Road to Santosha

The Kevin and Craig Show

Hippie Trail Gold

At Play in the Fields of Allah

Career Move

Grand Prix Dream

Follow the Money

Big in Japan

Rabbit's Big Adventure

Shaun Tomson's Tunnel Vision

South Africa in Black and White

Mark Richards, Gentleman Killer

Two Fins, More Wins

The Divine Miss M

The Fortune Seekers

Shaun Tomson and Wayne Bartholomew maintained their pro tour credentials for years to come, following their world title wins in 1977 and 1978, respectively. By the end of the decade, however, both surfers were riding in the wake of Newcastle regularfooter Mark Richards, who reinvented the twin-fin surfboard and proceeded to win an astounding four consecutive pro tour titles. Never before had a pro surfer been so dominant. Richards won a third of all events he entered (Tomson and Bartholomew’s winning ratio was less than half that); in 1981, midway through his four-year championship run, 

 put him on the cover with the blurb: “Is Richards Unstoppable?”

Compared to Tomson and Bartholomew and just about every other pro surfer of the age, Richards was an unlikely-looking surf hero. He was long in the torso, had the same near-absent muscle tone as NBA star Larry Bird, and his face twisted into an open-mouth grimace when he surfed. He was also sweet, friendly, soft-spoken, and artless—Richards didn’t just avoid trouble during the pressurized 1976-77 North Shore winter season, he was singled out by the Hawaiians as an example of a “good Australian.” MR was the great unifier. Nobody in surfing was more popular. Nobody drew bigger paychecks. And nobody was more down to earth and genuine. Throughout his four-year world-championship run, Richards lived at home with his adored parents, limited his vices to Coke and Caramello bars, and remained faithful to his hometown schoolteacher girlfriend. He was famous for his bright color choices, but even these had a disarming quality. A favorite 1980 ensemble consisted of a silver-and-red wetsuit and an orange, lime-green, and baby blue surfboard. Richards, going for New Wave Surf Star, looked like a preschooler who insisted on dressing himself. The innocence had limits. Richards swore, tacked up 

 centerfolds in his shaping room, and engaged in a little dirty talk with the boys after surfing. But even when he was trying to rough things up a bit, the sweetness came through. “Sometimes you feel like you can crush brick walls,” he told an interviewer in 1978. “Other days you feel like a pussy, kind of.” It's a PG-rated remark that Richards, with that last-minute "kind of," flips from crude to endearing.

Richards’ surfing style took some getting used to. Until the mid-'70s, his legs would often fuse together at the knee and his lead hand would bend up at right angles to the forearm as if he were waving at someone on the beach. His wingspan was enormous, and his long arms frequently extended out behind his back. Australian surf journalist Phil Jarratt nicknamed him “Wounded Seagull” and said Richards’ unusual body language made him “surfing’s answer to Joe Cocker.” Nevertheless, Richards bullwhipped his surfboard from trough to crest, again and again, one water-shifting turn after the other, in waist-high shorebreak or triple-overhead Sunset Beach. Each turn was deeply set, then held for an extra beat, and he spent more time than anybody else tracking up and down—rather than across—the wave face. What Shaun Tomson did for performance surfing on the horizontal axis, with his deep tuberides and sweeping cutbacks, Richards did on the vertical. Furthermore, his unorthodox riding style quickly grew on people, even before the world titles began to pile up. “First he was ugly,” as Jarratt put it. “Then he was good but weird. Then he was graceful—superbly graceful.”

Richards had his great trial-by-fire moment in late 1974, when he flew to Hawaii at age 17 and unexpectedly got a start in that year’s Smirnoff Pro-Am. He wasn’t totally unprepared. He’d been surfing since kindergarten, with the cheerful encouragement of Ray Richards, his surf-shop-owning father, and had twice been an Australian National Titles juniors’ division finalist. Smirnoff contest organizers had him on the alternate list, and when one of the invited surfers didn’t show, Richards got the nod. The contest began in clean eight-footers at Sunset Beach. Richards had already been to the North Shore twice, was comfortable at Sunset, gave one of the day’s best performances and won his heat, just before the contest was postponed in hopes of better surf.

Five days later, early in the morning, Smirnoff competitors and officials were clustered on the beach at Waimea Bay, gaping out at beautiful, horrifying 30-foot surf. Conditions were excellent: blue skies, light winds, clean swell. The event was on hold as everybody watched and waited. Never before had a contest been held in waves this big—and to underscore the point, a massive closeout set flooded the bay, prompting the usually understated big-wave veteran Peter Cole to describe the conditions as “ridiculous.” Smirnoff director Fred Hemmings did the right thing and extended the hold for two hours. By 10:30 am, there were no more closeout sets and—with a TV crew in position and thousands of spectators standing by—Hemmings was ready to give the green light. About half of the Smirnoff contestants, however, some of whom had never ridden Waimea before, were ready to mutiny. Hemmings glared and paced and huddled up in conversation with various surfers and contest judges. He was thicker around the middle than when he’d won the 1968 World Surfing Championships, but still in big-wave shape. Angry at the thought of this potential media bonanza slipping away, Hemmings at last faced the entire group of surfers, pointed to the lineup, and said 

 paddle out there first and catch one if that would help convince everybody that the event needed to go forward. Nobody called his bluff. The competitors in the first heat shuffled over to the ready area, picked up their colored jerseys, and the 1974 Smirnoff Pro-Am was on.

Richards probably could have begged off with no harm done to his young career. But for an elite surfer, especially at that point in time, the ultimate goal was to make an impression in Hawaii. Furthermore, while Richards was the likey the politest young man in all of Hawaii right then, he was also ambitious and driven and ferociously competitive. He watched the first heat paddle out and heard his name called out for the heat to follow. Buzzing with fear and adrenaline, he picked up his jersey, walked to the corner of the bay, waited for a lull and paddled out. The first heat ended. The six surfers in Heat Two moved into position, waited, and three seconds after the heat-starting horn sounded, Richards spun around, paddled into an 18-footer—half-again bigger than anything he’d ever ridden—and carefully sledded off seventy-five yards to his right into deep water. Two or three of his six rides were good, but none were spectacular, and when it was announced that he didn’t advance, he nearly wept with relief. It didn't matter anyway. The day's job was complete. By paddling out and being fully committed to the challenge, Richards had cleared the biggest hurdle of his surfing life—he later said that nothing in his long, dramatic, wildly successful career meant as much to him as that morning at Waimea.

What Shaun Tomson did for performance surfing on the horizontal axis, with his deep tuberides and sweeping cutbacks, Mark Richards did on the vertical, bullwhipping his board from trough to crest, again and again, one water-shifting turn after the other.

Chapter: 6

The Fortune Seekers

Mark Richards, Gentleman Killer

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