren pipped Neilsen in the first heat, largely because Neilsen spent most of his time trying to break the lip on Warren’s waves. The strategy wasn’t bad and it was certainly within Drouyn's new "effective cheating" rules. But it didn’t work and Neilsen’s gone back up to his penthouse to work on a new plan for next year.
Peterson and Townend both got through without any problems. Peterson is looking stronger as the contest progresses. He’s almost regained the speed he had when he won the Surfabout. According to not very reliable sources, he’s been receiving treatment from local naturopath Tony Holt and he’s fitter than ever. Hmmm.
And to round off the day, Rabbit Bartholomew just beat Kanaiaupuni in a pretty predictable result. Actually, BK, who usually looks like a kook in Australia, surfed well. But in the judges eyes there’s more to surfing Burleigh than stalling in the hook, and Rabbit took it by a safe margin.
FRIDAY, MARCH 18
Contrary to what I wrote earlier, Peter Drouyn IS mad. Burleigh’s quite good this morning but he’s called a rest day nonetheless. Now, they’ve been arsey all week but this time they’ve really blown it. The surf will go to junk and the whole contest will deteriorate into a shambles.
On the other hand, God knows I need a rest day. I can’t begin to imagine how the guys who have to go out in the water to earn their money are feeling. Anyway, if I can keep body and soul together for half an hour I’ll recount a few things that happened last night. Owl was at it again, for starters. “The world’s a lobster, man. Ain’t that right, Jarratt?” Jesus, why bring me into this? But you can’t argue with a sick mind, so: “Yeah, sure. Definitely a lobster, no doubt about it.”
But the main event was dinner at Ray Moon’s Captain’s Table at Surfers Paradise. I thought it was all over for that place last year when my birthday cake landed on an adjacent table and the Mexican hurled his shoe at the ceiling to kill an imaginary spider, but Ray’s a sucker for punishment and he welcomed us with open arms. I can’t remember exactly who was there but Jack Shipley was two of them and I somehow got landed with John Witzig’s bill. That’s right, Rabbit and his lady were there too and the whole thing got a little out of hand and in a masochistic midnight frenzy I subjected myself yet again to the modern equivalent of Chinese water torture. More horrendous boompedoompdoomp. The Ritchie Family! What did I ever do to deserve this?
Anyway, here we are. Lay day. Simon’s back in front of the TV, the sausages are in the frying pan and I feel sanity returning. Now we can continue.
Aside from the surfing, which has been excellent, there have been a few interesting little scenes emerging here at Burleigh this week. For one thing, relations between the press and the organizers seem to have gone further downhill. Peter Crawford stuck his Nikonos through a wave face during the opening round and almost decapitated someone, so now they’re only letting photographers in the water two at a time. And they’re getting edgy because we want to know more about the judging system. I don’t know why that should worry them. Drouyn’s come up with the best system ever and we want to write about it, but the way they’re carrying on you’d think he’d murdered someone and stashed the corpse in the officials' tent. But the pressure’s on, I guess, and in this week of weeks no organizer can be held fully accountable for his actions. And the same might be said of beach marshal Bill Bolman. It’ll be no surprise if Bolman arrives tomorrow morning with a bazooka mounted on the back of the scoreboard truck and clears the water with a well-directed spray of lead. Aah, I’m enjoying this, in spite of the pain all over my body.
One of the less pleasing aspects of surfing contests is that they can’t be held successfully with large numbers of noncompetitors in the water. It’s rather like Arnold Palmer in the Australian Open waiting for his turn at the tee with a dozen members of the Divot Diggers Social Club. Thus the emergence of people like the above-mentioned Mr Bolman. The best (or maybe worst) beach marshalls come from amateur surfing organizations where authoritarians reign supreme. Their job is to ensure the overall smooth running of the contest but the part they revel in is clearing the water of non-competitors. From the safety of the officials tent they can stand and deliver whole sets of insults, threats, and disparaging remarks. And at the Stubbies, where a backlash from the local surfers had been anticipated, Bolman could call on power boats, heavies on surf skis and heavies on surfboards to carry out his threats. It’s much like a general directing troops from a hilltop, and the military comparison is by no means lost on Bolman, who wore his Stubbies sun visor like a green beret and his contest tee shirt like a suit of armor.
SATURDAY, MARCH 19
I don’t know what to say. Drouyn obviously has a direct line to the Creator. Burleigh is really doing it now—six-foot and pumping. Bill Bolman has cleared the water without the aid of a bazooka and it’s about to start again. It's going to be a warm one today and I’m going to need some shade or die. I’ve got a pair of reflector sunglasses in my pocket and I’m hoping to lie low in the back of the competitors' tent and pass myself off as Ian Cairns. We've both got moustaches and more or less the same physiques, give or take a few inches here and there. In my current demented state I’m prepared to try anything but it won’t work just yet because Kanga's out in the water at the moment taking on Terry Fitzgerald. The waves are super nice and Fitzgerald, who has been riding better and better as the week wears on, is carving long, smooth arcs. It’s a close one but I thought Fitz had it. But no. It’s announced as a “technical tie” and they’re back out there for a re-surf. Nobody knows what a “technical tie” is, but there’s a rumor circulating that one of the judges fell asleep. It doesn’t matter because Fitz wins the tie-breaker and there’s no argument.
The next one’s even tighter. Tomson beats Anderson and it boils down to radical maneuvers over perfect placement. Buzzy Kerbox, who is much better than his reputation, beats Ron Ford, and the Seagull swoops on Col Smith, and Round Two is over.
Now it’s really bloody hot. Neilsen’s been evicted from the penthouse. Cairns is impersonating himself in the competitors' tent, and they’ve just ejected Witzig. On with the show.
Peterson versus Warren. Michael’s in full flight now—deep rail turns, snappy little cutbacks and outrageous big ones, off-the-lips, plus he’s finding tubes where there are none. Mark Warren cannot match MP despite some flawless rides.
Rabbit versus Peter Townend. The Coolangatta kids, both radicals in their own way and, in my book, surfers of almost equal ability. They’ve both got that little touch of flash that can win points. Rabbit takes it, but not by much. PT’s on his way to Hollywood and not unduly distressed. The last Bronzed Aussie has bitten the dust. “Now you can call us the Battered Anzacs.” he says.
SUNDAY, MARCH 20
Last night the crew got loose at a barn called the Playroom. There was much hooting and hollering about who will win, and (shock, horror) money was seen to change hands. The surfers still in the running stayed home but the rest were raging. Excited, unnatural raging. Contest fever has got to nearly everyone.
And now, to top it off, conditions are near-perfect again. Actually the tide’s a bit high but it’s going to be unreal. None of which is going to help Terry Fitzgerald, who’s out there right now against Shaun and can’t find a wave. AAAAAAA- OOOOOOOHHHHHII! That wasn’t just me, it was the whole gallery. First hoots of the day for a radical deep tube by Shaun. I don’t think we often see the best of Shaun in Australia, but that was perfect. Fitz must be feeling the pain now. Tallyho almost swallowed his tongue describing Shaun's wave. Terry came good late in the heat, but it was all over.
I thought Richards would romp over Kerbox but it’s been close. Buzzy Kerbox. Funny name but it looks like we better get used to it. With the heat drawing to a close, Kerbox used the cheating rule to beautifully shut down the Seagull on a long lined-up wall. But only judge Darby gave him credit for it. Richards wins by three points.
Now it’s getting serious. Semifinals. Just four surfers left. Peterson and Rabbit are up first and the waves are superb. Once again it’s local knowledge versus local knowledge, but the strategies are very different. Michael is going for the tube every wave and bombing out on a couple. Rabbit is taking fewer chances but working the face to the death and covering a lot of distance. Halfway through and Mark Warren wants to put $20 on Peterson. Hmmm. There’s a definite risk here but I take the bet anyway. I’m $4,000 down for the week already and there’s no turning back now. Thirty seconds to go with a wave approaching. Michael drops into a tubular setup, disappears, and pops out somewhere down near the pool—I may as well give over with the bucks now. But wait. Ten seconds to go and Rabbit takes the one behind. Bigger and even better. It’s as good as Peterson’s and I hold onto the twenty. But not for long. Michael by a point and a half, and he's our first finalist. God, this contest is exciting.
Now it's Tomson versus Richards and the waves are still doing it. But something’s happening out there. Shaun is having difficulty putting it together while the Seagull is swooping all over the place. This could be a runaway. If I could find Mark Warren, I’d have double or nothing on MR. The tension’s starting to show. Richards and Tomson just took off together and blitzed each other off the wave. Radical! Now Shaun’s getting a few but will it be enough? Richards retaliates with two long and faultless rides. The hooter goes and Shaun is left sitting out there wondering. The heat is over but Shaun hasn’t quite finished. In a gesture that may have been defiance, but more likely just happened, he gets the longest and deepest tube I’ve seen all week. Not a scoring ride, but a highlight nonetheless.
So there it is. A Richards-Peterson final. And seeing that he refused to take a dive for me last time, I’d better back Michael. I get double-or-nothing from Warren and sit down in my private pool of sweat to watch the show. There’s a big crowd here now and, for the first time ever at a surfing contest, they all actually seem to be aware of what’s going on. The surfers are in the water and it’s just as well because Drouyn has apparently uttered a rude word and the wind’s gone onshore. Repent, Peter!
It’s an up-and-down, along-the-face final, rather than a tube-riding duel like the we saw in the semis. Peterson is stalling and hanging back, getting cover-ups and bouncing off the lip. In contrast, Richards is flying on the face. There’s not much between them. Peterson’s 7th wave reveals a hint of desperation. A heavy cutback to set up for the inside, which is doubling-up now. Michael pulls into a hopeless closeout tube and gets a face full of sand but it’s definitely spectacular. Richards is hard on his heels and his punch through the lip is unbelievable and aaaaahhh—I can’t go on. I wasn’t cut out for this sort of work. This is too good. Gimme a beer. Sit down. Stand up. Shut up. Say something. This is definitely the end of the line. HUNDREDS DIE IN FLOOD OF EXCITEMENT. I can see the headlines now. This is so good we don’t deserve to be watching. Gimme a . . .
In the euphoria of the closing moments of the greatest surfing contest ever I have managed to lose my notes. I’d kept a wave-by-wave account of the final but, as it turned out to be slightly anti-climatic anyway, I let myself get caught up with the madness of the occasion. The radio report I phoned to Sydney that afternoon was even more garbled and by evening I’d given up all hope of committing the day’s events to memory. But apparently the much-abused gray matter that lives within my head is not entirely shot to pieces and now that I’ve sufficiently recovered some recollections are drifting to the surface.
Michael Peterson has never been very good at being a celebrity. He’s a highly strung, nervous cat who rarely speaks above a whisper and the public acceptance of prizemoney is a painfully difficult chore for him. The usual procedure at surfing contests includes a mock presentation at the beach for the benefit of the spectators and the real thing, plus booze and ballyhoo, later that evening. Because the Stubbies attracted more spectators than any other surfing contest ever held in Australia, Peterson’s first task was doubly onerous.
A cloud hovered over the scoreboard as the crowd moved in for the official announcement, and a few large drops of rain fell. Bill Bolman and the other officials were eager to get the formalities done with. Mark Richards, who doesn’t enjoy the attention either, had sidled up to the microphone alongside Lord Blears. But no Peterson. Bolman was getting frantic, giving meaningless orders to lackeys who were no longer listening. I found myself huddled under a tent flap next to Mrs Peterson, Michael’s mum, who had begun offering suggestions that she would accept the money on her son’s behalf, but the officials were having none of that. I flashed on the presentation at the Bells Contest two years earlier when Michael had simply failed to appear and, for a while, was in danger of forfeiting his winnings. Surely he wouldn’t be crazy enough to run that risk again.
And no, he wasn’t. Australia’s most successful competitive surfer eventually shuffled through the crowd in sunglasses, a brown striped tee shirt with two small holes under the left armpit, a tattered pair of jeans and bare feet. He looked slightly embarrassed by the presence of two bikini-clad beauty queen rejects who smiled on regardless. Lord Blears introduced him as “Mr Cool in the water but Mr Nervous on the beach” and Michael muttered some monosyllabic answers to some rather verbose questions, accepted an empty envelope and shuffled off in the direction of his car. If the sponsors were annoyed by his lack of communication they managed not to show it. And when Peterson gave a repeat incommunicado performance at the presentation function that night there were still only a few disapproving murmurs, probably because Ian Cairns filled the breach with a vote of thanks to just about everyone.
It’s not a popular view, but I for one find Peterson’s stagefright paranoia reassuring. He’s an uncompromising surf animal and the only difference professionalism has made to him is that instead of picking up a trophy for his mother’s sideboard he takes the money and runs—and he does it with more frequency than the serious young men who sit around moaning about the damage MP has done to “the image of the sport.” Image of what? A gang of coiffured surf robots who speak like computer program analysts? When the formalities were over I asked Stubbies boss Brian Calvert if he thought Peterson’s verbal performance had taken any shine off the proceedings. “No, not at all,” he said. “He’s a surfer, not a politician.” And he’s an individual in a profession where stereotypes are currently considered desirable.
Michael Peterson, $5000 richer, left early by the side entrance.
[Opening photo by Bobby Owens]