father sun & the holy coast * breakwater

Drove the woody to the jetty and found that Killer Dana had died. Three men that many admire most, Phil Edwards, Mickey Munoz and Hobie Alter, had caught the last (wave) trains (on) that coast.

George "Peanuts" Larsen at Killer Dana 1939

There were others who had gone down to those sacred shores, Peanuts Larsen, Whitey Harrison, Flippy Hoffman, Billy Hamilton, Corky Carroll and Bruce Brown and his soon to be Endless Summer, and where they had seen waves before, there were waves no more. ‘Twas a real gone scene.

And not just at Dana Point as further north Father Chevron was soon to move in on the South Bay beaches with more jetties, and where sandbars have been long since begotten.  And ‘twas another three men we all admire most, by the likes of Hap (Jacobs) ‘n Dale (“the Hawk” Velzy), and Dewey Weber, and along with others by the likes of Bing Copeland, Greg Noll, Rick Irons, Donald Takayama, David Nuuhiwa and Mike Doyle, that were all waylaid again with little more than “scattered goods” to show for things.

The “cat on a hot foam board” was no longer cooking with fire. Mick be nimble, Mick be quick, and Mick could well handle his shtick out at surfing’s center stage at the ‘Bu, but reality was an onshore wind. Miki “Da Cat” Dora was a surf angel born in hell and perhaps the Devil’s only friend, but wherefrom the same rights and wrongdoings eventually left him culturally estranged and adrift, and he chose to chase the perfect wave out of the limelight, and as the truth is that we’re all just a wave away.

Miklos Sandor Dora from Budapest, Hungary....  aka Mickey Dora, the Gypsy Darling, Malibu Mickey, Kung 'Bu, the Fiasco Kid, and Miki "da Cat" Dora

"... If you took James Dean's cool, Muhammad Ali's poetics, Harry Houdini's slipperiness, James Bond's jet-setting, George Carlin's irony and Kwai Chang Caine's Zen, and rolled them into one man with a longboard under his arm, you'd come up with something like Miki Dora, surfing's mythical antihero, otherwise known as the Black Knight of Malibu.... His surfboard was his magic carpet and his wits were his wings, and from the late 60s up until his death in 2002, excepting a couple brief prison stints, Dora lived the Endless Summer lifestyle, defining what it means to be a surfer ...."

We had been sold down the road as our lost coast consisted not only of the above, but by way of Magic Island, Stanley’s (Diner) and Petacalco. As we stood and said good bye to our beloved American dream, there were others who stepped in to lay claim to their right to that proverbial piece of American pie.

“Something touched me deep inside, and I can’t remember if I cried (the day that Dana died).”

“The tide is high, but I am holding on, cuz I’m not the kind of guy or girl who gives up just like that.”

And ‘twasn’t a question if we had faith in god above or the book of love, nor was it written from above, but rather do you believe in wind and swe!! and can the waves save our mortal sou! Can you teach me to walk the nose, real slow ?? Can you kick off your shoes, and dig those surf beat rhythm and b!ues ??

Truth be told we knew that surf still grows fat on an insurgent storm, and that if you catch a wave you’re sitting on top of the world. We forgot our troubles and left behind the “legions of the unjazzed.”

While others were dropping out, we were dropping in. We turned off the bottom, tucked in and were lost in liquid space. We knew that surfing was good direction and good medicine.

Fooled in love but never by love, we had been fooled by wave but never by ocean.

Our love lost was symbolic of something deeper than the waves we rode.

Joyous by nature, the true surfer wears no crown, and waves pass without judgment.

The collapse of our American Dream was our lost innocence. Our posthumous landmark was symbolic of a sensual freedom in question. The believers had lost faith in their (surfing) gods, and were not quite so quick to pack up their bags and retire to the coast. Like Pangloss and Candide before us, we were faced with disillusionment and uncertainties, and for some even despair and a growing fragmentation.

However there were others of us who listened when Alice’s dad suggested we “believe in six impossible things before breakfast.” For myself I think back to Buttons slicing backwards into the tube at Velzyland, and (eventually) coming out 180 degrees the better for it, of Slater suspended backwards, hanging in midair and with nowhere to go at Lowers, and for the advent of slab surfing.

The vibe is most high and the surf is still up. For the surfer with soft eyes and a warm smile, we know that ‘tis not a revolution but revelation, and that you can still see the world by way of your surfboard.

Once upon a time California and Hwy One were part of the psychedelic dream, and the soul surfer tasked with a rather personal journey of soul retrieval. Via entheogenic transmissions and subsequent downloads they surfed the intergalactic wavefields and rode thru the available open portals.

Surf to live, live to surf. See it, feel it, live it. No wave will be served before (or after) it’s time.

original painting by Jose Fernando Mendoza Puma

breakwater * seven of rocks * surfer tarot

Quick jacking, high performance peaks, refract and wedge up off our bulwark beach jetty. It’s a “one way” wave that emerges from the frothing slosh and backwash, rebounding off the rocks, and making for a high visibility surf spot, usually with a rider friendly current next to the jetty for easy access. Our “manmade paradox” interrupts the seacoast, and depletes our beaches of much needed sandfill, intent on “reducing down the beach longshore currents,” and deflecting wave and danger from those “at risk.”

Newport by Patrick Parker

Displaced rocks are an impediment to the natural flow and rhythm of our beachside ecology, and often symbolic of a lack of imagination or resourcefulness. We were without the big picture, and went ahead without sufficient data or proper analysis. We failed to consult or consider wise counsel. Compromised from the start, we came to “premature decision” with “poor underpinnings” and a lack of understanding. Any thought of “arrested development” was no match for our “prodigal project.” We “stole the soul,” and left behind a “manmade monstrosity” of “subjugation” and “interference,” that is without connection to anything “mystical” nor “soulful,” and largely “unnatural.” Often with “manmade” pollution near either harbor or river entrance, correspondent health concerns begin to leave us not far from the “living dead.” Like a “shipwreck of fools,” we are “between the rocks and a hard place,” living with little soul nor spirit.

original painting by Remi Bertoche

Improper handling of “earthworks” adds to longrun complications. One good decision saves having to make ten more decisions to right an original poor decision. It’s difficult to alter fixed patterns. We are all party to our “development.” We all want something to show for ourselves and our efforts. Avoid the pack mentality. Give consideration to a “look into the future.” Refrain from rash decisions. Ask if “our humanity” is in harmony with “our environment?” Are you a help or a hinder? Double check your facts. “When shifting the sands of time, bigger is not always better.” Unpave your mind. Look the other way. See in another direction. It’s what you want. Abandon your “ways.” You have the means to make “difficult choices.” Break away and dislodge from your personal “breakwater.” Forming a barrier is only symbolic of trying to control your environment, and your life. After you’ve built it, you’re not always sure you like it? Like the local seagulls, be patient and unafraid. The restoration of flow comes when you let things be. Leave that “artificial reef” unaltered and “break water” only with your board.

a coupla few Dora bonus quotes for those of you still following along….

Waves are the ultimate illusion. They come out of nowhere, instantaneously materialize, and just as quickly they break and vanish. Chasing after such fleeting mirages is a complete waste of time. That is what I chose to do with my life.

I can't live in the Northern Hemisphere. I must live back, back into time, where all these animals, all this sea life, shellfish, crustaceans, is part of the smell.

from “Surfers – the Movie”

My whole life is this escape; my whole life is this wave I drop into, set the whole thing up, pull off a bottom turn, pull up into it, and shoot for my life, going for broke man. And behind me all this shit goes over my back: the screaming parents, teachers, the police, priests, politicians, kneeboarders, windsurfers. They're all going over the falls into the reef; headfirst into the motherfucking reef, and 'bwah'! And I'm shooting for my life. And when it starts to close out I pull out and go down the back, and catch another wave, and do the same goddamned thing again.

from "All for a Few Perfect Waves" by David Rensin

"To what avail the plough or sail, or love, or life -- if freedom fail? Freedom. Freedom to what? Escape, run, wonder turning your back on a cowed society that stutters, staggers, and satnates every man for himself and fuck you Jack I've got mine?

To be truly challenging, a voyage, like life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen, who play with their boats at sea --"cruising" it is called. Voyaging belongs to the sea men, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot or will not fit in.

Little has been said or written about the ways a man may blast himself free. Why? I don't know, unless the answer lies in our diseased values....Men are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of "security", and in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine--and before we know it our lives are gone.

What does a man really need --- really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in ---and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all --- in the material sense. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.

The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.