Derek Hynd’s eccentricities are legion. It’s practically been a second career for him, a lifelong performance art piece, the crafting of offbeat words and actions that, intentionally or not, have landed Derek his own little beachfront pied-à-terre in a neighborhood whose better-known residents include John Waters, Howard Hughes, and Bjork. Derek going to a costume party dressed in an oilskin jacket draped in sardines. Derek seeking a deeper connection with his latest girlfriend by fishing out of the toilet, for closer examination, barehanded, a small bark-shaped piece of her unflushed waste. I stayed with Derek on the North Shore a few times, and remember that while he didn’t often shower, he would, unfailingly, and with the greatest care and attention, wash his feet every night before going to bed. This way of being in the world was not something Hynd came into later in life. Nick Carroll, way back in 1981, called Derek “the most looney and colorful character in professional surfing; an enigma who can at one moment be shrouded and withdrawn, and involved the next moment in some startling display of all-out public lunacy.”

But in many respects Derek is as refined, gracious and dependable as the day is long. He was polite as a courtier when introduced to my mother, for example. He was by far the easiest person to work with of all the headline writers I managed during my time at SURFER. Always open to suggestions. No complaints if we needed a 24-hour turnaround on a second draft. Never missed a deadline. I remember standing by the SURFER fax machine, waiting, and bang on the minute of our pre-arranged time his latest article would come scrolling through.

My favorite Hynd pieces were "The New Top 30" reviews; the precursor and inspiration for Lewis Samuels' "Power Ranking" articles and all the lesser versions of the Power Rankings that followed. The first edition of the New Top 30 ran in 1987, but Derek didn't really hit stride until the following year. The critiques were sharp and, with few exceptions, spot-on. The comedy flowed freely. The best two editions, in my opinion, came in '89 and '90, and in honor of Derek's birthday—he turns 57 tomorrow—I paged through those issues to assemble a New Top 30 greatest hits. 


Chicks dig him. Scored a major deal from Oxbox, a French company, because of his face. Often wears an Elephant Man mask to give the truth a rest. Life's bad when an innocent Bedford-Brown glance can lead to outrageous sexual advances. His surfing is not as flawless as his looks. Actually, his surfing can be ugly as sin. But there you go. Yin and Yang. Far more attractive when he slows it all down and performs with his limbs in harmony—as was the case against Rob Ban at Lacanau in perfect lefts; the best heat of Bedford-Brown's life. A mean competitor. And that's 


"Seeing those guys win world titles. If they can do it, I can do it." Big ego. Big mover. Attitude and actions. Dangerous fellow, and the only active surfer-shaper on tour. A crunchy innovator, with derisive opinions of half the pros ahead of him. This is his year to win the world title—or so he says. Sorry. Not ready. Collins needs only to look where he is to see why. Not regarded as a threat to the top yet. Needs more variation: floaters won't be state-of-the-art forever. Devastating at small-to-mid-sized Sunset and Pipe. Great image. But everyone? This year? There are at least five pros who will be saying, "Mate, you can't be serious."


A good and basic bloke: gentle, warm, inoffensive, dedicated and generous. Why, everything a God-fearing Christian should be. Used to be gun-shy. Not anymore. Stimulated by his wife (once in a while) to leave purity aside and get dirty in the muck to hunt down an opponent—he's actually getting assertive in the lineup. Still, he gives away too many waves. Puts in as many moves per ride as Hardman or Lynch, and more than Carroll or Ho, but lacks panache. With so many hate-men looking at his spot, it's time for MacAulay to watch his back. Can he defend himself if hunter becomes hunted? Treads softly . . . and doesn't carry a big stick. Must get ugly and harness some negative energy just to stay pat.


The past nine months have blown the old Occy persona out the door. He's become a real wildman, the talk of the tour, and the bane of a lot of people. In Hawaii last winter, he tied on just about the most radical four months a pro surfer has ever experienced. He arrived in November a sleepy vegetarian and emerged in March a hungered carnivore, clutching a competitive attitude that he'd misplaced years ago. He's now a volatile person. The old Occy is back, but he's struggling. Had he been on Rusty equipment in Australia, he could have torn every wave. As it was, he still stunned a lot of people who thought his career to be shattered. A fascinating question mark going into the new season.


Surfer of the Year. Please, let no one dispute that. Absolutely 

 rampage through Europe to virtually seal the world title. Shut Curren down in the heat of the year at the Rip Curl Pro at maxing Hossegor. After Spain, only had to cruise. Got to Hawaii and slaughtered Sunset Beach for the Hard Rock win, then screwed up at small Pipe for the Masters. He was behind at that point but seemed destined to win the Billabong Pro at classic Pipe. So, with the entire old Newport Plus crew on the beach watching, Tom played it like he was surfing for the club, and did what he loves to do: screw up 

. The interference call against Todd Holland was probably a million-dollar error. If he can forget the past, he can slam the coming world title home.


At the Billabong Pro, in a neolithic blood rush, Mike Parsons was ready to murder a judge. Any judge. He'd been burned. He could feel it, and it was a hot flush from head to toe. The rage was new, and all-consuming. The future, he vowed, would be different. But he'll need preparation. Some slight modifications. For starters, a solo trek in the outback of Cayucos, reading Dostoyevsky and Strindberg along the way. Then destruction of all personal wealth, assets, security, and social standing. Then, just as all seems lost, accept the painful kicks to the head as career inspiration. To my way of figuring, Parsons, at this point, could be primed for just such an odyssey. This time next year: a madman, in tatters, ready to die. But I dunno. Could be a little extreme. Maybe he'll want to try another way.


Last year, despite winning the Hang Loose Pro, the man who once hunted—and discovered—the meaning of life in an unsuspecting can of Heinz Alphabet Soup, fell apart. A price was paid for covering, hiding and possibly smothering himself in his own mystery. His quote in the ASP media quite was a toxification of fate: "I go my direction, and the system goes all over the place. If parallels occur, then all well and good. But my course is my own." Trouble. Surfers must worship the system, even if only in mockery. After all, did the Pharaohs not face the pyramids north for a reason? Did the Druids not send naked maidens counterclockwise around the totems? Anger the heavens and the universe will simply explode! Everyone knows that! But Winton chose his own way. Wrath descended. Seven straight first-round losses. Supernature got to Mr. X at the Billabong Pro, as Cheyne Horan knocked him into the Back 14.


Horan's in an old and torn Gotcha sweatshirt, in the gym. It doesn't matter where. Murwillumbah, Tokyo, Honolulu, East LA. He's on the heavy bag, hearing other men toil as he hits the swinging weight; fist against leather, the rope slicing through the air, the target moving slowly back and forth. Hawaii is coming up. Horan is fighting reflex and years. He smells the stale odors, and accepts a bonding kick of adrenaline as he continues to wail on the bag, all the time focusing on primary goals: "Fitness . . . power . . . fitness . . . power . . . 

In a pool of sweat by the fourth round, he lets the anger surge, opens the past like a masochist, and talks to himself through clenched teeth. "Hawaii . . . results . . . 16 . . . mind . . . courage." Then, blurting out 

 he slams the bag with a painful right uppercut and moves to the wall mirror, raging, bulging, almost crying in anger. He feints, feints, weaves and moves in on himself with such a prolonged fury that mist blots his reflection. Then he explodes in a ball of self-deprecating hatred, and hoarsely pants, "Give up! Give up, ya bastard! You're no good! 

 The entire room is at a dead stop, watching. Horan's still flailing to his limit, when the blurred image in the mirror digs way down and screams back, "Never! Never! Never! 

DEREK HYND: THE SHARPEST WIT, THE CLEANEST FEET

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