Sneaking into the Convention of my Dream Tour Surf Heroes: Seppo in a Strange Land: Gold Coast, 2007

Seppo in a Strange Land

I’m dead broke, living in my Ford Falcon in the Duranbah parking lot, and eating leftover pasta that was crap when it was fresh the night before.  Some of my Princeton peers might suggest that I’m in a full freefall off the cliff of success and prosperity that an Ivy League endorsement can lead to.  Come to think of it, they may have a point. . .

But if there’s any place to be in dire straits, surely it’s on the Gold Coast in March.  Balmy sunshine, bikini-clad Brazilian babes, Super Cyclones:  Shit, I’d be happy with one out of three, and the Goldie packs it all together in this magical month.  Moreover, I’m a Yank who never imagined I’d get to spend some of my young, unfettered, single days in Aussie surf paradise.  

Sure, it hadn’t been all time yet, but it had been pretty damn good.  Currumbin Ally at a glassy and endless four foot.  Crowded but connecting Snapper Rocks with sandy barrel sections for everyone.  I even found a workable bank in Surfer’s Paradise, before I realized that sunset sessions in Surfers become dizzying when the neon lights of vacation hell turn the glassy walls into blurry kaleidoscopes.  

As long as there was something to surf, I never had time to worry about not having money, because I was too stoked about the next session or tired from the last one.  I had dropped right into the pattern I had refined over two seasons on the North Shore:  Surf, eat, sleep, repeat!  (If you sense a few flaws in this formula for existence, please consider my current predicament).

The whole reason I got into this mess was the irrepressible desire to follow the surf tribe around the world.  It cost a pretty penny to get to Sydney, work the black market of backpackers’ used cars, and then jam 600 K up the New South Wales Coast.  That effort, plus beer, cleaned out my savings account, though for some reason my American bank had just offered me a new line of credit.  (Who are these people, and why are they teasing me?).  Needless to say, there’s nothing I would rather have spent my hard-earned cash on, beer included.  Now the only question was: How to infiltrate the highest ranks of the ASP, to see the tribal elders and deities of the sport firsthand?

Take 1: WCT 2007 Inauguration Party at Conrad Jupiter’s Pleasure Palace

Okay, obviously, I wasn’t invited.  Why would I be?  My best contest result was 200th in a field of four hundred surfers of the California Interscholastic Surfing Federation (Never heard of it?  Exactly).  I had finagled a discount on a board once by mentioning a sponsored friend’s name: twenty dollars off.  Precluding divine intervention, I’ll just love the sport like all the rest of us.

How to get in?  I noticed after perusing the guest list that you could attend this elite party as a guest (re: date) of one of the invitees.  As it is, I’m as straight as the next straight guy, and so apparently are all the top 44.  So much for attending as a guest. . . 

I thought of other angles.  One of the girls at the party is my neighbor in Hawaii.  I’m sure she’d be thrilled to find a way to. . . okay, maybe not.  Perhaps I could just don a tux, ruffle my hair, and claim to be one of the young unknown upstarts.  The oversized Aussie security guards were just checking for tans, tuxes, and tennis shoes anyway.  How hard could it be to enter as an imposter?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had to get in.  I had to use all my well-honed guerilla tactics to find a way to observe the convention of my heroes.  But I wasn’t going in disguise.  I was going as a well-dressed, earnest, slightly drunk surf dude.  

Amazingly, it worked.

Take 2: The Gathering of the Greats

Saturday, February 24 was the official beginning to the 2007 Dream Tour.  In a stroke of genius, the fathers of the ASP decided to kick off the year long surfing circus that is the WCT at the biggest casino in Queensland.  Circus freaks at the casino: What could be better?  The event was held in a massive square convention room, adjacent to but separate from the main atrium of Jupiter’s.  Translation: The surfing elites were cordoned off from the masses.  

To be fair, most people at the Casino knew little and cared less about the sacred proceedings going on in the same building.  As I strolled through the Casino in the early evening, I found what you’d expect to: Noisy slot machines, poker tables packed with Japanese tourists, lumbering gawkers of all kinds.  Jupiter’s didn’t evoke the endless jungle of human excess that pervades Las Vegas; it was just one building, not a civilization.  But it was a casino par excellance, and most of these people were far more concerned with losing money than with what Shaun Tomson would say at 9:00.

The latter was my concern, and it was time to get to the mission.  Long-sleeve white collared shirt, faded jeans, and shiny black shoes: I looked passably good and with a little whiskey fire, I was ready.

I tried the official entrance first.  Sliding glass doors and two burly bouncers leered down their noses at plebeians like me.  I grabbed a window of opportunity by trailing an attractive surf couple, but all I received was a firm headshake from one of the black-clad ogres.  I fell back and considered my options.  I had just finished a stint working as a fine-dining waiter at a Southern California Turf Club, and I knew that large kitchens were often places of excited and anonymous chaos.  With so many chefs, waiters, and extraneous staff running around like threatened chickens, it could be easy to slip into the main dining room.  I rocked outside and around the back entrance where a kitchen door was propped open, surely to relieve the punishing heat of industrial ovens firing up in the tropics.  I tested the door but was quickly repelled by the back line of chefs.  Too tight, too organized, not enough chaos.

AHH!  Consternation set in.  What was I doing?  Had I really crossed half the planet to come within a meter thick concrete wall from my heroes, only to be repelled by security gremlins who didn’t surf!?  No!  I trailed the outside perimeter of the building until I found an unguarded side entrance.  No time for hesitation, I stepped right through and aimed straight down the corridor.  I was in the right place.  Stunning Brazilian women paraded around the foyer in six inch stilettos and strapless sequined dresses.  Shaggy-haired, sun-burnt dudes with bottled beer hi-fived and threw shaka signs.  A sign read: ASP 2007 Dream Tour.  No question about it: I had arrived.

Now what?  Of course, I made a beeline for the men’s room.  Guaranteed safety there.  Who would pull a guy off the can to eject him from a party?  Well, at least I’d make an awkward scene if they did.  I made it in just in time to see Occy cruise in with a classic oversized beige suit, baggy in the legs and the coat falling way below his waistline.  Occy’s tailor has an impossible job.  

I wanted to cry, “Good luck this year, Occ!” and slap hands, but then I remembered I was in a crowded men’s bathroom trying to keep a low profile.  I decided to spend some quality time with myself in the stall, which was novel until I shut the stall door and felt ridiculous.  And so I was.

Take 3: The Pantheon Honors Itself

Demeanor, it was all demeanor.  Head up, big smile, smooth swagger, and straight into the party.  WOW!

It may not be the Vatican, but the ASP is comfortable with splendour.  The ceiling was as high as triple overhead Sunset, and the dark drapes covered the walls entirely.  Sixty tables covered with white Linen, surrounded by eight chairs each, with champagne, wine, and free-flowing Foster’s for everyone.  By the time I arrived dinner was gone and dessert was on the way.  Everyone was up from their tables and mingling, so I casually melded into the fray.  The buzz was on.  The casino had lent a few of its more attractive female circus performers, who were suspended in the air above the crowd by thick red sashes.  They contorted their limber bodies into beautiful and provocative shapes, as bass-heavy European lounge music set the mood for something sexy and powerful about to occur.

Everyone in competitive and corporate surfing was represented.  Kelly Slater and Layne Beachley, in deference to their 2007 championship victories, held court at their own tables.  All the majors were represented: Rip Curl, Quicksilver, Billabong, Volcom-corporate chiefs and team riders and wives and girlfriends all sat together.  Many of the greats of the surf media were there as well, including the man I most wanted to meet, the Drew Kampion of Aussie surf journalism-Phil Jarratt.  Finally, and to my greatest delight, the fathers of competitive surfing had convened tonight for a most unforgettable occasion-to finally receive the championship trophies that hadn’t even existed in the infant days of the World Tour, the 1970’s.  It was this special moment that I most intensely desired to see.

And it was time.  “If everyone could please take your seats, it’s time for the presentation to begin.”  This was it!  The championship trophies to Slater and Beachley.  The runner-up speech by Andy Irons.  The young guard saluting the old.  

But I didn’t have a seat!  Everyone quickly scurried to their tables and I stood, helpless.  The only others standing were waiters and bouncers.  Surely they’d take me by the scruff of the neck, kick me to the curb, and spit, “And stay out, you Seppo scum!”.  

I was panicked.  It was like a ten foot set was indicating at the West Bowl of Sunset, and I had only two options: paddle like mad for the channel and probably take a painful drubbing, or head for the keyhole in the North Peak and risk annihilation for the chance at sneaking safely out the back.  I paddled for the North Peak.  I walked directly to the door, smiled at the security guard, and then walked to the back of the foyer, where I pretended to intensely study the seating chart.  I was out of the main assembly hall, but through the open door I had a clear visual of the stage, I wasn’t bothering anyone, and I could hear perfectly.  So there I stood for the entire ceremony, as happy as I could be, because I was there, watching, listening, experiencing, sharing this moment with the elites of surfing.

The Future Honors the Past

The nascent days of competitive surfing were characterized by the greatest enthusiasm and no money. In the early seventies the payout to the victor of the first Pipeline Masters, the most prestigious contest in the sport, was a whopping two figures.  For the earliest champions, the paltry winnings from one contest would merely be a small contribution to fund a pilgrimage to surfing Mecca: the North Shore of Oahu.  Everyone knows that these guys had to look elsewhere to support their families.  Shaun Tomson did a long stint in Hollywood; Peter Townend joined the administrative branch of professional surfing; Jeff Hakman co-founded the biggest surf company ever.  But nobody made a living from prize money or endorsements like the top professionals do today.

What is less well known is that the early years of surf competition were so primitive that the champions never even received trophies.  In the past year this oversight came to Kelly Slater’s attention, which was all it took.  This evening, the opening night of a tour that the fathers of the sport only dreamed about, these pioneers would be honored.

South African Shaun Tomson.  Hawaiians Randy Rarick and Fred Hemmings.  Australians Peter Townend, Wayne “Rabbit” Bartholomew, and Mark Richards.  All on stage together, all speaking emotionally and gratefully to the future of the sport.  

Peter Townend personally thanked all the current surfers, for pushing the sport into a realm the old guys had only ever dreamed about.  

Shaun Tomson, for one Hawaiian season the greatest tuberider on earth, spoke about the barrel as the most transcendent part of surfing, like no other human activity, to be totally treasured.

Fred Hemmings, now a political figure in Hawaii, gave a stately speech about how proud he was to see his life’s passion flourishing.

Most touchingly, Mark Richards, four times world champion and quintessential soul surfer, thanked the sport for making his life infinitely richer.  He said something that no one should forget: More than surfing the world’s most magnificent waves, the most satisfying element of his career was meeting so many good people all over the world.

MR is an enduring champion.

I soaked in every moment.  For many these people were unrecognizable.  Most surfers don’t even know the history of the sport, as we are so consumed by the act itself.  But I knew, and it mattered to me, and I couldn’t have been more grateful to witness these gentlemen get their due.

The Present Looks Forward

The Old Guard duly passed the baton, and the Champions came next.  Layne Beachley, an Aussie champion in her homeland, was overjoyed.  She looked strong and beautiful with her jet black hair.  She relished her championship, which may be her last considering the caliber of the young girls coming through the ranks this year.  She was in top form on a night celebrating her.

Andy Irons came next to the podium, and he was truly grateful to be recognized as a champion among champions.  “This is awesome!” he smiled.  His captivating girlfriend Lindy Dupris looked like royalty next to Andy, and it was good to see a more mature A.I. take his place in the pantheon. 

Finally, Slater.  That is, SL8R.  An international celebrity, the biggest star the sport has ever known, the Michael Jordan of surfing.  And actually, from what I can tell after reading his autobiography Pipe Dreams, a genuinely good guy.  His speech was the longest, as he was the guest of honor.

He thanked his predecessors for having laid the foundations for his career.  He called out Bobby Martinez for winning rookie of the year and being one of his favorite guys.  He smiled at Jordie Baker, the South African wonder child, and told him to get used to the hype, because he’s got the talent to back it up.  And then he said the things that make him a treasure to the sport.  He said it had been a good year because his mother found a good man to share her life with.  His daughter had completed ten happy years on earth.  This surfing that we do, this competition, it’s important, and it’s why we’re all here.  But it’s not everything, and it’s not the most important thing, he said.  It’s about relationships, the people in our life, family.  And I want to thank you all for looking out for me, for taking care of me.  You’re my family, he said, and I appreciate you.  And when you guys tell me you want me on tour, you love to surf with me, that means a lot.  It’s a pleasure to be back, he said.

And so, let the games begin.  Nine months of a worldwide surfing extravaganza that covers five out of seven continents.  The best surfers on the best equipment surfing the best waves in the prime seasons, wherever they may be.  This is everything that the fathers of the sport ever dreamed about, and it’s happening now.  This is The Dream Tour.

And on this night, long ago, in 2007, I was there.