Not the OP Pro. But the waves are about the same size as that fateful day the author writes about. Photo: S.YAMAMOTO//WSL
Winning a heat in a professional surf contest is hard. Losing a heat can be even harder, at least emotionally. I thought about this while watching elimination-round coverage during the Lexus Pipe Pro, where a number of bright, eager young competitors found themselves trudging dejectedly up the sand at the end of their allotted time in the water, no doubt asking themselves, after all the preparation, keen anticipation, and steady focus, “What the hell just happened?”
Because there’s perhaps no other sport where eliminating variables, the key to any winning athletic strategy, is quite so crucial — or so difficult. As in, adjusting your whole range of carefully thought-out Pipeline tactics when instead of the awesome barrels that for months you’d been psyching yourself up for, you’re presented with shifting, inconsistent, head-high rights resembling those conditions often encountered at the world tour’s much-maligned beachbreak events.
I found the fate of competitors like the teen-aged phenom in the women’s division, who only managed to scratch out a total of 4.33 points in her elimination round heat, to be especially poignant, probably because I could just picture the posture, head down, back turned to that great betrayer, the sea; the “wish I was anywhere but here” expression as she’s being commiserated by various friends, foes and beach commentators. The whole sad scene bringing to mind my time competing on the old IPS pro tour, and the very first article I ever wrote for a surfing magazine, way back in the day. And I mean way back: the January, 1982, issue of SURFING magazine, to be exact. Re-printed here for your consideration, along with my condolences to all those Pipe competitors who, save two (Barron Mamiya and Tyler Wright), took the loneliest paddle back to shore after the horn blew.
HOW I LOST THE OP PRO
When Willy Morris woke me up at four o’clock in the morning to drive to Huntington Beach and the OP Pro, it’s possible that at that moment I hated him more than any man alive. With the exception of duck hunting, why would any human get up at 4 a.m.? But there he was, getting our boards ready and offering me breakfast.
“Breakfast?” I asked. “Didn’t we just eat dinner a few hours ago?”
That is the way of the surf contest. At no time are they easy, convenient or fun. They are always far away. They are held in areas you would ordinarily never go. They require incredible dedication. As Dave Parmenter claims, “For what else would you drive all night, sleep in your car, and eat at liquor stores?” Yet there I was, driving down the 405 with Willy, IPS points dancing in our heads.
We arrived in H.B. at 6:30, paid three dollars to park, and sat looking at the the one-to-three-foot southside peaks. I felt nervous. The Op scaffolding loomed in the morning haze. South Africans Marc Price and Mike Savage drive up, music blaring; East Coasters Buddy Pelletier, Jacky Grayson and Jeff Klugel. Hey, there’s Marvin Foster over from Hawaii, and hasn’t Aussie Glen Rawlings put on a little weight? Everyone had converged on Huntington Beach.
I was slated for heat nine. Plenty of time. I got out my board and prepared for a warmup session. The surf was already crowded, but now I felt aggressive. I felt big. The wax, ice-hard, would not go on; who calls this warming up, anyway? On feet black with parking lot oil, I made my way across the cold sand (warming up?), under the shadow of the pier and into the water (warmup!!?). I shivered, but felt good: I had made it to the water without cutting my foot on broken glass. On my first wave, my oily foot slipped. On my second, an imminent collision with a clenched-fist Dane Kealoha forced a kickout. Finally, I ripped off a bald kid, did a re-entry, and came in convinced that I’d warmed up. I was ready. I was a pro.
Willy got first in his heat. So did Marc. It was now my turn. I stood listening to the words we’d all heard a 100 times before. Twenty minutes, unlimited waves, man on the inside, etc., etc. I looked at my opponents. Did they want to win as much as me? Did they hate to lose as much as me? Did they get up as early as me?
Five minutes to go, we paddled out to wait in the wings under the barnacle-encrusted pilings. Wave after wave poured in. It wasn’t that small. And anyway, I rip small waves. There goes the horn, and we’re into the lineup. I sit. Scott Banuelos surfs. I sit. Mike Savage rips a ripple. I sit. A tiny swell passes under me and Tommy Curren picks it up; it miraculously breaks. Tom shreds it to the beach. Time flies when you’re having fun. A coffee cup sluggishly floats by, next to it a Kentucky Fried Chicken box. Here comes a wave! I ripped it; my legs ache, my lungs burn. I had a chance. I caught another. Great. On my last wave, my hand slipped into a discarded bait bag and slid off the rail. I fell on my face. My heat ended. On the beach, Marc: “If you only coulda caught a couple more waves.”
“In fourth place, Sam George.” Too bad, Sam. It was only ten o’clock in the morning. Perhaps I could get home in time to go back to sleep, and pretend it never happened. Yes, pretend it never happened. Until the next contest, that is.
Editor’s Note: Sam George is the former editor of SURFER and SURFING magazines and won an Emmy Award for his work on the film, Hawaiian: The Legend of Eddie Aikau. He knows what it feels like to lose in a surf contest.
