This article ran in the December 1989 issue of Surfing magazine.

I used to think that if I died and went to heaven, it would look like a surf shop. And I'm sure I wasn't alone; surf shops have been hallowed ground since 1951, when irate city fathers rooted Dale Velzy out from beneath the Manhattan Beach Pier and forced him into the semi-legitimate business of selling surfboards under a roof.

In the years that followed, surf shops sprung up throughout the world. Like trading outposts along a watery frontier, these shops were more than just retail outlets, they were havens for those adventurous men and women who lived in that lonely wilderness of sea and shore. These were places to come in from the cold and the wet, to stock up on essentials, pass the time with stories and tall tales. And most importantly, the shop was a place to worship those shiny new boards that stood in formation; tall, righteous apostles, wrapped in sweet-smelling coats of fiberglass mail, eager to embark on their great Crusade.

How surf shops eventually found their way into the indoor malls of America, I’ll never know. I suspect it has something to do with surfing's billion-dollar fashion boom. In an increasingly competitive market, surf shops had to stop catering exclusively to the surfer and start seducing the surfer’s mom and dad; lure them into the shop for some back-to-school shopping (oh, the irony), sell them some clothes and shoes and a stickered-up backpack and matching sweats. The free bar of wax hasn't changed, but don’t touch the boards—they’re for display only.

Today, there is a “surf shop” in the Indian Mounds Mall in Newark, Ohio.

But what a real surfer needs in a surf shop hasn’t really changed all much from the days when they smelled of Parowax, balsawood shavings, and Z-Spar marine varnish.

When a surfer walks in off the street, he shouldn’t have to worry about shaking the sand off his feet. There should be plenty of groms around, eager to work for free stickers and prestige, ready to sweep up in the afternoon before the evening session.

Behind the counter, there should be a real pretty girl who is either an accomplished surfer herself or the girlfriend of the hottest local in town. Either way, she earns more respect than the average bikini babe. She knows when low tide is.

The guy selling boards and wetsuits should be a well-respected local surfer who never seems to have to pay for any of his stuff (or at least that what they say).

Pictures on the walls are not hastily autographed sponsor’s posters, but shots of local heroes at home and abroad. There should also always be some sort of new surf magazine laying around to be discovered, “shop copy” scrawled possessively across the cover in black Sharpie.

Somewhere in the used-board rack should be the battered stick that won the last big surf contest in the area. The poster for that contest is probably still up in the front window.

There shouldn’t be too much distracting neon, no “sales clerks” with styling gel in their hair, no canned Top-40 dance track music, no ski or snowboarding fashion displays.

And, most importantly, the surfboards should never be mounted on the walls or ceiling, “for display only.” They should be within reach, stacked in long, beautiful lines like a set of dream waves. Because those boards are the heart and soul of a real surf shop, where as long as they can feel that rail or check that vee, surfers will always find a home.

"SHOP TALK," BY SAM GEORGE (1989)

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