"The First One," by Bruce Valluzzi, SURFER Magazine, January 1978

Late summer is the time of year when continued human tenancy on the Florida peninsula is uncertain, the season when mankind's lease in this part of America is most vulnerable to cancellation. The sun is sadistic with its daily beatings, and all across the steaming Florida flatlands, the elements are agitated by this solar cruelty. Rattlesnakes lurk like cops with radar guns. Except their fines are higher. Pet dogs disappear as swamp waters evaporate and the gators claw through the sawgrass. Squadrons of mosquitoes form buzzing clouds of bloodlust that drain hapless mammals. Giant spiders weave fantastic webs that span distant trees and snare passing life. Bleached bones of shark victims litter the beach. Moist convection currents create towering cumulonimbi that lumber aimlessly, looming like gigantic black cloud-monsters that darken the sky as they approach then tear the land with shrieking violent winds and bombardments of rain, growling and roaring in guttural thunder while stabbing at the surface with jagged bolts of fatal voltage. And, of course, this far into hurricane season there is always the potential that one of those swirling storms, so female in configuration, will coax the ocean out of its bed to trample everything in sight.

In the face of these possibilities, everyone operates on the blissful assumption of self-immunity. Surfers are no different. Pro surfing's new world tour came to Florida without a thought for who the gators were chewing on. In the mass consciousness, the Wave Rider Pro meant less than a presidential hangnail. But it was the very first International Professional Surfers competition in the Continental United States, and as such, rates special interest within the historical context of the sport.

After the tour in Australia, South Africa and Brazil, IPS contestants met Florida's small-wave conditions, along with a large fraction of Floridians well-tuned to the same. A handful of Californians and Hawaiians were also in town, hoping to gain enough points for backdoor entry into the big-money events in Hawaii this winter, and some portion of the $5,000 prize purse to get there.

The Florida Pro promoters were brothers Gunnar and John Griffin. They hired Dick Catri to run the contest. With completely different styles, Catri and the Griffins would seem strange bedfellows.

Gunnar slugged his way out of the rough and tumble ranchlands of central Florida to a Golden Gloves title, followed by moderate success as a prizefighter. He surfs, too, and knows what he’s doing in the water. Gunnar brought in his non-surfing older brother John as a business partner, and together they’ve been publishing 

, a regional surfing magazine, thus far with mixed results. The Griffins are an ambitious duo trying to apply promotional procedures from other activities to the sport of surfing. They do a surf show on local TV, and this was the fourth pro contest in the past year they've run in Florida.

Dick Catri is a well-known figure in the surfing world who’s been around a long time. He’s seen it all, and done a lot of it himself. One of the first to recognize the economic potential of East Coast surfing, Catri is now trying to organize the Eastern Professional Surfers (EPS), sort of a cousin to the international group. Dick hired on for this event as Beach Coordinator—the on-site pit boss.

Of the Griffin brother's past three contests, two paid sweet cash to the happy winners. One disintegrated into a long series of chaotic shouting matches when the ocean produced nothing for the full two-week waiting period. Last year’s Sebastian contest, the state’s first for sizable money, was a resounding success. Unsanctioned by any surf organization, it benefited from good waves and the novelty of professional surfing in Florida. An estimated 30,000 people swarmed the beach over five days to see a hometown boy take the cash over stiff competition.

This year, the Florida Pro was plugged into the world tour, and this threesome—Gunnar, John, and Catri—pieced together a unique package. Sebastian Inlet is a state park, and they convinced the Parks Commission to let them run the contest on state land and charge spectators a buck to get in. The state got 25% off the top, and the rest of the gate receipts were split evenly between the promoters and charity. A slick arrangement for all.

The day Elvis died [August 16, 1977], international professional surfing made its debut in mainland America. After a long period of extended flatness, waves as unexpected as Presley’s death graced our little corner of the world, and a group of people who had grown up with the King of Rock and Roll launched a new venture with high hopes.

For two days, the waves matched the caliber of the surfers. Competition was intense, and no one could take their heat for granted. Early casualties included Rory Russell, who came completely ill-equipped in terms of boards; Rick Rasmussen, who had the right boards but chose the wrong one; Mike Grassley, who was done in by his longboard, and Shaun Tomson who rode the right stick but chose the wrong waves.

In that heat with Tomson were Mark Warren and Barry Wolfe. Australian Warren surfed extremely well, combining long bottom arcs, tight, snappy cutbacks and precision tip work in a flawless performance. Wolfe, a hot Floridian lacking international experience, had groaned when he saw the heat schedules. Against Mark and Shaun, Wolfe figured he had nothing to lose, so he rode with kamikaze aggression, and had one of the best sessions of his career. Although Shaun managed what might be the shortest radius S-turns known to man, he couldn’t work up a flow and flubbed it for third.

Later that day, the rising tide pushed in the strongest swells of the contest. Ian Cairns tore through the competition with his usual brashness. Greg Loehr pulled off some spectacular backside rebounds, getting his body upside down at the top of the arc. In a portent of things to come, Jeff Crawford and Mike Tabeling met in a four-man heat. The other two guys might as well have stayed on the beach. Tabeling, easily the fastest human alive, was pegged by some as a favorite to win the whole contest. His hard-driving, radical surfing and steamboat paddling ability make him a formidable competitor. Crawford, known for his Hawaiian escapades, retains an uncanny ability to find tubes where none seem available. After a hotly contested 20 minutes, Jeff got the nod, and he and Mike both advanced to the man-on-man segment of the contest.

Aussie Peter Drouyn, survivor of many surf campaigns, was determined as ever. Flea Shaw was hot too. But the standout of the early heats was certainly Rabbit Bartholomew. He mixed gouging cutbacks and tricky off-the-lips with some deft footwork, and basically crammed in twice as many maneuvers per wave as his competitors. Although not always graceful, Rabbit was occasionally startling.

Contest veteran Claude Codgen was hired as head judge to oversee a panel of local and international jurors, all of them theoretically unbiased. Some judges, believing themselves free of the athletes' responsibilities to keep clear heads, were out howling ’til the wee hours on many nights of the long contest. This, plus the heat and boredom, produced a musical chairs situation, and the quality of judging fluctuated from hour to hour. Claude couldn’t look over every shoulder every wave. Surfers who felt victimized applied wildly descriptive terms to their real or imagined tormentors.

The flaming summer sun superheated the sand to a degree that would New Guinea firewalkers run for relief, and on that treeless shore, beach umbrellas offered the only pools of precious shade. The scene was one of barefooted desperadoes sprinting from oasis to standing-room-only oasis, while the rest of the glaring sands were barren of all life. On the third day of competition, the restless shade-crowds saw Greg Mungall make his first appearance in the contest he last year won in a dark-horse upset. Now working for Herbie Fletcher in California, Greg has developed into an aggressive competitor who surfs with a springy close-footed stance and unparalleled physical strength

In a swell diminished from the day before, Mungall, riding a 6'4" whipster, was to face David Balzerak, who was on a ten-foot longboard, plus two others. Though an impressive surfer on shorter sticks, Balzerak has embraced longboards. Sloppy surf in the New Jersey Pro coupled with an outlandish wave-possession rule permitted David a high finish in that event and seemed to fortify his determination to be a logroller. After the heat, Shaun Tomson commented Mungall was “bloody ripping” and likely won the heat, while Balzerak, who was “just walking back and forth to the nose without even turning,” deserved last. Those within earshot all agreed, but a surprise awaited. The judges gave Balzerak first, Tim Gilley second, Mungall third, and Mark Meade fourth, which meant Greg was out of the contest. Everyone had hidden in umbrella shade to watch the competition, but out in the water there was nothing to shelter Mungall and he got burned by the judges blazing incompetence.

When the IPS tour hit town, the question everyone asked was: "Is Shaun here?” The boys wanted to see if he was really untouchable in the water, and the girls wondered if he was as cute as his pictures. As it turned out, Shaun Tomson, Russian Jew by blood line, South African by birth, is not bulletproof and got shot down early on. During his stay in Florida, however, he proved to be an innovative and charismatic surfer. Well-bred, well-mannered and completely professional about physical conditioning, he limits internal pollutants to a very occasional glass of wine. At age 22 he is still exploring various techniques and is now in his tuberiding phase. Working out of a wide, low-slung stance, he uses his board like an accelerator pedal to drive in and out of the barrel. This approach requires good waves to be effective, and friends say Shaun’s competitive record has been marred lately by his concentration on the tube when so many contests are run in dishwater. Of course, learning any talent entails isolation and repetition of certain techniques so they can be mastered individually before being integrated into the whole creative process. The highly complex process of controlled tube riding demands so much background knowledge it is virtually post-graduate work, and Shaun is close to finishing the studies for his Ph.D. Then his shingle will read, “Dr. Tube.”

Completion of the four-man heats reduced the field from just over 100 down to 32. Unfortunately, as the prelims ended so did the swell. Five days later, when the first round of man-on-man heats got underway, I was paired against world champion Peter Townend. I missed my heat because Gunnar, my neighbor, told me the contest was off, while Catri, on the beach 40 miles south, decided it was on.

I jumped in the car and lead-footed it to the Inlet with dogs and old ladies diving for the sidewalk all the way. The first person I saw was Townend, who, upon hearing what happened, agreed to a make-up heat. Gunnar and Catri didn't know whether to bellow at each other or me, so they did both. Meanwhile, I submitted a written protest to the judges, who were supposed to be the final authority. I stated it was unfair that I should be penalized because of misinformation supplied by contest officials. The judges agreed and said the head would be rescheduled. I went surfing, believing this minor problem resolved.

I hadn't fully reckoned with Townend, however, who by the grace of a precontest election among the international contestants, purported himself the IPS representative at this event in the absence of IPS headman Randy Rarick. Peter huddled in council with his Bronzed Aussie mates, Ian Cairns and Mark Warren, and all of a sudden the trio not only threatened Griffin and Catri with exiting the contest, but said they'd try and remove the IPS sanctioning of the entire event if they forced the heat between Peter and me. To my total amazement, Griffin and Catri bowed to this pressure. Standing side by side, these two men are at least seven feet wide, and here was scrawny little Townend tongue lashing them into submission with threats of a suspect nature. Griffin would risk no jeopardy for future promotional possibilities by running afoul with the IPS, while Catri had similar thoughts about his Eastern Pro Group.

How did this happen? Why had Townend changed his mind? My guess is PT saw that Shaun, Ian and several other of his world tour buddies were beaten by Floridians, and had second thoughts about his initial agreement to re-surf, and started looking for a free ride out of the heat. Never mind that the judges had already formally righted an error by a contest official. Townend claims to be the world’s premier competitive surfer but he dodged honest competition with shady tactics, and the contest organizers, through perceived self-interests, allowed the farce. The bottom line was that I got squeezed out.

In the small waves that prevailed throughout the man-on-man heats, the contestants were unable to maintain the superb levels shown in the prelims. That said, there were still some sizzling duels. Young Jeff Klugel took on David Nuuhiwa, and much to Nuuhiwa’s surprise handled the heat rather easily. Jeff was then paired with big Ian Cairns who had surfed brilliantly in the prelims. The heat was close, but Jeff, much smaller and accustomed to the conditions, had the edge, and took the heat. Strong competitors rarely make graceful losers. Ian upholds that tradition.

Mark Warren eliminated Peter Townend, and then had to face Rabbit Bartholomew. Mark’s reputation has been made in big waves, yet he showed considerable versatility adapting to Florida surf. Once again the heat was tight, but Rabbit surfed as if he’d just stuck his finger in a wall socket. He took the heat. Bartholomew then surfed against David Balzerak, who was still on his longboard. Balzerak up to this point seemed to have some secret charm with the judges, winning repeatedly against shortboarders. Rabbit was unimpressed. In true surf-punk style he paddled up and told Balzerak to get a shortboard so as to provide some real competition. David said that he wasn’t there to argue design, just to win. Rabbit scoffed and said he'd blow David out of the water. He did.

Though eliminated from the official contest itself, David Nuuhiwa and David Balzerak whipped up a $100 noseriding side bet between themselves. Balzerak had emerged from their last confrontation, in New Jersey, $900 behind, and was hungry for a rematch. Admirers of the fabled Nuuhiwa elegance were treated to a fine demonstration of his technique. The economy of movement, the slinking feline maneuvers, the subtle adjustments that pull him through at the last second—it was all there. On one wave, David was at casual attention, ten toes over, climbing and dropping with his ankles, when he pulled up into the hook and the fin broke free. His board made a quarter-turn tail first and he side-slipped down backward with the soup. At the bottom, front foot still dangling, he reached back with his back foot and thumped the rail to set the fin again, then proceeded, amid hoots from the beach, directly into a little tube. Nuuhiwa pocketed the C-note.

But he was lucky to get 9th in the real contest. David's exclusive use of longboards lately is not just a tactical error in equipment choice, but symptomatic of a larger problem. He tries to party all night, every night, then ride waves in the daytime. The effects are showing in both his surfing and waistline. If Nuuhiwa wishes to successfully compete on the emerging pro circuit, which he says he does, he must be willing to train and condition himself as a professional athlete. David has as much natural grace and ability as anyone who has ever stood on a surfboard, but time marches on. Any young man is well-advised to remember that economic support from athletics is relatively secure for only the first third of an athlete’s life. Anything past that is borrowed time. David’s debt is mounting.

Crawford and Tabeling met again, this time in the quarterfinals. Tabeling applied himself to the roly-poly right peaks near the jetty, while Crawford concentrated on the longer but inconsistent lefts down the beach. Each employed a style suited to their chosen waves. Crawford used snug edge control to pump through section after crunchy little section for good distance. Lanky Tabeling was whipping around with short turns and flashy footwork. Jeff s friends thought Jeff won. Mike’s friends thought Mike won. Amid grumbling, Crawford was declared winner of the heat.

In the semis, Jeff put down Peter Drouyn to earn a spot in the final opposite Rabbi. Two-thousand bucks were there dangling for the winner.

Rabbit and Jeff surfed it out in waist-to-shoulder-high waves that were getting sloppy with the high tide. Rabbit’s idea was to surf the way a radio DJ talks, jamming as much as possible in the shortest space. Jeff, being Florida-wise, was more particular in his wave choice, more precise in execution. Riding one wave for every two of Rabbit’s, Jeff worked the tip, conjured some little tubes to crawl in and out of, and used a surprising maneuver where he switches stance midflight during a vertical rebound. Jeff won in convincing fashion.

In this, the First One, there was some confusion and dissension. The judging was inconsistent. The waves ranged from mediocre to moderately good. There was also some excellent surfing, which is what it’s all about, and a great deal was learned by organizers and contestants. On the hot, sticky beach, with bitchy losers chewing on his ear, Catri kept cool most of the time. He organized a bunch of infantile surf rats, got them in the water and back out with a minimal loss of life. The hoped-for crowds never materialized. For six days of high-pressure work, Catri netted about 78 cents.

Meanwhile, with little gate revenue and no commercial sponsors, the Griffins saw the contestants' entry fees gobbled up by expenses the average surfer never considers; printing charges, renting a big PA system, portable toilets, liability insurance, transportation, judges’ salaries, mail and phone costs, etc etc. At the end of the contest, when it came time to pass out the prize money bones, Mother Gunnar’s cupboard was bare.

But somehow, somewhere, the money was scraped up. Mostly out of the Griffin boy's own pockets, but they honored their commitments and restated their hopes for future pro contests. Crawford and the other winners were paid cash. Said Gunner, “Who would be dumb enough to take my check?”

1977 Wave Rider Magazine Florida Pro

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