"The Day War Came to Malibu," Bill Cleary, SURFER, Jan 1966

In the gray of early morning, the cars arrived at Malibu. Then came whispered commands and dark figures unloaded heavy equipment from the backs of trucks, from the tops of smaller vehicles. A dozen fires flickered down along the sand; above the raging surf came the tattoo of marching feet. War had been declared. But the weapon-shapes that loomed ominously in pre-dawn darkness were but the finned missiles of wave riding, and the soldiers were barefoot.

In past Malibu contests there had been no surf to speak of, but now endless sets poured around the point in a kind of perfection that is only found here.

The silent morning peace was shattered by music and the roll of drums as a wave rose up outside. A surfer slid into it and drove for the bottom; trumpets blared as he launched into a blazing bottom turn; the crowd roared as he held it all the way across the inside bowl on the nose. An elite corps of California surfers were there before us, riding the best performance surf California has to offer.

Throughout the eliminations there were winners, but also losers, and some of surfdom’s top names were sent packing. Among them was Corky Carroll who walked by smiling, saying “I don’t even care. That one wave I got locked into all the way across the point—that was worth the drive up here!”

From atop the judges’ stand, Lance Carson looked out over the water with his keen Malibu eyes—a general watching the troops maneuver. “Give Nuuhiwa five points—no, make that six. That inside section is really hard to make on the nose.” Lance knew the terrain, knew how each swell would rise up outside, form, and break. He watched each surfer drop and turn; he watched them trim—he saw every move. He saw the big, flashy maneuvers; watched Johnny Fain arch theatrically across the point and he gave him points, because he also saw that beneath the facade Johnny indeed rode well. Lance's eyes narrowed as he saw Mickey “the Cat” Dora creep down into a beautiful curl in front of Fain and then turn around backwards—right in the hook—to watch Johnny struggle through the section behind him. And he smiled approval as Dewey Weber trimmed across the outer point with wings on his heels.

In the Girls’ eliminations everyone watched spellbound as the unexpected army of females performed as no girls have ever performed in any contest before. Joey Hamasaki powered into the big peaks at the point and climbed and dropped all the way to the beach. Charline Tarussa, the eventual winner, rode the nose, trimming across sections for 50 yards and more right on the tip. The crowd roared approval.

The sun beat down and the waves picked up. There were consistent five-foot sets at the point. The finalists took to the water—Butch Linden, Andy Newman, and Buzz Sutphin—and the guys who had made the Malibu reputation: Dewey Weber, Mickey Dora, and Johnny Fain. What more could anyone ask than to have wave-riders such as these alone in the water on such a beautiful Malibu day?

Malibu was ridden as it had never been ridden before.

But the fever was too high; the contention was fierce—too fierce, and what began as organized competition broke down into open warfare. Six surfers in the water became five too many. It has often been said that Malibu is a one-man wave—but on this day six surfers rode in the finals. And this meant war.


When I got there that morning I walked down to check in with the judges and several contestants were already out warming up, getting fantastic rides. The waves were peeling off perfectly and I was really excited. I’ve ridden Malibu for over 15 years—Malibu is my place. That’s where I first learned to ride the nose; where I first learned to cut back; where I learned everything I know. It had been ten years since I’d ridden there with only six guys out, and that one thing really excited me about the contest. But a little later on, once I got into the semifinals with Fain and Dora, it wasn’t such a good deal after all . . .

Dora and Fain were out for blood. They weren’t fooling around; they realized that it was here they had made their reputation, and they were fighting for that number one slot at Malibu Beach. Each wanted to be king; both wanted the throne. With Mickey and Johnny on that inside lineup I didn’t want anything to do with it—not because I thought I’d have been lowering myself to get in there and compete for applause, but because I just wanted to surf the best way I knew how. I take surfing as a sport. The AAU may not recognize it—but I do.

I remember one wave I picked up at the outside point and rode all the way inside where Mickey and Johnny took off. I was in back of them, in the soup, watching what was going on up in front. Mickey was working back and forth between the curl and the soup — he was shouting at Fain all the way, ‘Get off my wave! What are you doing on my wave? Get off!’ And Fain, of course, had a few things to say in return. And just as we hit the shorebreak, Dora shouted "Get off my wave or I’ll cut your head off!" And he meant it. He dropped to the bottom and swung his board around, missing Fain by inches—so close the hair blew up as the board whizzed past!


I’ve never been in a place where there was so much tension—but I didn’t try any pranks. Not me. I just rode the waves. In fact, I got one of the waves of the day. But to be frank, I did use a little dirty pool on it. I took off in front of poor Andy Neumann who had ridden all the way across the point on the nose. I dropped in, did a spinner, and as I hit the bottom we collided. He hit my leg and went over. But I held it, ran to the nose, and had the whole section lining up in front of me perfect—all the way to shore. Dewey was paddling out; he saw me, he could have gotten out of my way. But instead, he paddled in front of me and jumped off his board. I had judged the wave so perfectly, maneuvered so well, and he couldn’t bear to let me have it—it was too much.

It happened in a split second. He planned it just right—just right to foul me up—and all of a sudden we hit and I was flying through the air.

So now I had two guys after me instead of one. Dora was paddling out and saw the whole thing—he was laughing so hard his rib cage was flapping up and down. I said to myself, "I’m in the wrong heat, at the wrong time, in the wrong contest. This just isn’t my day!


I saw Fain coming across the point towards me, and I started paddling to get over the wave and out of his way. But suddenly Johnny climbed up high into the wave, so of course I slowed down to let him by. But then he dropped back down! So I stopped dead to let him make the decision. He had the advantage and I was helpless. But I never thought he’d actually try to hit me! Something must have been going on inside that head. He drew a bead and just hit me broadside! Fain hurtled into the air. And I spent five minutes crawling over the rocks after my board.

Back outside, I was talking to Andy Newman; we were trying to plan a little strategy—just to stay out of Dora’s and Fain’s way. It was nearly impossible to finish a wave because they were on the inside, in combat.


There was a big set, and one of the waves was close to six feet. That was the ‘Truth Wave.’ Mickey and I both took off. I was in front. The wave was perfect, and I started climbing and dropping immediately. Mickey was behind and I didn’t know what he’d try to do, but he decided to maneuver like me. But of course he couldn’t, and when he followed me he caught an edge and fell off, and I had the wave to myself all the way to the beach. The Truth Wave really set my style of maneuvering apart from Dora’s. It was a battle, Black Knight versus White Knight—and I won.

But the Black Knight thought he could get even on the next wave. I was in front again; I suckered him back into the whitewater and then I leaped to the nose. I was cruising up there. It was perfect. I was on top of the world! But the Black Knight scrambled out of the curl, sputtering and stammering and cursing. And when I felt those icy fingers along the seat of my pants I knew it was all over.

Fain was right. One more good set rolled through and the Malibu contest was over for another year. The day had been hot and sunny, the waves perfect. And to many of the surfers involved, it was not the winning or losing that was important; it was that they had ridden such perfect waves all day long—with just six people in the water. This is what made the contest spectacular.

Sportsmanship? Certainly, this was a question in everyone’s mind. Hot tempers and personal feuds turned Malibu into a battlefield on which it was at times impossible to ride waves for sport.

Who won? A young surfer who was yet born when Mickey Dora and Dewey Weber first rode waves at Malibu—a surfer from the newer generation—a generation under the gun, to whom crowds are as much a part of surfing as wind and waves. And when the war came to Malibu, it was as any other day for the 17-year-old winner, Buzz Sutphin.

"My strategy was to ride alone," Sutphin said later. "If somebody wanted a wave, I gave it to him; there was always another one outside. It was a perfect Malibu day, and I won it by noseriding alone on the inside. I didn’t want to get mixed up in the war!

And what about Dora? After the battle had ended and the smoke had cleared, Mickey was heard to comment: “Everything was calm. They (the judges) told me to go out and surf like I always do, so I did. Nothing happened. Just one little push . . . ."

Buzz Sutphin interview from "Malibu: the Greatest Contest Ever?" by LeRoy Grannis, 

May we have a little history of your competiton background?

I have entered only one other contest, the USSA contest at Santa Monica. I won my heat, but did poorly in the semifinals.

Six years. I’m a member of the MSA, and I am seventeen. I’m going to attend night school at Westchester High.

Did you have a specific plan for the Malibu contest, since it was your first big event?

No, I didn't. That was only the fifth time I had ever ridden that board. I had just gotten it from Dave Sweet’s shop the day before, and it just seemed to ride very good on the nose, and it cut back real well too. I was experimenting through the whole contest. I didn’t know how I was going to ride, and I had no plan, except to let the other guys surf against themselves, [and to] try and get waves to myself.

When you came out of the water after the final, who did you think had won?

I thought it would probably be Mickey, because even though he rode a lot of waves with Fain and the other guys, he seemed to be outshining people with his sea-lion style and grace.

How did you feel the results should have gone?

I think it should have been Mickey first, just for the sake that he is just tops as far as Malibu goes. Then Weber and Fain, second and third, no specific order; myself fourth, Andy fifth, with Butch Linden sixth.

1965 Malibu Invitational

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