"Michael Peterson Gives it Heaps," John Witzig, SURFER Magazine, Sept 1977

The Stubbies contest was a week of spectacular surfing duels at Burleigh Heads in Queensland. It was significant for a number of reasons. The first was that, by some grace of providence, the contest ran into one of the best weeks of east swell that will happen this year in Australia. Though I'm sure that the Hawaiians aren't going to believe that, and especially not Michael Ho, who left the cold south after bombing at Bells, and found Burleigh doing it again.

But nevertheless, it's true. On the east coast of this country, we just don't get swells like that very often. And it was very good. Every morning for ten days, there were excellent waves that varied between four, and six or seven feet. Plus the winds were generally good till late midmorning.

More than anything else, this is what I dictated the quite apparent success of this contest. The waves were fantastic; and, as a consequence, the surfing was equally so.

The other thing that was interesting was that it was a succession of two-man heats. It was just the same as you'd run a tennis tournament. If you lost once, you lost. There were some controversial decisions in some close contests, and this wasn't helped by a judging system devised by Peter Drouyn (and which he insists, with some pretension, that we call "diagnosis''—a rose is a rose is a rose). Anyway, the system, which had some pretty big holes in it, allowed the individual judges on occasion to fashion some more, and is best ignored.

But the two-men-in-the-water system did work. It worked very well indeed, adding a fascinating series of personal clashes to the overall competition. Every now and again in the early rounds and increasingly, of course, the further it got, there'd crop up an intense duel. Michael Peterson and Reno. Shaun and Michael Ho. Lots of others. They were, on occasion, quite inspired.

Apart from all that, it was a pretty good contest too. A few drunken dinners and general socializing. By and large, this is the same group of people as were on the North Shore this last winter. Some additions, some deletions. There are tensions between the same people. Others continue to get along happily, as ever. The two-man system threw some of those relationships into new relief. When Bugs and BK are in the water together, you watch. And with Paul Neilsen and his protege Bruce Raymond—for slightly different reasons, of course.

My observations of this contest are immediate and first hand. On the grounds of spontaneity and the amount of work, they're not altered—except for removing some of the bits where I was obviously getting out of hand.


Images of suntanned couples. Very probably the dole bludgers that the conservative politicians tell us about (continually). The Neilsen Apartment is unmistakably Kui Lima to me. Or is it just that it's Pure Neilsen? Oblivious to the broader environment? There are blankets lying around, and it's got that untidiness that's somehow expected and appropriate.

Down on the grass at Burleigh, looking over the madness in this quite beautiful area, it could be like a huge version of Bernie Baker's backyard. There's the same people wandering around. Terry Fitz has a new hat, but nothing else is too different.

Jack Shipley and some of the others comment on the healthy state of most of the young people, and of the young girls (especially me). Following Bernie's car down the road is a succession of groups of little girls and foots-on-brakes.

The tiny kids are a big feature of the surf up here, and never more so than at Burleigh, where they're heading into tubes at 11 years old—and coming out of them. The 14-year-old brigade are spectacular. And so, I'm reminded, are the waves.

This beautiful morning, the surf is clean, high quality. An excellent example of a great Australian east coast point break—better than most, and much better than many.

In a way, I'm thinking, no one surfs it better than Rabbit. The contrasts in style of attack are as fascinating as ever. In a short time, Bugs, Shaun, and Fitz all catch pretty reasonable waves. Bugs is quick, not pretty, but always there, just where he ought to be—deep.

Shaun's feet seem spread a long way over his board. His maneuvers are very, very quick, as he searches for those right tubes that he so excels in. I only see the one wave of Terry's, but he's fast. That's the overriding impression. Down the line, no one seems to be quicker.

There are groups of kids on the grass, autograph hunting amongst the superstars of world surfing. Century City has moved down here from Off the Wall, but it's not quite so thick in that forest of tripod legs. Instead of Divine and Wilkings, there's Channon and McLeod, and the Nikonos Club has lots of new members. But Island Style are there with new, louder walkie-talkies, and so's Crawford, and the gang are probably just now working out where Merkel parks his car.

"It's got to the stage where you had to go 'cause you'd kill yourself.” Paul Neilsen on a free booze party turned on by the sponsors.

"Everyone who skis in the competition gets one." The man from the sponsors on free t-shirts.

"Hey kid—piss off.” Phil Jarratt to a ten-year-old sitting on his towel.

We're in a flat called Lorikeet. There are birds chirping away on all sides, it seems, but the view out of the window is of brick wall, glass window (curtained), and galvanized iron (painted). Out the other side, you can catch a glimpse of the ocean between a couple of the houses crowded there.

It's probably appropriate to come up here and stay in a B-grade holiday unit. The whole place seems like that to me. I really don't like it much at all.

Last night we hung out at a pinball and pool place for a little while, waiting for some bad food for Shipley, wondering what kind of people come here—by choice, anyway. It's all so lacking in style.


After the first Stubbies party, Drouyn explained that the complex judging system he's devised is all bullshit. Well, he didn't exactly say that, but all the judges have to do at the end of a heat is submit a name. All the division of points, etc., is essentially a "kind of guide" to them about Drouyn's levels of importance. It can safely be ignored. It was a good party, though. Excellent food and lotsa booze.


Actually, Drouyn may well have devised the perfect system. You (if you happened to be a judge) don't have to take any notice of it at all. You can simply gauge the gap you leave between the points of the two surfers to suit the influence you'd like to exercise over the result. You have to exercise a little judgment, in that if you're too outrageous about your bias (i.e., it can be seen), then you run the chance of causing the heat to be rerun. But essentially, the system allows contest officials to behave like the dictators that they are—and I've never minded benevolent despots. (I'm slightly worried as to whether Drouyn is benevolent? So far, he gets the benefit of some considerable doubt.) Plus, the system has the added advantage of the "effective cheating" issue—meaning If you drop in on someone cleanly, you gain points; if not, you lose points; all at the judges' discretion—an interesting enough diversion that distracts attention from the potential shortcomings, or non-comings.

I am thinking that the structure of the event—just two surfers in the water at the same time—is of far greater significance than any of the judging "system."


Today was the day of the six prelim heats, and of the Magical Mystery Tour. I've happily forgotten anything about the former, but at 3:00 PM, sort of, a whole bunch of us set off in the provided bus for the Lord Mayor's reception. That was pretty much fun for a while. A bit to eat and a bit more free booze, and then the boss of the company that's sponsoring the event suggests that we detour the bus via the Southport Yacht Club for a few drinks on the house. How can we refuse? (Actually, you can't 'cause the bus won't take you anywhere else.) Anyway, I tried, though to no avail, and not that hard either. Sometimes you just have to flow with events. Damn! There's never been a contest like this one before. The young kids like Tommy Carroll and Cheyne Horan must think that all the contests are like this.

Ended up back here at the Lovely Lorikeet for late dinner, and wishing that we had a TV, or a joint, or both. We settled for neither.


I've watched Cheyne Horan surf for the first time—and I'm struck immediately by the sense of Dappa revisited. The same short figure, with arms pumping up and down. The same energy demonstrated in every turn, every cutback, every bounce off the lip. 

This is the classic entrepreneurial contest. The draw was held with high ceremony last night, and it was an event. Today they ran through eleven of the heats in surf that ranged from the pretty good to the slack average. The excitement level varied from high interest to an awful boredom, that, in the absence of any of what Jack McCoy euphemistically calls, "focusing agent," necessitated an infusion of some Rory Russell instant coffee—which actually isn't any different from anyone else's. I was name-dropping.

The two-man system seems long and drawn out after the Hawaiian circuit. But the possibilities in throwing two surfers out in good waves to surf against one another are limitless in fascination potential. There were a few excellent heats today: Paul Neilsen and Bruce Raymond. The old man makes it again. BK and a sixteen-year-old called Joe Engel. BK made it, but the little kid showed him that stalling in the curl mayn't be enough. And then Shaun Tomson and Michael Ho. This was a wave-for-wave battle that gave the spectators a fitting finale to the day.

In each case, there were elements of similarity or contrast that created an interest above the direct competitive surfing. Almost everyone you'd expect to, got through. Some just. And none juster than Shaun, for Michael Ho might've won any other heat in the event, and some of them easily. But he came up against a determined South African who, in the face of some nationalistic barracking for his opponent, took to doing the same thing for himself—and to soliciting for a cheer squad with vague promises of 1% of the pot of gold.

There were some clear wins. Mark Warren and Terry Fitz amongst them. And one so close and so drawn out that eventually the persistent Paul Neilsen beat luckless Bruce Raymond. That was after one judge so over-exercised his influence that there was nothing to do but run it again. Why it wasn't done when the same thing happened in the Michael Peterson/Reno Abellira duel was never explained.

I think that the judging "system" is the joke that I'd expected it to be—but that maybe, probably, it sort of works out no worse than any other. But who knows how? Drouyn says that all the judges are “trained." Judge Shipley says that's bullshit.


Fitz reckons that there's an advantage for the Australians in moving from small surf to bigger in Hawaii, rather than the other way around. He is looking very good here at Burleigh.

Yesterday the contest continued on its way. It's getting more interesting as some of the people who won't win are eliminated. I really do like this two-man arrangement. Much of the time it's fascinating. Bugs and BK first heat in the morning.

 
Terry Fitz says that 'cause of how the water draws off the shallow sand,  it's very hard to do a full-on bottom turn. “Most people are just using the top two-thirds of the wave."

 hot. There are peeling backs and sweaty T-shirts. We're all given "media" T-shirts, and Drouyn explains to me that I will have to wear it if I want to come into the official enclosure. Every day for a week? The same T-shirt? Crikey, it'd set new standards in smelliness. You wouldn't want to be in the official enclosure.

"It’s so hot out there you're sweating while you're paddling," says Rabbit.

Phil J. and I have been after the master sheets that will link judges' names to the scores on the results board. Drouyn's immediate reaction is "NO." (To almost anything.) There's no reason why we shouldn't have the information . . . it's been given publicly previously . . . result by result. For a while, the sponsor supports us—and then abruptly changes its mind. It starts to make me pissed off.

There are a few holes, but not that many, or that bad. If they'd given us the breakdowns, we probably wouldn't have even bothered to analyze them—'cause it's hard work, and it's a drag.

Now we have a story in the refusal. It's such a lovely example of someone in control being paranoid about everyone who's not. They don't seem to realize— they'd be so much better off not harrass- ing us.

The Ian/Fitz fiasco . . . Ian gets one of the beautiful waves of the contest ... in the end, it's to no avail. They are in for a rerun. One of the judges has just effectively overruled the rest. Fitz says that it should't be the points of the judges that are added—just their placing preference, 'cause as it is, one judge giving a wide point split can disproportionately affect the result.

After the Rabbit/PTQ water final, with the surf still okay, but lacking the quality of the morning, they call it off and throw in a hastily organized "test"

between Hawaii and Oz. No one takes much notice.

There are eight events to go, and the contest is almost over, and I find that I haven't written anything much.

Today, at last, I feel like recording some of the event. And, more than anything, it has been an event. Days of varying waves, and competitions between individuals of quite astonishing breadth in position and background. Much broader than in the Hawaiian contests that I've just left . . . and it's good, I think.

Finally, ironically, I'm driven to start to write because of an inconsequential tiff with authority . . . an idiot clash

where everyone succeeded in looking pretty silly, and which, in the end, showed little more than what mugs we all were.

The old guy who looks after the tennis courts down at Burleigh tells me that someone has got to be a bastard, and I think that they don't, they've just got to handle things better. Shipley tells me that he can understand why people are paranoid about the surfing media .. B.K. and Geoff McCoy have asked him what he's doing the other night having dinner with TRACKS Editor Phil Jarratt. The implication is that he's the most unreasonable writer in surfing . . . which he may well be on occasion, but he's bloody entertaining when he's at it, and you can forgive him almost anything for that. And anyway, I don't think that he is generally unfair. He just has a very good sense of his own and other people's absurdities. Especially other people's.

and now six days into it, stopping drinking for a day to try and get things together better, I wonder what I've seen. There are proof sheets up on the wall that show some fine waves being ridden excellently, and there's one roll which is essentially in-group scenes. Which actually isn't a bad picture of the whole deal.

What else it's been is a new attempt at the structure of a surfing competition . .. and very probably, a fairly spectacular success at it. There’s nothing about the continued on page 64


(Above) the lileguards conducted constant shark patrol while llying these inllato’s. Photo: B-B/Island Style. (Top right) Peterson "sacri- licing himsell." Photo: Murray. (Bottom right) Ian Cairns, skating clean, high speed lines. Photos: B-B/Island Style.


judging that I can see as differing in substance to what's happened before.

The waves have been fantastic . . . morning after morning of most beautiful Burleigh. It's been extraordinary.

The Hawaiians must have a remarkable opinion of Queensland consistency by now. It's just been a superb surf period. When the fates are running that much for you, the small gripes seem less important. There are holes in the judging . . . both in system and in performance. But the vibe overall has been flying high. The entrepreneural side of it has been handled pretty well, I'd say . . . bullshit, but not offensive at that. The sponsor and Drouyn as Director have been putting it together better than okay.

Why they chose to dent the image a bit by refusing a request for the complete judging results . . . was not readily understandable. Any analysis of the broad effectiveness of the judging needs them all put together. But Drouyn and the sponsors and the judges show fits of paranoia about the surfing media. Anyway, as of now, we don't even have them.

There's been a lot of events. A lot of heats where there were interesting competition between surfers. A lot, too, where the surfing just wasn't as good as the waves seemed to demand. A lot of times where it all seemed flat . . . there weren't chances being taken. The times when they were, of course, are the standouts.

Rabbit got the day off to a spectacular start on a superb wave straight after the bell. He must have seen it coming and have been hanging on the siren to sound. A long wave, lots of critical sections where his particular knowledge and genius turned on a performance. Not even that other genius, B.K., could catch him after that.

Ian, in just the next heat. There for a moment, after a great tube, a six-foot curl hanging around his head, he just threw his shoulders back in seeming appreciation of just where he was. It was almost as if the competition didn't matter. But even that wasn't enough to stop Terry Fitz sweeping past him with more straight-out speed than anyone else in the event.

1977 Stubbies Surf Classic

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