Ocean Surf 57

the dirt farm surf and skate

As I look back now I find it difficult to comprehend what was real and what was imagined as I sat alongside Jack O'Neill’s cliff-side pad at the Dirt Farm that late fall afternoon.

For three hours before sunset the surf at Pleasure Point had been epic. A north swell originating just off the Aleutian Islands sent long lines reeling across the point from sewer peak, through first and second peak. At 38th the wave backed off, then reformed and ended with a racy, almost unmakeable section at the drainpipe. It was nearly impossible to zip through all the sections from sewers to the pipe, a ride of nearly 1/2 mile, but I had seen it happen, usually by speedy little shortboarders.

As the sun sank behind Jack’s house, and the Dirt Farm became engulfed in shade, it felt like the heat had been sucked right off the bluff. I still had a chill deep in my bones from my surf session. I was tired and cold and put on a wool Pendelton shirt to ward off the cool air. Looking east toward Aptos I could see sparks of crimson as the fading sunlight bounced off the windows of the distant $1 million homes. I was content to sit and watch the last remaining surfers negotiate the low tide walls peeling past me.

Barty Boot strolled down the trail leading from East Cliff to the Dirt Farm with a load of fire wood under his arm. Bart was a native of Birmingham, England. Now in his early 30s, he settled at Pleasure Point nearly a decade ago and humored Santa Cruz surfers with his off-beat brand of British wit. Bart appreciated surfing’s Golden Era, the late 1950’s through the 1960’s, when a decent surfboard was at least 10 feet long and weighed over 35 pounds. He rode only vintage longboards, pre-1970s. No one could remember ever seeing him wear a leash.

"hey dirt"

Bart bellowed. I recognized the crisp English accent immediately. “Give me a hand mate. There’s a huge pile of scrap wood over at Don and Susie’s. Grab a bunch and we can keep a fire goin‘ here all night.” He motioned his head toward the new house they were building at 36th and East Cliff. I was too tired to move but plucked my weary ass from its seat and nabbed a load of logs.

“Did you bring any beer?” Ronnie asked.

Ronnie Daubs was the Pope of the Dirt Farm. I say the Pope rather than the King because he watched over a patch of Pleasure Point tucked just east of O’Neill’s house with religious fervor. This was his church, his cathedral. To Ronnie, the Dirt Farm was hallowed ground, just as sacred as the Vatican was to the Roman pontiff.

Ronnie once lived at the corner of 36th and East Cliff, a short field goal away from the Dirt Farm, but a sinister landlord skyjacked the rent to unpayable proportions and he moved a few blocks inland. Still, Ronnie had it right. The Dirt Farm was a work of natural art, as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel. Situated just below road level on a sandstone bluff overlooking Monterey Bay, it offered stunning views of the ocean and was relatively protected from wind. Occasionally, after a harsh winter rain, petrified clam shells and fish bones, would tumble out of the sandstone walls formed from hundreds of thousands of years of wave and wind action.

The Dirt Farm had more than geologic history on its side though. We all knew the stories of big wave legends, like Fred Van Dyke and Peter Cole, who had camped, surfed and partied on this same bluff nearly a half century ago before relocating to the islands and being among the first surfers to tackle Waimea Bay. Modern history was with us too, because an amazing array of talented surfers passed through our dirt every day.

With waves lapping at the bluff just below foot level ,the Dirt Farm was more peaceful than the Dalai Lama’s prayer loft. On weekend nights the quiet reverie was usually broken by a hardy group of locals who checked in for a cold beer and a chance to share surf stories, tales of the work week, or whine about their love woes. On this particular Friday the regular crew of the Dirt Farm Surf Club was just beginning to filter in.

Like most surfers, I’m fiercely independent and reluctant to be part of any organization that has rules or mandatory meetings. But this was a loose-knit group with no officers or by-laws. It included righteous dudes like Yogi, Dinger, T-Bone, Pinner, Boots, Funky, Shylo, and Haji. I enjoyed their colorful names as much as their company. Although there were no official club officers, there were “organizers,” who put together the annual Longboard Invitational, the Pig-O-Rama, and the Skate Fest. Ronnie was the lead organizer.

Bart grabbed several pieces of wayward lumber and laid them in a pile. He stuck an empty cardboard beer container under it as kindling. Obviously, Bart had never been a boy scout. I showed him how to stack it vertically, teepee-like, so we could get the fire rolling.

As Bart attempted to light a match, a gust of wind suddenly scattered the wood, and an eerie, greenish fog rolled over us.
As we struggled to restack the pile the fog became thicker. Nearly 50 years of living on the coast had given me a fine appreciation for fog and I often grew nostalgic for the sound of San Francisco’s foghorns. But this was odd. The misty air steamrolled over the bluff like an 18-wheeler. It swirled and circled around us.

“Who needs a freshie?” Ronnie said.

The condensed vapor hampered my depth perception. I wasn’t sure if he was standing five feet from me or fifty feet away. Suddenly he was jabbing me in the side with a Coors light. “Freshies all around.”
It was just what I needed. Still thirsty from my surf session I grabbed the beer, popped it, and finished it in two gulps. I bent down and watched as Bart struggled comically with the matches. Then the fire sprang to life. I settled into my Dirt Farm chair, one of five plastic lawn chairs kept stashed alongside the bluff. As I cozied up to the fire, careful to stay on the upwind side to avoid the smoke, I noticed the fog begin to recede. Within minutes it mysteriously disappeared.

I looked toward the ocean where the last wisp of daylight illuminated the water and saw EJ in the process of riding his final wave to the beach. Gliding left, toward the huge granite rocks protecting Jack’s house from the pounding sea, EJ switched stance gracefully, then pulled a floater on his 9-4 Pearson Arrow and rode the white water into the Dirt Farm cove.

The east side of Santa Cruz was a hotbed of longboarding talent and EJ was one of the best. Only Tanner Beckett, Dane Perlee, and CJ Nelson were in his class. EJ had a number of contest victories under his belt, including a win at the Malibu Invitational. Nose riding was his specialty and he knew all the technical variations that went into making a board a top-notch nose rider. But EJ could make any board work. He could probably hang five on a piece of drift wood. No one knew what the initials EJ stood for, and he refused to tell us. Since he was a former high school wrestling champion I never pushed him to find out.
“EJ weren’t you the last guy out there?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, who’s out near the buoy?”

Three silhouettes sat on the horizon bobbing near the kelp beds. A few bigger sets had rolled through but rarely do waves form that far outside of Jack O’Neill’s house. They were sitting on their boards adjacent to the buoy, which was anchored off shore from the Dirt Farm as a memorial to Jay Moriarity and Jeff Plucy, two Dirt Farmers who had recently lost their lives in the ocean.

Jay was the pride of Pleasure Point. As a teenager he established himself as one of the best big wave riders in the world, fearlessly attacking Maverick’s on its most gruesome days. Everyone in the surfing world became aware of Jay when, as a precocious 16-year-old, he took an horrendous wipeout on a 25-foot wave at Maverick’s. His picture landed on the cover of Surfer magazine and the pounding he endured was voted the worst wipeout of the century.

Most importantly, Jay Moriarity was one of the neighborhood boys. He regularly traveled the world to surf, but never forgot his friends at the Point. During his forays Jay often purchased toys and trinkets which he brought home and distributed to the local kids. His kindness, generosity, and respect for others made him a hero to all of us. At the age of 23 he died in a tragic diving accident in the Maldives.

Jeff, aka the government, or Govie, was a mentor to numerous groms growing up at the Point. He earned his nickname because he ran the show at the Dirt Farm. He was the governor. Just three months before he passed on, Jeff was unanimously voted Dirt Farmer of the Year by his peers at the Longboard Invitational. An exceptional surfer and paddler, the Dirt Farm was his backyard. He could be found in the water virtually every day. Despite being in excellent shape, Jeff had a heart condition.
He died of a heart attack at age 36 while in a Christian Surfers Association contest at Pleasure Point.

I happened to be surfing second peak, on that sunny, head-high day, as Jeff paddled past on his way to first peak for the event. We exchanged greetings and high-fives. He was wearing an orange jersey for the contest, a good sign since orange was one of his favorite colors. He looked happy and confident. I told him to tear it up as he paddled away. Minutes later I saw a flurry of activity at inside first peak. Initially, I thought Jeff was involved in a fight because I could see someone holding him. Then I realized he was unconscious and people were helping him out of the water. I thought maybe he’d hit his head and was knocked out cold. I sprint-paddled over. A line of people were already there to assist him. The paramedics and firefighters were on the scene in seconds but we all watched helplessly as the inevitable happened.

Jay and Jeff were quintessential watermen, and they received the ultimate waterman’s sendoff. Their ashes
were scattered near the buoy in the kelp.

There have been many days since when I’ve paddled out to the Point and punched through waves knowing their ashes were mingled with the sea. And as the chilly water rushed over my face I could feel their essence and spirit wash over me. It always provided me with a measure of confidence and freedom. I knew they were always with me.

E.J turned and gave a cursory look at the surfers in the water.
“I don’t know who that is,” he said. “They weren’t out there with me. They must have paddled over from second peak.”

“Look at this,” Bart screamed. “Check out this set.”

We turned in unison to see a group of thick, dark lines on the horizon. Several waves had already rumbled through second peak unridden and were setting up as mackers in front of Jack’s house. The three guys near the kelp bed were in perfect position.
The first wave was overhead, probably 7-8 feet. An older guy, who appeared to be about 60 from his graying hair and body posture, wheeled and paddled into it. He didn’t bother with a bottom turn. Instead, as soon as he had the wave’s momentum behind him, he nimbly took two steps to the nose and perched five toes over the edge. He was obviously in good physical shape and had a distinctive style, like someone I had seen before. The left arm hung limply at his side and the right arm went out perpendicular to his body. He seemed to be touching the wave tenderly with his right hand. As he perched on the nose hanging five, he arched his back in an effortless show of soul.
“Who is that guy?”

No one answered and I took another pull on my lager. We watched the rider cross-step backwards, crouch and grab a rail, then race toward the drainpipe. As he passed the Dirt Farm I could see he was riding a Black Cat, a Greg Noll-shaped, Da Cat model surfboard. It appeared to be about 9‘-8”and was jet black with a clear strip down the center along the stringer. Noll, one of the premier surfers and shapers of his day, began producing them in 1966.
Bart attempted to break the uneasy silence by babbling about his new board. He was quickly interrupted by a hoot and then a spooky laugh that came from O’Neill’s porch overlooking the Dirt Farm.

“You wanta know who that is?” said the voice. It wasn’t Jack O’Neill’s voice, but rather a hoarse and commanding voice I’d never heard before. It came from a shadowy figure behind a hedge sheltering the deck. “That’s the Black Knight.”
I laughed nervously. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. The guy on the porch was obviously mistaken. I looked at Ronnie and EJ to see their reaction. They looked amused. The person riding that wave was pretty damn good but this was impossible.

“The Black Knight?” I asked. “You mean Mickey Dora?“
There was another sinister laugh from the porch.
“Yeah, that’s Dora,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Dora’s dead dude,” I said.
“That’s what the Surfer magazine obituary claimed,” the voice explained. “But I know Dora. That’s Dora’s board. That’s Dora’s style. That is Miki Dora. I’m telling you, you just saw Miki Dora walk the nose at 38th.”

Miki Dora had always been a mysterious cat, the surfing world’s unabashed enigma. Dora was at the center of the surfing universe when it exploded around Malibu in the early 1960s. He was a pure stylist who disdained contests and was disgusted by the commercialization of surfing, yet capitalized on his local fame by appearing as a surfing stunt double in Gidget movies. He would disappear for months, often years at a time and was rumored to be in South Africa, or Biarritz, or even in prison, the result of one of his numerous scams.
According to the obituary, he died in January 2002 of cancer. He once claimed, “Life’s a waste of time and surfing is as good a way to waste it as any.”

“EJ, who’s that goof ball up there who says he knows Dora?” I asked.
“Hell if I know who’s up there,” EJ said. “But you know, I was just at the Malibu contest. I remember seeing some graffiti on the wall that said, ‘Dora lives.’ Maybe this guy’s right. Maybe he’s still alive.”
“Alive? Like Elvis?” I asked. ““He’s dead. That graffiti is a metaphor. It means that Dora’s style and influence on the surfing world still exists. It doesn’t mean he is alive in a bodily sense.”

“Here we go again,” Bart said waving his beer at the ocean. “Check this out mate.”
I looked up to see another wave looming larger than the first. A second rider from the kelp bed paddled vigorously into it. He dropped down the face and the lip feathered overhead, the wind pushing it back just enough to allow the rider to race ahead of it.

As he made a wide, arching turn off the top we could see he was riding an orange board. A missile was airbrushed on the bottom. It was surrounded by lightning bolts.