This article ran in the October 1974 issue of SURFER, at a time when professional surfing was the hottest and most debated topic in the sport. A big component of the debate had to do with the merits and demerits of two judging systems: our still-used subjective format, and the now-obsolete objective, or "points-per-maneuver," format. (For more on the two systems, read 

In "Winner Take All," Dora makes a case for a completely new type of objective system.

Taken at face value, Dora's idea was to wait for a big south swell, set up an electronic starting gate at the top of Malibu Point, and a finishing gate at the bottom, and simply time competing surfers individually as they race from on end to the other, similar to downhill skiing. "Fastest man on the block" wins, Dora wrote.

But like nearly everything else Dora did, apart from actually riding waves, the whole thing looked and felt more like a show, a hustle, a piece of commentary; half prank, half performance art. Most people understood this. Dora was messing with us, and our growing interest in surfing for money, which he believed would transform a unique activity into merely another sporting product. If the "Winner Take All" text itself didn't make this clear, the photos should have: one showed a busty dark-haired woman with a fanned-out handful of money and a $500 bill stuffed into her blouse. Another showed an open toilet filled with money and Dora's own Duke contest trophy.

Yet some people fell for it. Mike Purpus wrote a letter to one of the surf magazines saying he turned up at Malibu on the biggest day of the summer, with his $100 entry fee, ready to race. In his 1974 interview with James Jones, SURFER publisher Steve Pezman asked, in all seriousness, "What do you think of the Dora concept?" (Jones didn't think much of it.)

This version of "Winner Take All" has been slightly shortened and edited.

The road to Utopia is fraught with sorrow. Introspection shows it to be paved with the bleached bones of the uncourageous and unenlightened. The basis of the journey is inevitably reduced to what was and what should never be. Fortune favors the brave or something like that. But enough of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, for here we are again in that last bastion of rectal illusionism, SURFER Magazine. In past echelons of the perverse, my motivation in these rather morose matters has been questioned. Held up to public screwtiny so to speak, my specific orientation and rather nonspecific direction has been labeled as maniacal, menopausal or merely suicidal. However, in these moments of mass resurrection enthrallment, I for once arrive at this ultimate forum of the surf statusphere armed with tidings so lucid that there can be no question as to their authenticity, if not sincerity.

Times, no matter how arduous, have been generous with their most wayward son. In actuality, there is only one other universal certainty of life outside of uncertainty and that is—you always get what you deserve. I have been particularly lucky in my most recent ventures and I now find myself financially quite well endowed. Ah, but what to do, all dressed up with no place to go? Long days have passed since I fled the pleasure palace choosing to bypass the inquisition. Concentration camp conceptualism, no matter how coherent, casts no spell upon me. I have thrust the dagger and drunk the lifeblood of true freedom, and craven lust of which most of you will never know. The situations, manners encounters and persons I’ve become familiar with, physically and metaphysically or naturally and unnaturally, are incomprehensible to the average serf, besides these are not the topic of our discussion. As I said, things have gone extremely well, however trouble (alphabet style) prevents me from telling in detail of my most recent fiscal adventures. Never having been a very literal person, I always seem to have trouble with visual letters with nonvisual functions Consequently, phrases like IRS, SS, CIA, OSS, FBI, IUD, KGB, USSA, PSA, WSA, HSA, etc. have always been a source of frustration and occasionally detached amusement.

My original intent for some of these surplus funds was to help repay surfing for all it has meant to me, by creating a haven for the past masters—the old surfers home. An audio-animatronically activated stuffed Duke Kahanamoku could welcome the tourists, Jerkoff Johnny and the rest of his archival cohorts could do their antics and John Severson could sell programs, popcorn and flashbulbs. The possibilities were, to say the least, endless. Fortunately, the recent disclosures of Phil Edwards being alive and well hung, and Maharishi Hynson's downbeat rails proved them both to be a long ways from the proverbial airbrushed wheelchair.

In light of this, I have developed another more concrete plan, one that will benefit surfing for years to come. Why should surfboard riding today be stuck in a 20-year-old time slot? Having suffered through seeming eons of this seething stagnation, I am determined to do something about it. I’m sick and tired of the endless shuck and jive produced by the manufacturing and marketing magnates in collusion with the magazine pitchmen. Once and for all, I want to prove who’s really valid both equipment-wise and skill-wise. For these reasons, this October on the first six-plus swell at Malibu Point, California, I am going to stage the first truly objective surfboard riding contest. The sole criterion of judgment will be speed. No tricks, aesthetics or political affiliations will be considered. It will be a matter entirely of the fastest man on the block.

To assure a decent competent turnout, I am personally putting up $50,000 U S. dollars, winner take all. This contest is open to all, the only stipulations being:

Each entrant must post $100.00 cash as an assurance of his personal credibility.

All entry fees will be added in total to the original prize sum. For instance, 200 entrants would create an added purse of $20,000.

Only two paddle take-offs are allowed, as an assurance that contestants have minimal knowledge of basic positioning techniques and to prevent any barrel-chested oaks thrashing about the hydroscape.

Standing Room Only—no knees, skis, shoes or kayaks.

Pure hull designs only—no pulse jets, motors or other artificial additives.

Otherwise, it’s winner-take-all, no holds barred.

As for the basics, an entirely automated and computerized system will be employed to prevent all human error and personality factors. A pair of buoys will be set off the Second Point at Malibu, forming a gate, while a second pair of buoys will be placed on the inside at First Point. Photoelectric devices mounted on each buoy will create a light beam. A rider passing through the first gate (breaking the beam), activates the timing device on shore and his traversing the second gate stops it—hence an accurate elapsed time, completely open and aboveboard. A rider's overall score will be assessed by taking the average time from his 10 fastest waves. The only variation on the IBM pure visual scan scoring will be a universal difficulty factor to allow for wave speed changes due to changes in tide.

Simplicity is the key to this endeavor. Speed is the essence. There are no rules other than there are no rules. The prize money will be present for public inspection on the morning of the meet. There are no restrictions as to entry other than those stated above. This contest is being put on by myself and it has no attachment to any corporation, product, film, SURFER Magazine or the State of California. The water will not be cleared, forcing the contestants to deal with an everyday crowd situation.

At this time, I personally invite all comers to test their mettle. I hope to see R. Brewer, R. Dick, R. Crumb, R. Nixon, Diff, Hynson, Frye, Smith, Jones, Hawk, Owl, Gnat, Tiger David, Bathsheba, Jeff, Gerry, Mom, Dad and all the rest getting down to it. I now publicly state that the art is in such a sorry state that some kid from nowhere, say, Coyote Creek, New Mexico, is going to come forward and thrash any and all matinee idols. The New Genesis period has long been established and this contest will sound the death knell for surfing as the media masses know it. The true surfing frontiersmen who create in obscurity are so far advanced over the rest of the regressive rat pack, that it's absurd.

To the Purpusless contest freaks: there will be no colored jerseys or loudspeakers to constantly reassure you of your identity—bring all your Heubelin checks and Bozos Wingos, Slots, concaves, Foot Claws, ’cause you are going to need them.

To the architects of the New Genesis period, I only hope in my small way that I’ve done something to help.

And above all, to the rest of you on the fence—take heed, for the judgment day is at hand. It’s either put up or shut up. Winner take all, no holds barred.

If there are questions regarding any or all of the above, please contact me through SURFER, who will forward all inquires. Official entry forms will also be available upon request.

“WINNER TAKE ALL: OR $50,000 CASH – MICKEY DORA'S CHALLENGE”

Subscribe or Login

Subscribe or Login

Encyclopedia of Surfing

History of Surfing

Interviews

Features

The Sunday Joint

Videos

Contests