“AAAA’s at the ’Bu (Sponsored by SURFER & Hang Ten),” SURFER, Oct 1971

Ah yes, as we approached the Malibu Pier, motoring north on Pacific Coast Highway, our necks craned for a first glimpse of the famed Malibu surf. A bit disappointing. It had been 4 to 6 the previous day, but now it looks kinda windy. Three foot. Here comes a five-foot set.

And we were past, making a U-turn ready for a second run past the 'Bu. This time eyes strained for a parking place. We were lucky—after only three passes up and down the mile of cars parked bumper to bumper, both sides of the street, we selected a choice location blocking a fire hydrant and squeezed in.

Malibu is always a flash. The place reeks of tradition, perfect waves, Hollywood, L. A. (there’s a difference, ya know)—but the wall! All the names were painted out ("Dora is a fag") and gone forever. In its place were new names, no dirty words, no swastikas, just new names I’d never heard of.

And then we were walking up the beach past all the weird people (thinking the same of me, I’m sure) past little inside curls being worked to death by surfers taking off in fleets, wiping out in pairs and triplets, “look at the longboard guys out there,” what kooks! (I bet they knew it, too!)

And we walked on toward the Second Point where the Malibu 3A-4A, sponsored by Hang Ten and SURFER mag (we put up $$ for the winners), was happening in a strange way.

It was a hot, muggy day, 96 degrees, with the sun burning through a 40-foot thick layer of fog. There was a crowd of surfers on the point, jammed around two five-foot scaffoldings. On one sat three judges, on the other sat Dr. Scott (WSA President) and his wife. The Doctor was in the middle of a hot debate over whether or not surf leashes should be allowed in the contest. The surfers were pissed—some for, some against. Brad McCaul and Johnny Fain are arguing, “blah, blah, blah . . . little man,” says Fain as McCaul walks off shaking his head. The Doctor has in his favor a megaphone through which he can out-voice the combined babble. After two or three votes, surf leashes were banned. And the contest resumed.

It was strange. No enthusiasm. The surfers went out and surfed their heat, or waited in groups here and there. There were cameras everywhere, long phallic lenses telling us who the pros were. Some long-hair set up a 1000mm lens, motor drive unit, tripod, who’s he shooting for? (Us!) Looking around, you notice fewer people are here than in years past—no rented party buses working their way up the coast, stopping in every beach town from San Diego to Malibu, picking up the world’s heaviest, lewdest and crudest hooters, drinkers, smokers and general carrying-on-ers. Windansea has no tent this year (no Thor here either).

But the waves are overhead on sets, and I’ll be damned if there isn't some fine surfing happening—John Davis from Huntington, getting nose rides (wow! remember David’s?). Tiger Makin climbing and dropping, letting his legs straighten and fold, keeping his torso stationary; and many others fluidly off the bottom and top.

The surfing was worth seeing, and it’s always a good trip to be back at Malibu after a long time away—back where it all started—back in the shadow of Tubesteak, the Mongoose, Mickey Chapin, Buzzy Trent, all of them, even though their names are painted over.

(The Hang Ten-SURFER Malibu 4A was not and has not yet been completed. The finals will be run on the next big swell—we’ll be there.)

“Tiger and Carrots,” Jericho Poppler, SURFER, Feb 1972

We were all eager for some summer surf, and the long-overdue swell came in late one Friday night. By Saturday the surf was pumping all over California in those places that respond to south swells. Sunday, the 22nd of August, the postponed Hang Ten/Surfer Magazine 3A-4A Malibu Invitational Contest was finally on, at two to five feet in the morning, picking up in the afternoon from three to six, with some seven-foot sets. The traditional onshore wind came up around noon but didn’t harm the surf or hinder the surfers much because the faces of the waves stayed clean.

The contest was comprised of a small well-knit band of the top WSA competitors, making the contest scene rather unique. Everyone was there, rapping and relating on the beach as well as in the water, making the whole affair have warmth and brotherhood. In general, the vibrations from the competitors and spectators were enthusiastic and exciting. This put every surfer in the frame of mind to try his best. This wasn’t “a scene.” It was a well-organized competition, including every different and individual surfing style available.

Malibu is the kind of contest that anyone can win if he’s got what it takes on that particular day. Any one of the surfers in the Malibu event could have won that day—if his head was in the right place, meaning concentration and attitude; if his physical ability was in tune with the surf; and if he really wanted to put out all the effort and labor required. It’s hard to win, and it’s easy to lose. We all know how it is to lose, but we all don’t all know how it is to win.

What few rules there are in surfing competition makes ‘‘the game” easy. Surf the best you know how and follow the simple rules required, and you can win. And Tiger Makin won—this was obvious to all of his contemporaries, for they all stayed until sunset to watch him do it.

Surfing, being an unpredictable sport because of the waves and its surfers, seems impossible to judge. But this contest was judged using a double-elimination system which today’s competitors and officials find to be the most objective system of determining a winner. Guys like Corky Carroll, John Davis, Mike Purpus, Kurt Augsburger, Dru Harrison, Cheer Critchlow, Dale Dobson, Steve Schlickenmeyer, etc., went out over a dozen times in that one day, in 15- to 20-minute heats. It was a contest where surfers not only had to show their creative best, but also their endurance.

For example, Eddie Underwood, who survived a severe case of botulism a few days before the contest, jams with finesse and flair, and in tight situations he’s bold. He's downright hot, but in competition you must have your attitude at the same level as your surfing. Ask Alf Laws, who got knocked out early, but was stoked surfing Lower Trestles the rest of the day. Or Roger Adams, whose mind was somewhere south of the border. Or ask Cheer Critchlow with his gossamer style; or persistent Johnny Fain, whose mom was even there. But don’t ask David. He didn’t have it all together in the water, but he sure had it all together on the beach.

One of the most scrutinized heats of the day was between John Davis from Huntington Beach, and number one rated man Mike Purpus. Judge Chuck Linnen (one of the last of the great iron men) remarked that it was the most difficult heat he had ever judged. Purpus edged out Davis through the frenzy of it all, meaning he had to surf against his long-time chum Dru Harrison. They always end up together but pitted against each other. It began that way, and probably always will be. The crowd gave the heat their utmost attention, knowing the winner would surf against Tiger Makin, who was undefeated in all of his heats so far.

Mike’s stamina overwhelmed everyone, including Dru, as he moved into the final heat. But it was Tiger’s day from the very beginning. Tiger seemed to have it in the bag.

Besides the surf, the people, the weather and the vibrations, what made this contest both unique and successful was the prize money for the winners. Tiger received a well-deserved $200 from Hang Ten for his performance. SURFER Magazine put up $100 toward the fund for the 1972 World Contest team, plus $100 for the women’s winner.

A few competitors stayed to watch the women’s final, which started as soon as the sun went down, naturally, and ended when it was pitch dark. Goofyfooter Mary Setterholm, who wears glasses, could not see but placed fourth overall. Debbie Melville from San Diego, WSA's number-one-rated woman placed third, and Joyce Hoffman Lancor was precise and consistent, placing second, and I won because I eat a lot of carrots!

1971 Malibu AAAA

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