Surf cars stopped being cool when they stopped being funny. Back when Elvis was King, the woody was the funniest thing this side of the Oscar Mayer Wiener-mobile. Surfers bought woodies on the cheap because the oak panels on the back and sides were termite-chewed to the point of causing suburban social embarrassment for the middle class. The damage was expensive to repair, furthermore, which made the cars hard to sell. Surfers were standing by. Seventy-five bucks, maybe less, and you had yourself a decent ride. Unbolt the back seat and drop it off at the nearest vacant lot, throw in a bedroll, a stack of Mexican blankets, a bag of oranges and a case of baked beans, and you're good for the week. 

 funny. Beach fire burning low? Pry a slat or two off the door and make the flames jump. Your buddy is passed out and his older sister is breathing sweet beer-fumed nothings onto your neck and asking to go for a walk? Smile like Paul Newman and say you know just the place. Throw a rod on PCH and the cost-benefit analysis for the repair isn't looking so good? Pull over. Walk away. That's why you didn't register the thing in the first place.

Anyone trying to pinpoint the exact moment when surfing began its long, slow, ongoing separation from the realm of cool could do worse than ID the guy who decided it would be a good idea to 

 his woody instead of push it gently over the nearest cliff. Look at this this photo. That's Buzzy Trent on the right, at Makaha, around 1955. The guy was a little too comfortable with German military achievement for my taste, and dropped the n-world like a Mississippi sheriff. But did he know how to treat a woody? Did he indeed!

My dad loved cars. The day I was born he drove to the local dealership and traded his Austin Healy for a bright-red Porsche 356. Swapped that for a Jag, then an Aston Martin, then another Porsche. He had fingerless leather driving gloves tucked into the glovebox, next to a tiny bottle of touch-up paint. He's 85 now and still goes to car museums. 

That little twist of DNA did not get passed on to me, though. I have loved cars, too, in my own fashion, but only the ones that were classically surfy. Over the course of about five years, in my 20s, I had, in a row, a white '62 Cadillac, a Plymouth Valiant, and a Dodge Dart, all three of which held multiple boards in the trunk, and all three of which I drove swiftly and mercilessly into disrepair. I sold the Dart to a friend for $250, who drove it to Cabo, ferried it across to the mainland, and sold it to a Puerto Vallarta local who converted it into a taxi. I didn't think the thing would make it past Ensenada.

My dad never begrudged my surf life or my shoddy treatment of every car I've owned since, and I love him for that. I also love him for playing Woody Guthrie's "Car Song" for me when I was a kid, at my request, over and over. That's the tune you hear in the clip above. Those two kids who go flying off the hood of Greg Noll's car and slam into the dirt, at 1:22? Will I ever be so old that this isn't funny? God, I hope not.

SURF CARS: SO LOVABLE, SO TRASHABLE

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