Mike Purpus' short satire on localism ran in the February 1972 issue of Surfing magazine.

It was a crystal-clear morning in late January with a ten-foot swell pumping consistently from the far north. It was closed out in front of my house, so I had to travel. But where could I go? If I went north, the Rincon Tribe would get me. If I go south, the Cliff People will get me. The two best spots for this particular day and I could not go to either one.

There once was a time when I could surf anywhere. I could get good waves, my friends could get good waves, and everybody could have a good time together. We could share waves with the locals and the locals could share waves with us. Slowly the locals changed, getting bummed and not sharing anymore, turning instead to violence. At first it was just bad words and idle threats. Then sticks and rocks. Now it's spears! If you are unlucky enough to get caught, you simply don't come back. Outsiders are pinned up on a large cross for all the other surfers to view as they pass by on the freeway. The tribes differ only in their haircuts. The Santa Barbara Tribe wears their hair long over their shoulders. The San Diego Tribe has their hair relatively short. The South Bay Tribe is characterized by the South Bay shag cut.

The Establishment consisted of boat owners. They realized, however, that they would not have to wait long for the tribes to kill each other off. Then they could build their harbors around the pointbreaks which just happen to be the best semi-natural harbors. The various surfing organizations used to fight the boat owners in the past, but when surfing reached the everyman-for-himself stage, the organizations became obsolete. Contests, the last visible means of organization in the surfing world, were a thing of the past. There were no more surfers to support the associations because the surfers felt that contests were not soulful enough. Little did they realize that they were playing right into the hands of the boat owners.

I decided to take a chance and ride my favorite spot, Rincon. I had a long-hair wig and Santa Barbara license plate holders. If I didn’t catch too many waves maybe I wouldn't be spotted.

As I passed Rincon I could see perfection cylinders, eight-foot, one after another. I put on my wig and jammed into the water. I had the time of my life until a kook knocked my wig off. I was spotted right away. As I ran over the rocks cutting my feet, five Santa Barbara guys were right behind me with their spears. The guy closest hurled his spear in a final attempt to get me before I got to my car. The spear creased my shoulder resulting in ten stitches. I was lucky to get away with only that and a few cuts on my feet. My board was back at Rincon. If I would have tried to get it I would have been dead.

The next day I made a necessary decision. I cut my hair and bought a nice sailboat. I joined the Establishment. It has been exactly one year since I was chased off at Rincon beach. Today I am thoroughly enjoying life, sailing my boat at Rincon harbor.

"THE VIBE TRIBE," by MIKE PURPUS (1972)

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