Mark Martinson’s one-day travelogue ran in the May 1969 issue of SURFER. This version has been slightly edited and shortened.

 Wham! Uhhh . . . oh yeah, surfing contest. The Big Ben alarm clock does the job. Better get a little stimuli going. Some hot tea should do it.

Let’s see. Contest at Oceanside. Hmmm. Not too far. Eighty miles. Probably could make it in an hour and a half if I didn’t have a VW bus. I always wonder how VW buses got so popular for surfing. The average surfer travels quite a bit, checking out one place or another, and I can't think of anything more uncomfortable to drive. The VW bus has to be the most dangerous car on the road. A head-on with almost anything, from horse to car, means an instant end. I wonder why I have one. It’s probably because . . . 

 Tea's ready. Bowl of cereal would go good. Let’s see now. Fruit Loops? No. Crispy Critters? Nope. Cocoa Puffs? No. Ah yes, Alpha-Bits. What a training diet.

I remember on those rainy days in the Islands when we used to play word games. Think of a product and take turns naming the brand who make that product. The last guy that can name a brand wins. Breakfast cereals were always a popular subject—so were detergents. You could always tell which guys were heavy into TV. Once, these two guys battled it out for two hours on morning cartoon show characters. The winning character was Odie Cologne.

I always eat a light breakfast before contests so I won’t get nauseated. Those greasy breakfasts really work my stomach. Nothing like vomiting before your heat. It leaves you dizzy for about an hour. Actually, I always get nausea at contests, even if I’m judging.

Wow! It’s almost 5:00—better brush my teeth. I forget to brush more times than not; it’s a wonder I still have any. Hmmm . . . a picture of my brother’s hot-rod. He's a hodad if there ever was one. Never even tried surfing. Guys that drive those dragsters must get some type of sensation burning down the strip about two thousand miles an hour. Maybe it’s the speed or trying to be best at something.

Better get on the road. Make some more hot tea to take with me. Wax, towel, trunks, wet suit. Board’s in the car. That’s one thing good about a VW bus; you don’t have to load and unload your board. Just lock it up right inside. I must be one of the laziest guys around. Of course, I guess it would depend a lot on what kind of a neighborhood you lived in if you were going to leave a board in your car all night.

Hope this thing starts. I should fix the starter. Last time, I had to hotwire it because somebody ran off with my keys. Instead of just turning the key, I have to tape these stupid wires together. Green and red, now touch black SNAP! Wow! What a spark! Better try a different combo. Va! Va! Va! Pop! 

I have to admit it’s been a decent good car. Baja, Mazatlan, Texas, East Coast—no major repairs. Then again, something that doesn’t go over 55 MPH shouldn’t need any repairs.

I sure have a bumpy alley. Try and make it all the way down it without spilling my tea. I didn’t realize this was becoming such a sport with me in the mornings. One hand on the wheel, the other balancing the tea. I can usually make it without spilling if I don’t shift into second with my foot. Not gonna take any chances this time. All the way in first. Here comes the worst bump! Lurch! Not a drop. Next one—Bump! Okay, not bad, just a few drops snuck over the side of the cup. If the whole thing spilled on my lap, I doubt if I could maintain. I’d probably crash into a building. I guess there’s risk involved in just about any sport. Meanwhile, the up-and-down side-to-side action continues. I’ve gotten more dings in my board by having it inside this stupid van from losing it into the rocks. I suppose roof racks are the answer. No, they aren’t. They last two seconds, then some light-fingered lurker has a new set of racks. Every surfer goes through that stage where they make Clyde Barrow look like a shoe clerk, minus the violence.

This might be the best sunrise I’ve seen. Which isn't saying much. I’m hardly ever up this early. When I was younger, I watched a lot of sunrises from out in the water. That guy’s mom that used to think nothing of getting up at five, picking up a carload of us little punk surfers, and taking us to the beach. I always thought she was a little off.

Looks like one of those north wind days. Clouds over Palos Verdes—clear and orange toward Saddleback. There’s the old Surfside water tower. I remember surfing there before they filled it in with sand. There were some hot guys that surfed Water Tower: Robert August, Corky, Kuntz, Lenahan, Fury, Chew. One time August brought Lance Carson down from South Bay. Every gremmie on the beach got out of the water to watch, including Corky and myself.

We used to surf it until noon, or until it blew out, then pile about 15 guys into one of those 1949 Nashes or Plymouths. The kind that you just put gas and oil in and they run forever. Everyone would chip 15 cents for gas. There was always somebody that didn’t have money and would donate a sandwich to the driver for his share. Besides, when you’re that young, you never eat anyway. And once we gassed up, we'd go to the Trestle. It seemed like the Trestle never blew out.

There's Huntington Pier. It doesn’t look too bad. I can tell there’s a storm coming. Huntington sure is changing. Exclusive-type apartments on the beach, a new parking lot, fancy concessions. A lot of face-lifting since the days of the fire rings. Those foggy winter mornings standing around the fire with Boozer, Lonardo, Corky, and Herbie, all the Long Beach Junior Surf Club members. So loud and obnoxious—I think back and get embarrassed about things that were said. It’s funny how young surf Nazis will do anything for a laugh. You just become absolutely immune to having your feelings hurt when you’ve had over-exposure to situations like that.

The radio in this car works good. KBCA-FM, jazz 24 hours a day. What a station. Too bad it fades out right before Laguna.

Santa Ana Rivermouth—looks like too much sand has washed out there. That place really breaks hard. I remember a time out there with Greg Tucker and Jock Sutherland, Tucker caught an eight-foot wave, this massive super-barrel that was 50% sand. Greg made it to the bottom, managed to get a slight angle going backside, and just started powering ahead of these continuous explosions. He was standing straight up; it was a complete strength test between Tucker and the Pacific. Right before was going to break into the green, this last explosion nailed him, one that would have knocked anyone else unconscious. I was paddling out with Jock, watching. When we paddled by Tucker, who was swimming in, Jock asked, “Hey, why didn’t you grab a rail?” Tucker answered in his slow, casual way, “Whaddaya think I am, a girl or something?” Jock was left speechless, and I was laughing so hard I was seeing spots. I never did grab a rail after that, though.

“Same to you buddy!” It’s hard changing lanes in these buses. Yep, they have to be the most dangerous car on the road.

Better stop for gas before that long stretch between San Clemente and Oceanside. That’s when a VW is at its worst. At this time of the morning you could go 300 MPH on that stretch. In fact, knowing that, it's probably a good idea for me to have a VW. My ’50 Chevy wagon blew a rod on that stretch. I was getting pressured from the rear by one of those massive 18-wheel trucks, so I had to force the Red Bomb beyond its limit. It didn’t actually blow up; the rods just started knocking. I nursed it all the way home, stopping every two miles to fill it with 70-weight oil. By the time I got home, the rods were knocking so loud people were running out of their houses to see what was going on down the street. Inside the car it was worse. It was vibrating so bad that the dash knobs and the door handles were falling off. I couldn’t stop unless I had it in neutral with the accelerator pressed to the floor so the engine wouldn’t stall. Needless to say, she was running a little hot. If I did turn her off, the whole engine would have just fused together into a big molten-hot chunk. It got us home and sat in front of my house for about a year until I had it outfitted with a new engine. It never ran right, though. Cars are funny things for surfers. To me, they represent something almost mystical, like witchcraft. Mike Doyle told me once that if a car acted bad, just punish it. Don’t wash it, no oil, drive it fast, slam the doors as hard as you can. It sounded logical to me at the time.

Rocket Gas Station. Looks good to me. “Fill it up, regular.” I can tell this guy has been up all night by the way he looked at me. The kind of look that says “wham!” and you don’t have any teeth left. Better be as pleasant as possible. I could imagine Tom Lonardo with me now. He’d be outside aggravating the hell out of the guy. He’d get the poor dude to check the tires, oil, windows, even the water. Lonardo would swear up and down that the engine had a radiator. I’ve heard of guys being refused service from restaurants and bars and things like that, but never from gas stations. Lonardo was once refused service at five stations in a row on 101. Funny thing is, he didn’t even have a driver’s license.

The tank is filled. “Thank you.” Boy, what a grouch.

There’s Corky’s house. Car’s still there. Must be getting a late start. Corky has that Porsche, so it shouldn’t take him long to get down to Oceanside. Last time I saw him was in the Islands. New Year’s Eve. He lit a huge pack of firecrackers under my surfboard. A couple of days later it broke in half. We’ve been friends for a long time, me and Corky. It would be ridiculous to start any friction now. Besides, he was probably remembering New Year’s five years ago in the Islands when myself and Danny Lenahan lit off an even bigger pack of firecrackers in Corky's house, and it almost blew one of the rooms apart. He always did have a good memory.

Talk about changing times, wow, look at the Trestle. A freeway running right through the middle. The place has changed so much since the first time I surfed it. Some good days there. It seemed like it was always good. I guess you mostly forget the bad days. Like that rainy morning in spring when I drove into the jungle near Lowers. I had just gotten my driver’s license. You shouldn’t drive in there during the spring. The area where you hide your car turns into a marsh. But I thought the family car would carry me through safely. What could possibly hinder the path of a 1954 Lincoln Capri four-door? Such a beast of a car.

I sank it past the axles in the marsh. The Marines were kind enough to get a tow truck and pull us out. And since I had only 65 cents and the towing charge came to 35 dollars, the car was impounded. Our boards were impounded. And we were taken to the criminal office of Camp Pendleton. I was the oldest, at 16, so I was responsible. You’d think that in this humorous-type situation the Marines would use a different procedure. I’d been caught several times before, and they have you sign a written promise you wouldn't come back. I’d already promised twice before. That’s not the American way, breaking a promise. I’m figuring, by the way they’re talking, they’ll deport me or give me a life sentence. Meanwhile, the sergeant is making calls to the FBI, to the on-base General, and the juvenile authorities. My playmates are downstairs somewhere playing cards with the other military criminals. I have some clown firing questions at me with his hick drawl. And every time I’d say anything, he’d say, “That’s a lie, boy.” Finally they decided that I’d get a third chance. My pals were advised to associate with more upright characters. Somebody's mom came and picked us up. The sergeant filled her in on what had happened, and my part in it all. She'd missed a dinner party because of us and was a little upset. She tore into me on the way home. After almost being deported, a little nagging from a mother doesn’t seem like much. But heck, all I wanted to do was surf.

Oceanside. It’s starting to rain. Hey, wait a second. There's nobody down at the pier. No judges’ stands.

Oh yeah . . . the 18th and 19th, not the 11th and 12th!

“CONTEST MORNING,” BY MARK MARTINSON

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