Sam Reid was a New Jersey-born surfing pioneer who rode Malibu with Tom Blake in the 1920s, was befriended by the Kahanamoku brothers, and was the ranking lifeguard in Santa Cruz for decades. He is also recalled as surfing's first outspoken "it was better back then" curmudgeon, a role he seems to have picked up in the 1950s and carried with him until his death, at age 73, in 1978.

Reid was a fairly prolific writer of letters and articles, and some of his thoughts of surfing past (noble, orderly) and surfing present (frivolous, debased) are presented here. The quotes below have been shortened and lightly edited.

From "Hot-Dogging vs Classic Surfing," SURFER, Sept 1966

I'd like to clear up a few misconceptions that are washing around the surfing world about the difference between hot-dog surfing and really the only kind of genuine surfing for a mature man—classic surfing. Many of these misconceptions result from articles on so-called hot-dogging by surfer-writers whose main qualifications for analyzing the great Sport of Kings seems to be that they’ve had their photograph taken once or twice at Sunset or the Banzai Pipeline!

A frequent misstatement by these “authorities” is that hot-dogging is something new—a product of the modem era of surfing. Oh, how wrong can writers be? As an eyewitness and active participant on the surfing scene for five decades in the Atlantic, Pacific and Hawaii, I feel that I’m competent to compare the errors and say, first of all, there’s nothing new about hot-dogging!

There were plenty of hot-doggers—or trick riders as we called them then—in Hawaii when I was surfing there during the 1920s. Probably the greatest hot-dogger of all time was John “Hawkshaw” Paia. Hawkshaw rode a 10-foot, 50-pound redwood without a skeg. There was really no maneuver that I have seen today that Hawkshaw didn’t do—PLUS! Hawkshaw rode tandem with two 

 (beginners) on his shoulders (not the well- trained little acrobats of today’s tandem teams) plus a dog on the nose of the board. Riding forward, backward, spinning, running back and forth, toes over the nose, heels over the nose, riding backwards, playing ukelele while riding—there was nothing Hawkshaw couldn’t do. He was a real hot-dogger.

One fact that modern surf-writers ignore or don’t understand is that the young hot-dogger—if he’s a real surfer—eventually adopts the classic style, which is really the only way to ride waves. He must know the wave as a rider must know his horse, and that takes years of judgment, especially in big surf and mile-long rides. A classicist in literature, music, art or surfing is willing to spend years learning the fundamentals. A classicist in surfing has one fundamental theme, MAN AGAINST THE SEA!

A hot-dogger need only concern himself with 20 yards of wave to perform his “quasimodo,” “head-dip,” “ or “cutback.” After that, a shorebreak wipeout doesn’t much matter. He has done his tricks.

Let the young hot-dogger have his fun in the shorebreak. A mature man will never remain a hot-dogger. Why should he? It is really only for the very young! It is up to the mature classicist—not the hot-dogger—to lead the way!

From "The Days of Great Boards and Real Watermen," SURFER, Nov 1965

It was in the 1920s, and before, that the classic Hawaiian redwood surfboard reigned supreme and the basic lessons [from that period] should not be forgotten, especially in today’s scramble of disorganized surfing. In the first place, the Hawaiian redwoods, with no skeg to drag, were faster than today's boards; not only on the slide but also on the takeoff. Second, you could start sliding immediately at the top of the wave. You did not have to stall or take the drop, and this immediate speed gave you an advantage! Third, nobody took off in front of you. Why? They knew that you would ride invariably right over their board, or over them; since the Hawaiian redwood had no skeg, it wouldn’t bother the rider in the slightest! The only thing we couldn’t do on the boards without a skeg was ride make a quick turn on a small wave, [which was] considered bad surfing manners.

[Magazine] pictures have made the youngsters think that surfing is mainly a spectacular takeoff, using no judgment at all, taking the drop, running to the nose, a 180-degree cutout, and then letting your board go to possibly hit swimmers or other surfers. Is this fun? Is it good manners? Is it good surfing?

Sam Kahanamoku, brother of the famous Duke, rode tandem with Jane Waite back in 1930 at Waikiki. Jane, a national AAU swimming champ, weighed 170 pounds, which is a far cry from the present-day tandem teams with a girl acrobat weighting not over a hundred pounds!

From "Surfing: Then and Now," Honolulu Star-Bulletin, 1955

I returned to Waikiki, after 20 years [away], to enjoy again the great Hawaiian sport that Jack London described as the Sport of Kings—surf-riding. My first impression was that more riders are going straight off on the wave, fewer boards are holding a hard, continuous slide, and only a very few are sliding through the break, making it through to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, as we used to do [in the '30s]. Surfing at Waikiki has become a dangerous, haphazard sport with seemingly no rules of conduct. The old strict code of surfing that I had been taught by the Kahanamokus—Duke, David, and Sam—has been forgotten. The rules of safe surfing are simple but effective, [and include]: the surfer who catches the wave first has right-of-way but he must . . . give other surfers the chance to pick up the wave behind him. He must not stall in the crest, hogging the wave for himself.

From the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, 1971, in response to a perceived insult to Duke Kanahamoku by the organizers of the United States Surfing Championships, held at Huntington Beach

Knowing Duke for 40 years, I know how he must have suffered in having to watch the "sport of kings" degenerate into exhibitionistic tricks by modern midgets. But in order to help the sport which he, unaided, carried around the world, he gave his time and great name and character to a contest in Huntington Beach. At best, Huntington is of mediocre bodysurf quality. It is a playground for the awkward, off-balance, spread-eagled, flat-footed squatters who inflate their egos by disappearing under an ugly mussel-encrusted concrete pier in a sea of discolored oil, toilet paper and other trash.

"A MATURE MAN WILL NEVER REMAIN A HOT-DOGGER," AND OTHER READINGS FROM THE BOOK OF SAM

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