I've expended a lot of time over the years, as any self-respecting surf historian must, cogitating on the bigger meaning of Wayne Lynch. He is a big-concept figure—a direct ticket to things like the shortboard revolution, soul surfing, the Vietnam War, and the perils of the surf-industrial complex.

What jumped out at me the past few days, while tracking through a lot of Paul-Witzig-shot video to get this little birthday clip together (Lynch turns 62 today), is the telling detail that allows quick, easy, almost unconscious access to things like those mentioned above; the blink of something or other reminding us that all the faith we've put in Lynch over the years, all the collective respect and awe laid at his woodsy doorstep in Victoria, is justified.

Lynch as the embodiment of freaky teenage talent, for example. My mind is still blown, 45-plus years after the fact, by this spontaneous trim-to-explosion-to-air-to-trim move in 

. Most of what we all remember from that movie, of course, is the futuristic turns and cutbacks. What we get here is a one-second distillation of all the confidence, all the gyroscopic balance, that allowed for those big turns. Wayne comes out of that near-drubbing with nearly as much speed, and all of the style, as he had going in. Kelly Slater and Buttons are the only two surfers I can think of who had that kind of heaven-sent physical gift.

 that always catches my eye. Wayne, Ted Spencer and Butch Cooney, in Victoria, walking across an old wood-and-rope bridge. Wayne in front. A golden child, literally, with the sun throwing a white-yellow halo around his arms and head. What gets me about this moment is how pre-surf-industry it looks. Which isn't entirely true—Lynch was already a sponsored surfer, as were the other two, and Witzig of course is there crouching behind a camera, making a movie. Still, it feels unfiltered and non-mediated. Lynch made the board he's carrying. He picked out his amazingly cool sky-blue wool sweater and pointy-toed desert boots. No sponsor gear. It's a style-filled moment of Lynch's own creation, and it reminds me that surfing is only ever truly stylish when it's left to its own devices. Which, as of the past four decades, is pretty much never. The only time Lynch ever looked foolish was in the early '80s, when he let Quiksilver dress him up in gaudy New Wave pants for the Echo Beach campaign. Something we will speak of never again.

Another moment. Wayne freesurfing a Johanna sandbar just down the beach from the competition area on the last day of the 1970s world titles. No disrespect to contest winner Rolf Aurness, as lovely a human being as ever set foot on a board, and probably the second-most gifted goofyfoot of the age, but Wayne was the day's standout surfer. Of course he was. He bombed out of the event before the final, for whatever reason. Lost his board, didn't get the wave count, something like that. Same thing as the Slater-Fanning heat at Pipeline last month, when Kelly worked miracles but Mick got the trophy. I'm not doing a downer on contests, exactly. But what Lynch demonstrated in 1970 (and at the '68 world titles in Puerto Rico, for that matter) was to quietly insist that the only honest way for all of us to view such events is with a brick-sized grain of salt. By all means compete. Wayne did, again and again, right up into those old-timer Masters events in the late '90s. But don't get too caught up in it. Never mistake competition surfing for surfing.

Last moment: Wayne mat-surfing with his son, two years ago. Looking like any other happy grinning middle-aged kook riding straight in the whitewater. A perfect Back to the Future moment. Lynch has never held on to the past, never overplayed bygone eras (swears up and down that his 

-era boards were mostly shit and that he's never once sat through a whole screening of 

), and has always remained inspired by something of the moment. If not riding waves, then family, or work, or music. 

Wayne Lynch has evolved, in other words—right off the pedestal we built for him. And for that, he deserves another pedestal. 

THE EVOLUTIONIST: SOME THOUGHTS ON WAYNE LYNCH

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