Kevin Naughton's article about the debut Women's International Surfing Association pro contest at Malibu, with photos by longtime travel partner Craig Peterson, ran in the December 1975 issue of SURFER. This version has been slightly edited and shortened.

Craig’s plan was ingenious, maybe even brilliant, but I still felt uneasy. In fact, at first I refused to go along with it. But when he quoted to me some nasty figures about prices to the South Pacific and the estimated time it would take us to save that much money—well, I was swayed. He further prodded me to the tune of $1,500 first-place money, which chimed a high chord on my greed scale. Besides, Craig had made all the arrangements: he paid the $50 entrance fee (under a pseudonym), bought a wig, waterproof makeup, falsies, and booked us two reservations on a flight to the South Pacific for that evening.

So I was an official entrant in the first women’s pro surfing contest before I even knew about it. The meet was sponsored by the gals division of Hang Ten sportswear. I would surf in it disguised as a girl, niftily win first place and $1,500, and we’d both be long gone before anyone discovered our clever ploy. The plan was perverse, diabolical, corrupt, and unsportsmanlike. And that’s where its appeal to us lay. In a society where winning is everything, where ends justify the means, we were going to come out on top no matter what it took. The risk seemed low enough. First prize in the Women’s International Surfing Association’s (WISA) Malibu contest would give us enough cash needed to flee the country before our masquerade was discovered, and by the time we returned from our South Sea adventures—well, things blow over. All this and more strobed through our minds while, back at Craig's house, we'd hunkered over a well-lit table rainbowed with tubes of multicolored cosmetics. Craig had spent days flipping through copies of 

 to find the right look for me. He made final adjustments on my wig, then stood back and sized up the finished product. "If this falls through, I can always try to get you on the cover of 

We rolled up to Malibu shortly after sunrise. The tide was low, and wetsuited figures were burning up four-foot lines in the inside cove. “It’s gonna be a sizzler today,” I said, taking a pull from a flask of Wild Turkey (when CP prepares, he thinks of everything). Craig tried to coax me into wearing a leash, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. “No way in hell am I going to wear that thing. You can only push a man so far,” I said with a snarl through my lipstick. Craig, sensing he was on touchy ground, backed off.

The beach scene at the 'Bu was low key. A handful of people bustled about and set up facilities for a contest that was still in the idea stage eight months ago. Countless hours of work by WISA members Jericho Poppler and Terry Toromeo had made the idea a reality on this 20th day of September 1975. There were 15 entrants from Calfornia, six from Hawaii, two from the Gulf Coast, one from the East Coast, and one “mystery” entrant from Oregon. A lump rose in my throat while Craig and I walked up the beach and I suddenly realized that the wetsuited figures shredding inside Malibu were female. These girls were ripping! I suddenly had cold feet, although I was sweating like a greased pig under my fullsuit and booties.

“Say as little as possible, and say it as high as possible,” advised Craig. “Remember, be inconspicuous.” Easier said than done. I was a thick-set 180-pound, full wetsuited, red-nosed Irishman trying to blend in with a group of bikinied ladies. Definitely no danger of being hustled by one of the grems on the beach. A few people asked uncomfortable questions, but Craig told them I had laryngitis and, being from Oregon, always surfed with a full wetsuit and booties. Quick thinking.

My prelim heat was announced while Craig set up his camera gear and someone pleaded over the microphone with the guys in the water to show a little more wave courtesy to the women (wasted words on the Malibu crew, I’m afraid). There were four surfers per heat, and the three-women/two-man judging team would tally each surfer's best three rides. Margo Oberg and Jericho Poppler, the vets, gave the girls last-minute tips: be calm, work every wave you’re on, pretend you’re not in a contest. Contestants giving other contestants advice and moral support! Now 

 was suspicious! Everyone in my heat was so friendly that I could’ve hugged them. I refrained but made mental notes for another day.

The crowd was bad, but not out of control. My falsies were uncomfortable, and the makeup on my face felt like cake frosting. Paddling out after my second wave, a clean four-foot set rolled in, and each girl in my heat caught waves and did these roundhouses and off-the-lips right in front of me! Fortunately for me, they were all shoulder-hopped by non-contestant dudes who were surfed half as well, so the ladies weren’t able to work their waves to the maximum. On my third wave, I did a head dip and almost lost my wig, then got caught by a set while trying to get the hair out of my face. Meanwhile, the girls in my heat were swishing tracks all over their respective waves. The makeup oozed into my eyes on my fourth wave, and I ended in a vicious pearl up to my ears. I came up just in time to see a girl duck through the same section that had just snuffed me. “Can I get your board?” she asked. “Forget it,” I said, “it wouldn't matter anyway.” My board was near the beach bouncing like a pinball off the rocks, I was choking on my wig, and the heat, mercifully, was over. I couldn't let anyone see me like this, so I swam past towards the pier, scrambled to the car, did a quick change in the back seat, took a few more swigs from the flash, and presto: your man on the scene for SURFER Magazine!

I was back on the beach just in time to hear that I got last in my heat. Craig retrieved my board; there was an unmistakable look of disgust on his face.

Meanwhile, the girls were working high-tide mushburgers with Linda Davoli and Karen Skinner displaying excellent timing, grace, and poise. Margo Oberg ripping energetically, and there were photogs on hand to record all the vertical smiles. I’ve never been to a contest run so smoothly and with so many happy faces; it almost made me proud that I was, in a backhand sort of way, an entrant. Spectators clapped and cameras clicked, while talk circulated of future women’s contests. The theme from 

 drifted from the loudspeaker and set the mood. Sponsor Joseph DiPaulo from Hang Ten was there to witness his successful event and to rub elbows, etc., with the competitors.

I overheard one of the contestants talking to Craig. “Too bad she split. She seemed like a nice person. Homely, but nice."

“Uglier than sin,” Craig agreed. “Couldn’t surf either. I don’t know why I paid her entry fee.”

“You did!” she said. “Hey, that was really nice of you.”

“Well, I like to help the girls out when I can,” smiled Craig weakly.

I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea and left the conversation to watch the final heat, which lasted 45 minutes. Margo Oberg surfed with intense bursts of energy, utilizing her years of contest riding and wave knowledge to take the win. She was hard-pressed, though, by the consistently good Linda Westfall. All 24 Hang Ten entrants received plaques, and ten of the contestants earned money, as well.

Craig and I were in a somber mood on our way back to the car. We were out of money, out of luck, out-surfed, outcast, outraged, and if we weren’t there already, soon we would be out of it. “All that money,” Craig kept mumbling. I started my car and said, “Doesn’t look like we’ll ever get out of this place now.” There was a moment’s silence as I clunked out onto Pacific Coast Highway. “I dunno,” Craig said, thoughtfully, beginning to light up, “I’ve got this idea. It’s a little strange, but it can’t miss."

"THE WISA HAPPENING AT MALIBU," BY KEVIN NAUGHTON (1975)

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