Hit "play," and freeze at 1:13. If you're a wave rider of a certain age (old), you may experience a small thrill of horror. That's Billy Hamilton, surfing's own Jesus of Cool, feet up and auguring into the dusty French pavers during the 1968 

 bull run. I'm no spinal surgeon, but looks to me like Billy's just a half-degree away from a splintered C5, a medivac return to California, and a hollow-out existence of wheelchairs, bedpans, and daytime television. But fortune smiled. Finding no ingress to Hamilton's beautiful neck, paralysis went looking elsewhere—the drunk Jean Crapaud at :46, probably.

Now watch Hamilton's response. Is he spooked at his near miss? Counting blessings? Crying tears of relief? Please. The man pops to his feet, tanner, blonder, more blue-eyed than ever, raises both arms, and grins at the bull, as if he'd just knocked the animal on its ass, not the other way around. There's a line from an old Kinks song: "If you covered him with garbage, George Sanders would still have style." Never mind who George Sanders is, I don't know either. But Hamilton's triumph in Bayonne brings the point home.

Bill Hamilton will someday be in the foyer of the Surfing Style Hall of Fame, in marble, atop a plinth, surrounded by a velvet rope. Tour guides will explain in hushed tones to awed groups of visitors who this great man was. Comparative references will be made to Marcello Mastroianni, Steve McQueen, Charles Eames. Laird will be mentioned, but only in passing.

OLE! BILLY HAMILTON SLAYS WITH HIS MIGHTY SWORD OF STYLE!

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