"The Long Run: Mike Eaton," by Steve Barilotti, ran in the September 1988 issue of SURFER, when Eaton was 53. This version has been slightly edited and shortened.

Where would you put yourself, in the whole timeline of surfing?

The first wave were the guys on real heavy redwoods: Duke Kahanamoku, George Freeth—that crew. Tom Blake ushered in the second wave with the hollow board. A lot of the older guys didn’t accept them. Tom Blake’s boards were ridden by the beginners, mostly, because they were lighter and easier to carry. Most of these guys didn't surf too well, so the experienced guys called the new boards “kookboxes.”

I got in on the tail end of the redwood and kookbox age. I actually began on a kookbox, then went back to a redwood. When we first started surfing, the only way you could turn was to stick your foot in the water and wrestle the thing around. Tom Blake and those guys, they could turn them. We got so we could surf them pretty decently.

The redwood boards were really heavy, and the kookboxes were lighter but more buoyant. Either one, when you pearled, you went down to the bottom and waited until you heard your board hit the water. You couldn’t ride them in the same breaks people ride today. You’d get annihilated.

What was Southern California like when you started surfing?

My Dad bought a house on the Palos Verdes Peninsula in 1935. At that time, it was really country living—maybe 900 people on the whole peninsula. Everybody knew everybody else; if I got into some mischief in the village, my Mom would know about it before I got home. When I was a kid, my only friends were the Japanese kids growing up on the truck farms out there. Then the war came, and they took all my friends away.

When I started surfing, I’d pull my board down to the cliffs on this little cart. It was a two-to-three-mile run. Then my uncle helped us upgrade by giving me this old army stretcher with wheels. That worked bitchen—we could haul ass to the beach in no time.

In the early '50s, surfboard production was pretty laborious, and I waited six months to get a new board from Simmons. It cost $70, but the money and the wait were worthwhile. The board was a real piece of work. Good balsa was hard to find, so my board had a styrofoam core, balsa rails, and a plywood deck and bottom. My new Simmons weighed 45 pounds, and I remember thinking, "This is it; they’ll never get better than this.’’

That was also the first fiberglassed board I owned. When Simmons started out, they didn’t have resin catalyst, so during the June gloom days guys would have to drive up to the top of the hills in Palos Verdes; they had to get above clouds, because the ultraviolet rays from the sun was how you'd get the resin to cure. You’d see Velzy running around with a bunch of boards—sawhorses and crap sticking of the back end of his car—trying to find some sunshine.

Tom Blake and Dale Velzy. Those were the heroes from my teens. Blake was a lifeguard at our local plunge; that’s how I got to know him. He had this club, with lots of boards laying around, but we had to swim a mile a day to keep our membership. Blake, for me, was the prototype surfer, he was into health, running, and surfing, and he was a vegetarian. He had a hot rod, too, which I loved. To me, Blake embodied all the good things about surfing. He had a great way of looking at life.

When I was 17 or 18, I thought Dale was the greatest. A real guru. I used to hang around his shop in Manhattan Beach, and he was such a character—he could sell his grandmother a coffin. He was into hot rods, too. In fact, I bought a car from Dale when I went up to San Francisco, after joining the Coast Guard. We’re still good friends, but our connection now is more through hot rods than surfing. As a matter of fact, just last month we went up to a car show at Temecula.

Oh yeah. When I started working for Jack O’Neill, I'd never actually shaped a board in my life (laughs). But I’d watched Velzy do it so many times, and I’ve always been pretty good with my hands, so I said to Jack, “Hell yes, let’s do it.”

How did you end up shaping for O'Neill? He was up in the Bay Area, and you were in LA.

At the time, Jack was still out there selling fire extinguishers. He was a salesman first, then made surfboards in his garage when he had time. This was when he was still living in San Francisco. We met up there when I was in the Coast Guard. I wanted a board, and the only way I was going to get one was to make it. So I got in there and made a board for myself. It cost ten bucks, and took me three hours to do it. That summer, I made some boards for Jack's place, which was then called Surf Shop.

When did you start working for Bing Surfboards?

About 1966. From '60 to ’64, I was kind of out of surfing. I had a boat shop, but it wasn't going anywhere. I wanted to make some money. So I got in good with Bing Copeland and Rick Stoner, and pretty soon I was in there full tilt, shaping 20 boards a day, sometimes.

Do you feel you lost anything, or compromised in any way, going at that rate?

No. I still shape a board in about an hour. If I spend much more time than that, it gets worse. You start picking at them. When I look at the blank, I visualize what I want to do with it before I even touch it with a tool. Then I draw the outline, cut it out, look at it again to make sure we’re on the right track—then I pick up the tool, and off we go. If you’re standing there and you’ve ordered a custom board, you’d better tell me the information I need before I get going.

I stopped counting after 30,000. The one who’s done more than that is Phil Becker. I know for a fact that he's done more than 50,000. It’s funny, because in 1951 I sold Becker and my little brother, who were the same age, a kookbox for five bucks. Those boards leaked, and the water would slosh to the nose, causing an instant dive. I don’t think they ever forgave me for that. Becker and I have been lifelong friends, though.

Would you consider surfboard shaping an art form or a trade?

The closest thing would be working as a potter. You pick up a chunk of mud and turn it into something interesting, beautiful, and useful. It ain’t easy.

What kinds of things catch your eye when you look at a board?

No single thing. But rocker, rail line, thickness, flow—I look for a harmonious or synergistic blend of all features. If the board doesn't have that, then I don’t even bother looking at it. If the board is pleasing to my eye, I'll continue to look at it for whatever peculiarities I can pick out.

When you look at modern shortboards—the squashtail tri-fin do you see that blend?

But you yourself don't make modern tri-fins, or not very many at least.

There are so many guys in that field, I’ve just chosen to stay out of it. Why jump into the fray with them? Say you have 500 manufacturers: 490 of them are making shortboards, and 10 are making longboards—which side does it look like you ought to go? That’s basically where we are. It also has to do with the fact that I’m an older guy, and it’s easier for me to deal with guys who have gone through the rites of manhood.

Yeah, guys who are into going out and having a good time, not trying to be the next world champ. It’s the guys been through the wars, and come around to the point where they say, “The new stuff is okay, but it’s a lot of work.” Those little boards and hard to paddle, you know?

It was 1971 or '72. The twin-fin was in a down-cycle at the time, and we were fooling around with a few tri-fins: the first generation —a single-fin, with two small side fins. Then Malcolm and Duncan Campbell came to us at Bing with their Bonzer design. They had a very good presentation, which they were taking around to various surfboard companies. Nobody had jumped on it yet, but I was always up for trying new stuff, so I made a few, and let some guys go out and ride them. They were impressive.

Did you consider the Bonzer an extension of the twin-fin?

No, not at all. It’s totally different. It’s the most versatile configuration I’ve ever come across. Of course, nothing’s perfect. It has its drawbacks.

You lose a certain ability to flick the board around. That would be the main one. It’s not conducive to the straight-up, straight-down style of surfing that is popular today, but it really lends itself to powerful rail-to-rail, down-the-line surfing. I’ve adapted it to a soft egg- shape, because it’s the best shape for most California surf, and the type of market we’re aiming at. The bonzer is a very, very versatile design.

Where do you think surfing will be in 25 years?

In a way, I think we’re in a real stagnant I era now; kind of like the early sixties, when everybody was doing the same thing, just making noseriders and riding the nose. Now it’s the whap-bap thing: drop in, bash the lip, straight back down, bash the lip again. Sometimes there will be a guy sitting in the lineup and you almost see him thinking about the maneuvers he’s going to do—regardless of what the wave looks like.

Do you consider yourself a traditionalist?

We [Eaton Surfboards] don’t think of ourselves as being regressive. We’re always up for trying new things. But we're just operating on a different level. I think our longboards are as good as or better than any longboard out there. We’ve been building longboards for about 10 years now. I’d say we maybe helped instigate the revival. But it was going to happen, whether I was here or not.

Longboarding has become sort of controversial.

[Laughs] There are a certain amount of people who are anti-longboard in surfing, yes. But most of us are out there in the water to have fun. The older you get, the more you see that.

What else do you think the kids are missing?

The finesse thing. I mean, some are finessing it in a way, but mostly it's not all that pretty to watch. It's radical, but it’s not necessarily aesthetic. I think they’re missing a certain kind of blending—a fitting in, rather than attacking and destroying, ripping and tearing.

Do you think that “blending” was more of a deal in Hawaii during the seventies?

Sure. I mean, not all of them, but Lopez was certainly a good example of fitting in there. Then Barry Kanaiaupuni was of the other extreme. His style was radical, yet it was so much more fluid than the style I see today.

What’s the biggest surf you’ve ever gone out in?

I was out at Waimea in what George Downing called 20', and all I’ve got to say is, his feet are awfully big. It’s not my bag. Some guys really enjoy it. I went out there that day and did it, and now I can say, "I rode Waimea, I’m satisfied, now let’s go back to Sunset.” Especially at this stage of my life, I wouldn’t even consider Waimea.

Yet you made some incredibly big-wave boards in the 1970s, for guys like Jeff Hakman, Jose Angele, Clyde Aikau, and Jim Neece. Was there a design feature you were most interested in with those boards? Was it all about speed?

No, not really. We were making boards that were for control—maximum of control. They weren’t pure speed machines, in spite of the way they looked. It’s funny, in fact, because the little twin-fins we made back then were actually faster when they were in the juicy part of the wave. But they don’t have any draw; you couldn't control them in bigger waves.

n 1973, Jim Neese said he was going to ride a 40-foot wave at Keana, and he had you make him a quiver of boards just for that place. Then the whole project kind of fell apart. Do you think Jim really ever intended to ride Kaena?

Yeah, he probably would have. The kid was driven. But he had a lot of pressure on him, too, and I think that's what messed it up. The opportunity never really materialized. Keana is so fickle and everything has to be perfect for it to be rideable. He might have tried it—whether or not he would have made it, I don’t know.

Twelve-feet long and 21" wide, with a 9" nose and an 8" tail. They were made to paddle really fast. When you’re talking about that much mass, the biggest problem is catching the wave. On a wave that size just a little speck. You’re not going to dominate that wave, it’s going to dominate you—so basically you gotta run for your life. Catch that thing early, coast into it as comfortably as possible, end for the shoulder, and get out of it! Everything is so magnified at that size. You’ve got to cover a lot of territory, fast.

How does a boardmaker survive in the surf industry today?

There are a lot of guys who are literally doing just that—surviving. And there’re a few who have the ability to put it together and make a pretty good living out of it. Like Rusty Priesendorfer: his craftsmanship, business outlook, presentations—the whole thing. Rusty’s business is an example of what you have to do if you really want to make it.

But you don't put yourself in that category.

Oh, no. For me, it’s such a different thing. I started off when there wasn’t much competition. I got a little name for myself, and it made things much easier. For guys starting out these days—man, it’s tough.

You have a lot of hobbies outside of surfing—cars, especially

I have no problem getting stoked on things. The car deal is a genetic defect I got from my Dad. I like hot rods. In fact, someone who hadn’t seen me in a long time saw me the other day, and said, “You really haven’t changed much, have you? It’s still surfboards and cars.” For the past 10 or so years, I’ve really been into gliding too. I love it. I’ve got a custom-built Vega sailplane that is incredibly fun to fly.

How do all those things compare with each other?

The cars are just fun—something to mess around with. My real pleasures have been surfing and soaring, and between those two, soaring has been the greatest challenge. It’s just such an awesome experience up there—the scope is so huge. I’ve had some experiences I literally can't find words for—just indescribable. It’s like riding huge, humongous, invisible waves that go on forever.

How do you keep the stoke going with surfing?

It’s hard sometimes. Fortunately, I live in an area where the surfs pretty good, reasonably consistent, and the crowds aren't too terrible. And I’ve got other interests. If there isn’t any surf, I’ve got plenty to do so I'm not crawling the walls. I think that’s the key. There’s more to life than surfing. But you can’t tell that to a stoked 18-year-old kid. I can remember my old man taking me aside, and saying, “I want you to remember that you’re as smart now as you’re ever going to be.” And I’d say, “Okay, dad—can I go now?” When you're 18, you’ve got it all figured out, you know? It's like, “What’s this old fart know?”

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