Matt Warshaw's coverage of the World Professional Inland Surfing Championships, a WCT event, ran in the November 1985 issue of SURFER. This version has been slightly shortened and edited.

What was certain? It was the first-ever World Inland Surfing Championship, held in Allentown, Pennsylvania, and Tommy Carroll, on paper and by general consensus the best surfer in the world today, won the contest. Other I than that, and the unarguable fact that a dizzying new high in oddness had been set, few things were definite. Three people seeing the same thing offered three different opinions. Purists cringed. Optimistic officials glimpsed the future. Most were in between, wavering. Unavoidably rising, days after the final blast of the airhorn and slowly opaquing over a myriad of strange and curious sights, an interesting, perhaps even important series of questions stood to be answered: Was this the shape of things to come for Professional Surfing? Or a remarkably different and unique novelty? What did Professional Surfing think of landlocked Northeastern America and, more importantly, what did landlocked Northeastern America think of Professional Surfing? And was that the real Rambo, bathed, oiled down and repeatedly hyping his soon-to-open disco/health-bar?

I was there. Five days worth of half-expenses-paid strangeness, and somewhere between the poolside concession stands and deadline were the answers.

 wavepool, the Wildwater Kingdom wavepool adjacent to Dorney Amusement Park, Allentown, PA, is not the future of professional surfing. This isn’t to say that something similar, perhaps simply magnified and more versatile, wouldn’t make it an interesting debate; it might. But this particular pool, by any objective means of measurement, is fairly pathetic. This was obvious before the competition even got underway, and the official attitude was one of “Sorry, it’s not what we thought it would be, but the contest is on and let’s all make the best of it.” Which was really alright. Two weeks prior, the pool wasn’t even operative and, as I understand it, an impenetrable bed of granite had been struck during construction, cutting down, by some fifty feet, the proposed size of the pool and thusly reducing the size of the wave it could produce. (Optimists, undeterred by the Allentown disappointment—the promo’s had said “Daring surfers can be challenged by five-foot waves”—are already looking forward to the next pool-in-waiting, a huge indoor lefthander in Edmonton, Canada.)

The Allentown wave was a freak that you gradually grew accustomed to. By the end of the contest, for instance, it seemed totally normal to see contestants rapidly bobbing up and down over succeeding swells (every two and a half seconds, to be exact), counting down to the 15th and final wave of the sequence. But four days earlier, during my first look at the pool, the scene was shockingly bizarre. I’d jogged to the near side of the pool just as a practice heat was getting ready to begin. The water was still and very blue. The view in general colorful and pretty, with all the bright surfboards, trunks and wetsuits, a gently rolling grass hill in the immediate background and a clear blue late-morning sky radiating a comfortably dry heat. In a loose cluster, sitting on their boards near the business end of the pool, a scant few feet in front of and below where I was standing, chatting among themselves, was a stellar group of surfers including Shaun Tomson, Rabbit Bartholomew, Mark Occhilupo, Glen Winton, Wes Laine, Jim Hogan, Bud Llamas, Scott McCranels and Jeff Novak. Everyone around me, evidently, had already seen the pool in action, but waiting there for something to happen, for actual waves to shoot out from a machine, had me tense and focused. The anticipation, drawn out for a few minutes, was wonderfully excruciating; like when the lights go down before a big concert.

A basso groan came from inside the concrete and steel mouth of the pool and then, with a churning 

 the flaps, from within, began pumping and wheezing. Nine seconds after the first wave, with the realization that 

 disappointment struck hard. It really was pathetic; groin-high, choppy and gutless, the standard ride would consist of one hurried off-the-top, another, followed by a degrading straight-off grovel-for-distance. All happening at a hyper-speed pace; Wes Laine on a right, with Bud Llamas directly in his wake, who was immediately in front of Rabbit. The same thing happening on the left. Included, too, were four water photographers, and terrifically close near-misses were frequent. Feeling a long, long way from San Clemente, I walked around to the other side of the pool. It was as though, at the last minute, Barry Manilow had been substituted for Bruce Springsteen.

Soon thereafter, however, came the realization that this all had little to do with surfing as we know it, and thusly would require a whole new and far less serious approach. Set free by this thought, everything slowly became interesting again. I pulled up a poolside lounge-chair as close to the edge as the lifeguards would allow and watched.

June is a good month to be in Pennsylvania. Full-strength heat and humidity come later in the summer season. The drive from Philadelphia to Allentown was lovely; dense green foliage, forest-like, cool and shaded, lined a two-lane highway, the Schuylkill river languidly following along on the right. Occasionally a house, elegant and old, would be set in a clearing along the road on our left. Allentown itself, and particularly the surrounding area, was just as pleasant. Refreshingly unmodern and not at all the industrially-plighted burg I had feared.

The local people, moreover, were courteous and friendly. Perhaps a little unsure of what to expect from their visitors; surfboard-laden rent-a-cars being driven slightly in excess of the speed limit, whisking about tan groups of boys with curious accents. One cultural pairing, not at all indicative of the norm, was classic: Kong, caught and absolutely guilty of being too close to the edge of the pool, was being soundly tongue-lashed by a tiny and very young-looking Dorney Park security person. Kong, evidently, along with an interested group of Aussies, didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, and as the little security person got angrier, disbelieving smiles (or perhaps patronizing—he was so very tiny) couldn’t be concealed. Finally he challenged Kong; “Alright, fine, c’mon! Take the first swing!” Kong just stood where he was, smiling. The little security person finally wheeled around and stomped off in search of higher authority, turned over his shoulder and shouted "That’s it! You’re off the Tour!”

The waves came in three different sequences: Fifteen lefts, followed by a short pause, then 15 rights, another pause, then ten peaks, which for some reason didn't travel as far down the pool. The closeness of succeeding waves was necessary to achieve maximum size. The waves within each sequence were virtually identical, although most surfers chose waves late in each sequence. This predictability became a problem. Goofyfoots all rode the last waves of the left sequence, regulars the last waves of the right sequence. Nobody rode the distance-lacking peaks, although they were noticeably more hollow. It was programmed so everyone was virtually guaranteed their ten wave quota during their heat with all waves on their frontside. Rarely did a contestant go backside.

For the first time in surfing’s competitive history, then, luck had nothing to do with wave quality. In theory, with this new-found equality for all, pure wave-riding skill would determine the best surfer in each heat. And that’s the way it worked, although one’s almost obligated to qualify the label and say best 

 surfer in each heat. Certainly, the judging was fair throughout. The real point, however, is that preprogramming made for very dull spectating. Everyone knew which waves would be ridden and, in many cases, 

 they would be ridden. Paul Barr, in a well-executed third-place showing, rode ten waves in each heat, each one nearly a carbon copy of the others. He figured out how to get the absolute most out of the last wave of each right sequence, so there was no point in varying from wave to wave. It was an excellent strategy. It was a crashing bore to watch.

Which wasn’t lost on the locals. Very important, what they thought, as the biggest test of the contest was whether inland America could be sold on surfing. Halfway through the contest I spent some time with Tom Frank, a young reporter from one of the local newspapers. It was good for both of us as Tom, interviewing me, wanted to know what a “real surfer” thought about the wavepool and the contest, while I, interviewing him, wanted to know how a non-surfing Northeasterner felt about the same. At this point the lack of variation in the water had become really obvious. Tom said “I can’t really tell any difference (between the surfers), and I definitely can’t tell what’s good.” I explained to him how, in ocean contests, certain waves during any given heat can be bigger, longer, better-shaped then other waves in the same heat. He considered this for a moment. “Yeah. This is like a golf course where each hole is 300 yards, straight away, no rough and no sandtraps.” Bingo.

As a matter of fact, I asked myself and a random sampling of natives, is there any reason to expect that inland America will 

 give a damn about pro surfing? To draw a parallel, how would the coastal zones feel about beach rodeo? The Urban Cowboy trend, as I recall, didn’t set Newport Beach ablaze, and the folks I spoke with seemed more curious than enthusiastic. During the quarterfinals, when things should have been heating up, the line ascending the stairs for the Kamikaze Plunge Speed Slide, adjacent to the wavepool, far exceeded the crowd watching the surfing event—and that included contestants, officials, judges, and reporters.

Sunday, high noon. The semifinals were being called; the contest was up for grabs. Other awards, however, had long been locked up:

 to Scott McCranels who, looking for a few extra feet of distance as the wave he'd been riding dribbled out, grabbed the coping along the edge of the pool and, hand over hand, pulled himself towards the shallow end.

 to Peter Mansted, Tommy Carroll’s manager-agent-coach. As The Champ finished a ride and climbed out of the pool to run back to the deep end, Mansted ran alongside and shrewdly advised: “Don’t trip.”

 to Matt George, last minute and sole male entrant into the Castle Gardens “Hot Buns” contest late Saturday night. To the lusty cheers of the 500-plus females in attendance (and deafening silence from their dates) Matt encored clad only in black speedos stuffed tightly with what appeared to be an assortment of tropical fruit. Matt the Mouth was victorious (it wasn’t even close) and pocketed $1,000; more then any surfer save the top four finishers.

 to Frieda Zamba, World Champion and honorary seed in the Main Event, for missing her heat without explanation. Zamba, interestingly enough, had spent the week prior to the contest in Allentown and was one of the first to surf the wavepool.

 to Kingsley Looker, Main Event seed, for missing his heat while catching the second part of a double bill at the local theater.

 to Robert Plarr—Rambo!—executive vice-president of Dorney Park and unofficial master of ceremonies, for repeatedly announcing the event as the “World Surfing Championships.”

Tommy Carroll had been building steadily throughout the contest, rising from contender in his early heats to overwhelming favorite near the end. In the semis he defeated a quick and flashy Paul Barr, who buzzed through both the trials and the Main in fine charging-young-man fashion.

It should be noted here that the level of surfing, as the surfers adjusted to the pool, had been increasing noticeably. Three maneuvers, occasionally four, were now standard, as compared to two at the outset: the surfers' adaptation was remarkable. Consider two-time Pipeline Masters finalist Derek Ho, for instance. Directly from the North Shore, Derek surfed brilliantly into the final match-up against Carroll, defeating a strong and polished Charlie Kuhn in a fairly exciting semi.

Adjustments, as the two finalists entered the water, were still being made to bring the wave size up. Yesterday we’d been warned by a serious-sounding Rambo to “bring your waders, folks, we’re going to really crank it up tomorrow!” A series of flap-tests followed, pushing forth weird little wave- portions until, with a blast of the hooter, the finals began with all five flaps thrashing in unison. It was a shocking five inches bigger. I took off my waders.

Five inches, however, was enough for The Champ who, still building, actually began to peel off full-rail top turns-one good one per wave, preceded and followed by some solid surfing. Derek surfed very well, vertical and precise, but it was Carroll’s final start to finish.

The sun was dropping. It was an hour after the final horn ended the contest. The machine was turned off and almost everyone, onlookers and contestants, had trailed into the parking lot and driven away. South Africa, and with it a whole new series of questions, lay before the ASP’s touring professionals.

The surfers had enjoyed themselves. It was something so totally different it couldn’t really miss. Indelibly etched into my mind, and perhaps one of the all-time great lighthearted moments in pro surfing history, occurred during a break in the Main Event Saturday. The pool was opened to the public for a half-hour, and there mingling with 100 or so of Allentown's more adventurous citizens, were three-quarters of the top 25 surfers in the world, all riding rented Boogie boards and having a blast.

Still, by Sunday evening, everyone just wanted to go surfing. In real waves.

Behind the pool, Tommy Carroll answered questions from two or three reporters from the local press, diplomatically fielding queries on the pool itself; the camaraderie among surfers; life on the road. Stock stuff. When asked to compare the pool to big ocean waves, though, Carroll momentarily became animated. "If I could show you what happens when a wave gives you some real speed . . . .” He haltingly, but with feeling, described dropping into a 12-foot Sunset Beach peak; the power and the adrenalin. He smiled at the reporters, and finished; “It would blow you away.”

"NOTES FROM THE DEEP END: POOLSIDE FROM ALLENTOWN, PA" by MATT WARSHAW (1985)

Subscribe or Login

Subscribe or Login

Encyclopedia of Surfing

History of Surfing

Interviews

Features

The Sunday Joint

Videos

Contests