Mike Purpus' localism-themed article on Seaside, Oregon, ran in the February 1972 issue of Surfing magazine. This version has been lightly edited.

Gary (Goober) Goodrum, Tim Lynch, Paul Mooney, Gary Keating, and myself had been planning a trip to France in September. However, bad reports kept coming in on the inconsistent waves and the consistently bad weather. These stories were joined with the fact that our bank accounts would only allow a low-budget trip. When Dan Merkel suggested a trip to a newfound paradise only a thousand miles away, we jumped at the idea.

A week later, we were up (kind of) bright and plenty early in the morning for our journey to Oregon. We gave the polluted South Bay one more chance to talk us into staying. It was not too convincing, however, since the waves were the usual summer mush. We headed up the coast to pick up Merkel and Larry Bennett, our photographers from Santa Barbara. By three o’clock, we were on our way with a twenty-four-hour drive ahead of us.

We arrived in Oregon the following day and headed for the local surf spots. A short stop to get a candy bar and we got our first bad vibes as two locals drove by and told us to go home. We checked out the surf anyway but it was too big to ride, twelve to fifteen feet, with no place to paddle out, and no lineup. The waves were breaking so far out that it was looking unreal. Then we happened upon this cove that seemed like it could have possibilities at high tide.

The call was for lunch, so we terrorized the local hamburger hang-out. While waiting for our food a cool-looking local appeared, dressed in his Nehru shirt and love beads, and sat down nearby, throwing bad vibes. He asked if we had come to surf. When we said "yes," he said we should not surf here unless we lived here. Earlier we had heard that this guy named the Bear was the head dude in town and also ran the only surf shop. We told Mr. Cool not to give us the run-around because we knew the Bear. He then ran down the street full speed. We nearly died laughing, but we also wondered what the Bear was really like.

We jammed back to the cove and saw some good tubes. After spending a half-hour getting into our wetsuits and gear, we paddled out for our first time in Oregon. The water was cold, really cold. The waves were super clean—each one a different color of blue depending upon the thickness of the tube. Good lefts were coming off one side of the cove and good rights off the other side. I did not realize how beautiful this paradise was until I got out in the water. It was like dreaming of the most perfect scenery for a surf spot and having it come true. Giant pine trees grew all the way down to the water with a waterfall rushing down one side of the cove, a blowhole shooting water twenty feet in the air on the other side, and excellent four-to-six-foot waves in the middle. The lefts were best and Goober was the outstanding surfer of the day even though Keating gave him a run for his money.

The next day found us searching for another spot. The cove was bad so we went to a left point break we had seen the day before. Everywhere else was blown out but this place. The wind was hitting it offshore. The waves were four feet and the best shape that I have ever seen on a left. There was no shoulder, just a cylinder from the time you took off until you kicked out, about a half-mile down a rock point. The wave just got faster and faster. Goober got a four-foot cylinder that peeled so far we had our minds completely blown just watching it. From that wave on, the perfect left was called Tubes. We surfed and screamed at each other's waves for three hours. Only one other surfer was in the water saying that we should see this place on a good day. Then he almost fainted from exhaustion.

Later on that day the rains came. And rain it did, harder and harder. While trying to figure out where to sleep that night, two VWs skidded around the parking lot throwing bad vibes and mud all over our cars. We would have to find a room at a cheap motel. A couple of hours later, the nice old lady who owned the smallest motel gave us the smallest price. The rain seemed to get stronger and the locals informed us that this was just a slight drizzle. Oregon seems to rain almost every day of the year. It is just another bad element that you have to get used to.

The next morning, after getting acquainted with the local greasy spoon that happened to be within the budget of the usual surfers' poverty plan, we headed for Tubes. Another day of slippery rocks, freezing water, bad vibes, lots of dings and good lefts was about to begin. It was too muddy to make it down the steep cliff so we had to walk a mile or so over the rocks.

The waves were sectioning but had good size. All six locals were out releasing bad vibes and threatening Dan and Larry’s camera equipment. However, after surfing all day together, we finally became friends. They explained they were not too happy to see us because they did not want their waves crowded with other surfers. In fact, they had us talked out of a magazine article. We said we would forget about the article if they would just let us surf there for a few days without any rip-offs.

That night we had our usual Red Mountain bull session about a perfect day that every surfer dreams about. We all agreed that if the locals were cool, we would be cool, just surf, and not print the pictures we took.

The next morning the sun was shining and Tim Lynch was screaming that perfect eight-foot waves were pumping. We jammed back to Tubes in record time. Sliding down the muddy cliff, we knew that Tim called it perfectly. Goober, Tim, and myself were the only ones out as a record crowd of twenty people watched from the beach. The first surf session ended when Tim’s board hit the rocks and ripped the glass off the nose and tailblock.

The locals looked on for a while longer and then all split at the same time. Before leaving, they informed us that this would be the last day for Tubes. The wind and the swell were both about to change direction.

We got to the beach just before Dan did. We watched as he went over the falls on a six-foot shorebreak on top of the rocks. He saved his camera but split his lip, got a bloody nose, and tore a little patch of hair off his scalp.

Goober and I walked back to our cars just ahead of Keating, Mooney, Lynch, Merkel and Bennett. When we arrived, we could not believe it. Keating's new car had three flat tires. My van did too, plus the side-door handle was broken. There we were, stuck miles from nowhere. This rip-off reminded us of California. It seems that surfers everywhere are continually ripping other surfers off. Right then, we decided to split for home.

Oregon has good waves and scenery like no other place I have ever seen. Oregon also has cold water, large rocks, expensive gas, lots of rain, expensive wine and bad vibes. If you read this article and decide to make the trip to Oregon for the good surf, have an extra set of license plates, Oregon plates. If you don't, expect to get ripped off by the locals to whom I have dedicated this article.

"OREGON: LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT," by MIKE PURPUS (1972)

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