American surfers of a certain age, a lot of them, I'm guessing a majority, will say that 1972's 

 is the best surf movie ever made. I will smile and nod in apparent agreement before replying, "Nay, sir! Twas 

 But it is the gentlest of rebukes. The two films are almost twins. Greg MacGillivray and Jim Freeman made 

, but Bud Browne did most of the water photography. Browne's name is on 

, but MacGillivray and Freeman I believe did the heavy lifting in the edit room. Both are great films—bright and polished and warm and joyous. 

' digs deeper into the sport's past than 

, but otherwise you wouldn't want to live on the difference.

 won my heart in 1973 because of the title song. I read online yesterday where some guy says that "Going Surfing'"—the song—has been stuck in his mind for 40 years, and I'll bet that's true for a lot of us. It begins with a machine-gunning guitar slide (tip of the hat to Dick Dale), then swerves into a Jan and Dean-like vocal arrangement, with layered voices and falsetto highlights. Yes, the song is nostalgic and sentimental and contrived. And we ate it up. It's got more hook than a full season of 

, for one thing. But also we were starving for something fun in our surf movie soundtrack, something easy and direct. We'd been force-fed 

. We'd blinked hard and pinched our own thighs to stay awake during 

, made by John Severson for the express purpose of bumming us out to a point where we'd be better environmental stewards. 

 was a step in the right direction, although kinda hillbilly. But "Going Surfin'"? Oh it slayed. It slayed 13-year-olds, anyway.

Cruising the coast for those glassy waves.

Sucking up tequila and Red Mountain wine.

And I won't forget beach bunny parties all through the night,

Surfing stark naked in the soft moonlight.

Goofying-foot [something] and hanging eleven,

Drinking till we crash and doing it again.

And by the way, you probably figured it out, but "hanging eleven" is of course a fanciful way to describe surfing in the nude. Or fanciful for everybody except for Johnny "Python" Futch of Melbourne who, according to legend, could actually hang eleven with an inch or two to spare.

"GOING SURFIN'," AND THE MANLY ART OF HANGING ELEVEN

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