Matt Warshaw interviewed Wayne Bartholomew in 1993, when Bartholomew was 38. Quotes were used in a profile titled "Odyssey," which ran in the Winter 1993 issue of Surfer's Journal.

Somebody told me you were an honor student as a kid?

When I was 10, 11, 12, I was very much an academic. I was in the top 1% of students in the state. Other kids would pay me to do their tests for them.

Oh I was! Full bush-boy, all the way. I'd go snake-hunting, we'd trap these big deadly King Brown snakes using a piece of string with a noose on the end. Then we'd skin 'em and make snake belts. The bigger the snake, the wider the belt. That was the coolest thing possible at age 11, a big, thick King Brown belt.

No, I was born in Tweed Heads. My parents split up when I was 11. My dad was sort of mistreating my mother, so she and I got together, talked it over, and we decided to move to Rainbow Bay.

Yeah. (Long pause) There was a period of time when I was sort of a Robin Hood. I stole from the rich to give to the poor—which was my mom and sisters and myself. Things would get to a point, and this happened a few times, where we'd be a month behind on the rent, not a bit of food in the house, we're down to eating lard on bread. No maintenance money from Dad. Just nothing. And I'd pop in with $40, and set it on the kitchen table. I'd steal off the beach; out of wallets. And my mother was in such desperate shape that she wouldn't even ask where I got it. Forty bucks meant food for the kids. But I was on my way to delinquency, big time. My grades dropped, the whole thing.

My life of crime came to an end when I was 12, and I got caught red-handed stealing a priest's wallet. The police were involved. I never stole another thing in my life.

When I was 10, I used to carry this kid's board to the beach at Greenmount, this was during Christmas holidays, every morning I'd carry this big log all the way across town. Then I'd sit there and watch him surf. And every day I'd ask him, "Can I have a go?" And he'd say, "No, maybe tomorrow," and I'd carry his board back across town. This went on for a week or so. Finally the guys paddles me out the back and says "there you go," and leaves me there. Here comes my first wave, I paddle like a maniac, catch it—and there's a bodysurfer on the inside. I come right undone, roll around underwater, pop up, and the bodysurfer is there next to me with a big crack down the middle of his head. I swam to beach, ran home, and decided I wasn't going to be a surfer. Back to the soccer field.

We moved the Rainbow Bay the next year. You know the part in 

, where I'm rocking back and forth on that swing?

That's how I learned to surf. Every morning before school I'd get on that swing and watch this friend of mine out in the water. He'd ride waves, and I'd ride the swing. I did it for months. Then this other guy, a school chum, called me a sissy for not actually going in the water. So I borrowed a board, paddled out at Snapper. And I could surf. I mean, straight away. First wave, I turned and trimmed along, with style. Never looked back.

Speaking of style, who were your early style influences?

I always felt an affinity with Miki Dora and Phil Edwards. Especially Dora—it was the hands, the hand jive, the finger English. And the mystique, of course. Dora wasn't just a phenomenal surfer, but subversive—you didn't know exactly how to think of him. That inspired me. Later on, Gerry Lopez was an influence. I would stare at photos, stare at Gerry's fingers, the trail of his fingers along the wave, how he'd caress the wave. Lopez hands, arms, shoulders were all spot-on; perfect. I said to myself, "There it is. There's the essence of the whole thing."

Did that transfer directly to your surfing?

Maybe. Probably. But I think my style didn't come from imitating anybody. Not Lopez, or Dora, or MP, or anyone else. My style comes from riding Kirra; from feeling my way out of the tube. I did it until it felt perfect, and my hands, my style—that's the result.

We got kicked out of the Rainbow house for not paying rent when I was 13 and moved to Kirra. I remember the first weekend, the waves were six-foot and firing, and I was spellbound. Never went back to Rainbow or Greenmount. Not for years, anyway.

Is there a particular year you remember best?

1972 was Kirra's most epic year, no question. Right before they added the big groyne. It was like Kirra knew it was about to be changed forever, and wanted to go out with a bang. The season we had that year—I've never seen waves like that anywhere in the world, before or since. Big caverns; you could run a semi-trailer inside these things. Drawing so much water that the whole wave was two-feet below sea level; there'd be a trough running in front of each wave. A six-foot wave would pitch out 12 feet. It was terrifying—and absolutely flawless. That was the year I became a master tuberider. I learned how to link things together, so I could stay inside, slab to slab. You can see that influence in my surfing, to this day.

I ride the tube differently from, say, Shaun. His way comes from surfing waves with a high tube, like J-Bay or Cave Rock. When I got to those places, I could see how Shaun developed his style; that high-pocket, active style. At Kirra, you have to ride low, right at the base of the wave, and no messing about. It's a super-fine line between success and annihilation.

How long was your longest Kirra tube, do you think?

Twenty-two seconds. I've had a bunch of 18-second barrels, and that's not popping in and out, that's 18 seconds 

. You're allowed to show the nose of your board, nothing else. Eighteen seconds is from the top end of Kirra to three-quarters of the way through. And nothing counts unless you make it. I've probably had over 100 12-second barrels.

Was Michael Peterson the guy at Kirra when you started riding there?

Not yet, no. He was still mostly up at Greenmount.

Because that's where PT [Peter Townend] surfed, and Michael wanted to whip him. I remember standing on the end at the jetty at Kirra, looking across, and I'd see a pink board with a white mop of hair going along, that was PT, then the next wave it was just rooster tails flying off the top—that was Michael. And I'd look and laugh, and go surf Kirra.

The more time goes by, the more people think that you guys, the new wave Aussies and South Africans, just showed up in Hawaii in '75 and the whole 

 thing was really sudden. That wasn't the case.

No, there was a build up for sure. The Free Ride generation didn't burst on the scene fully formed. From '71 to '73 we were feeling our way, taking our first steps. PT came third in the '72 world championships; Ian was already a serious presence on the North Shore. But really it all started in '74-'75. That was the year of what we called the Australian Embassy on the North Shore; there was a house at Rocky Point, and MR, Mark Warren, Bruce Raymond and the McCoys were all there. I was staying at Sunset with Ian, he was my mentor at that point. Kanga showed me the ropes at Sunset. But all of us, Shaun included, in '74-'75, we'd all go out and surf Monster Mush. It was an amazing season at Monster Mush.

Not because we were afraid of Sunset or Pipe or anywhere else, or afraid of getting vibed out. The Mush was just our little spot, it was close to where we were all hanging out. So we carved it to pieces. Shaun and I had this theory, and I stand by it today, that you can go straight from Monster Mush to Second Reef Pipe. Nothing in between; they're parallel waves. Soft, easy takeoff, into a bowl section.

Yes. We were always kinda on the same wavelength. I remember Shaun and I made a pact in '74, and it was this: no matter what happened, we would also get to the bottom at Pipeline standing on our surfboards. No matter what. Never would we dive off our boards. Never. And we lived by that. The first time I broke the pact was in '81, and I did a full splayed-and-flayed number, went over with the lip, and broke two ribs. And Shaun, around the same time, during a Pipe Masters heat, did it once, then did it twice more in the same heat, 'cause he was so rattled. We didn't stick to our guns, and we both got belted for it.

You didn't get a start in the '74 Smirnoff, but you had a great adventure that day.

The day after, actually. The day after Reno won the Smirnoff, Ian and I checked Waimea, and it was still 20'-plus, and Kanga says, "Right, we're surfing outside Pipe," and I thought, "You're joking." We get there about one o'clock, there wasn't a single person on the beach, and we paddle straight to Second Reef. We're sitting way out there, and a giant set erupted on the horizon, and I didn't know what to do. Neither of us did. So we split up. Not on purpose, but Ian made his call, I made mine; he paddled off toward Kaena, I headed toward Sunset. I made it over, Kanga got snuffed. Lost his board. He was just gone. So now I'm by myself, somewhere out in the middle of the ocean. No lineup, no idea what to do. But I hung tight. Finally this wave comes, I take off, just this giant Second Reef set. I do an endless bottom turn and it was all I could do to change rails and head back down the line, then it was straight through the inside section in full trim, and I'm standing straight up inside a solid 15' wave at Pipe. Completely in the barrel. Came out, went into a horrendous close-out section, ate it, swam in, walked up the beach, and Peter Townend—this is dead set—ran down the beach, jumped up and wrapped his arms and legs around me. And he said, "You made it! You've done it!" That was the start of my days at big Pipeline.

Ian and I hit the North Shore on October 15th, and the minute we arrive Jeff Divine showed us photos of Shaun at Off the Wall. Turned out Shaun had been there since October 1st, he'd got the jump on us, and already scored some really good waves. So the gauntlet was thrown down, right then and there. Remember, there was no world title up for grabs; no world champion. All that mattered was who ripped in Hawaii. And we were all going for it. But here's Shaun, he's already been there for two weeks, and he's already established himself as the man to beat.

My first surf that year was at solid eight-foot Pipe. Ian and I paddled out and had a contest to see who could take off and go right, into the closeout, and look the coolest. It wasn't a Backdoor day at all. So this goes on for a few waves, and finally I take off on this one, do a full soul-arch into the closeout, and get pounded. Next up, here goes Ian on a wave about four-feet bigger than mine, and he just gets walloped. Comes up with a big chunk out of his ass. Bleeding all over the place, and we paddle in laughing our heads off—that's how gung-ho we were. And again, no cameras, no points. That day was just me and Kanga saying to each other, "You're on."

We never hear about Ian and Rabbit, it's always Ian and PT.

I learned the ropes from him, early on, in terms of Hawaii. By '73, he'd already established himself over there. He was the boss man, I was the junior. I paddled out with Ian when nobody else wanted to—he was just too much of a hellman. Like, just the greatest hellman I'd ever seen in my life. Not so much at Pipe. He never liked Pipe. But the stuff he'd do at Sunset and Waimea, and just laugh afterward—Kanga was just nuts.

Tell me about that endless Pipeline swell at the end of 1975.

Ten days without a break, starting in the middle of December and culminating on Christmas Day—the best day I've ever seen at Pipeline. Ten straight days. It was overload. I mean, after a week or so, there were sessions when it was Gerry, Rory, Jackie Dunn, Shaun and Michael Tomson and myself. Nobody else. Perfect Pipeline, and six guys in the water. We finally had time to really figure the place out. We just dialed it in. After a few days there was actually this amazing backlash. From our own guys! Terry Fitzgerald came up to me and said, "you're fucked, Rabbit, all of you are. You think you can just come in here and take over."

You had a lot of momentum going even before that swell.

Yes, that happened after the Aussies did a one-two-three at the Smirnoff at twenty-foot Waimea: MR, Kanga and me. Shaun was in the final as well. That really ushered in the new trip, because Reno and Hakman were in the final, too. We beat the masters at Waimea.

Were you aware of the change as it was happening?

We were, yeah. We absolutely knew what was going on. We knew what kind of changes were being made. On the other hand, as far as I saw it, everything I did was based on stuff that happened earlier; I had the utmost respect for people and events of the past. All I ever wanted to do was emulate Sam Hawk, who was my hero. If I could ever be good enough to do what he was doing—that was my dream. And there was Owl Chapman and James Jones, too. I mean, Big Monday was etched in my mind as the greatest day in the history of surfing.

The last section in Free Ride—was that Christmas Day?

No, that was the end of January, a month or so later. We were so primed by then. I went down there early that morning, took a quick look, and there was Shaun and PT, everybody, all on the beach, and I just went running past them with my board. I was the first one out there. My opening wave, I did a back-arch into huge closeout. That started it, man. Shaun had to come out and take me on. It was our greatest duel ever, that day.

Pro surfers used to stay in Hawaii a lot longer than they do today.

Well, yeah, like I said, Hawaii was just about the whole deal. You saved your money all year for it. We'd go for four months. Longer, if possible. The whole point was to get as much of Hawaii as possible.

Yeah, most of the time, but not always. If we were flush, if somebody had some prize money, we'd hit $4.95 smorgasbord, all the Aussie and South Africans. One night we hit it so hard that when we returned two days later, it was $6.95. Just like that. Based on our performance. We were seen back then as a bit uncouth.

The White Whale Lounge, back when the hotel was still called the Kuilima. That's where you'd go to have a beer with Owl Chapman, or see the Aiku brothers, or have a chin-chin with Reno Abillera. It was a classic scene. All the barriers would come down. By the end of the night, it wasn't like we were the new crew, they were the old crew. We were all dancing, and having a ball. No animosity. That wasn't till the next year.

People often talk about yourself, Mark Richards, and Shaun Tomson in the same breath. But you three were really different people, with different backgrounds.

Well, MR and Shaun were similar in that their fathers played major roles in their development. They were groomed for success, from a very early age. I was groomed by my environment. I was groomed by Kirra and the Gold Coast. I was very much on my own, and kind of the wildcard.

As a kid, I was closest to PT. We went to school together; he was in my sister's class, two grades above me. We were in the same surfing club, we both represented Queensland, we went on a lot of surf trips together. Later of course I had a real affinity with Shaun and MR; particularly Shaun. We had a great rivalry, but we were close. I think because we're both well educated. I'll never forget this discussion we Shaun and I had, during that Pipeline swell at the end of 1975. We'd just had this amazing surf, and we were sitting in Shaun's beat-up car, knowing that over the winter we'd broken new ground. But here we were, both 20 years old, talking about what we were going to do when we grew up. There was no professional surfing. Shaun said he was going to go back home to finish his university degree. I said I was going to make a career out of surfing. I'll never forget that.

The two of you had different approaches to Pipe.

Well, Shaun was the pace-setter. No two ways about that. He broke the most ground for sure, and he got the most attention, and he totally deserved it. He had the best equipment at the time. With that rockered-out pink board, he could get up under the lip and really turn. That was just amazing at the time. My trip was more—I was just search and destroy. Shaun was this incredible technician. I was Attila the Hun.

Tell me about your relationship with Michael Peterson.

He was the other guy, besides PT, who I was close to in the early days. He wasn't part of the 

 era, because he was part of the Michael Peterson era.

Just a few years, yeah. But when you're 14 and the other guy is 17, it's a big difference.

You guys became super competitive with each other, but at first you were good friends.

I'd go to Michael's house in the morning, and the walls of his bedroom, every inch of space, was covered with photos of Nat Young—and a few shots of Wayne Lynch. Floor to ceiling. We'd sit in his room listening to Deep Purple, eat muesli and dried fruit, then go surf Kirra. This was '70, '71 and '72. Those were our years; those were the years MP and I shared.

Michael's arms went down to his ankles. And his hands, when he surfed, they shook all over the place. Nat had the same thing going before Michael, Elkerton had it after. Michael was an extension of Nat, pure and simple. He was a creature; he had this wild, creature-like relationship with waves. He had an animal instinct for surfing, more so than anyone I've ever seen.

You came to California in 1972 with Michael?

California first, then Hawaii, yeah. It was my first trip to both places, and it was the best trip of my life. This is what we did. We went to the 1972 world titles in San Diego. Michael was Aussie champ that year, and already kind of an underground hero in America. I was on the junior reserve team. I didn't get a start in the contest. I remember fans were dropping off bags of pot outside our hotel room door in San Diego. Anyway, the contest itself was a complete dud, but one night in the hotel we're talking to some guy, I don't remember who, and he looks at us and says, 'What are guys even doing here? Hawaii is where you should be right now.' Michael and I look at each other, nod, pack our bags, sneak out of the hotel and catch a ride to the airport. This was late September. Buy our tickets, no worries, check our bags, easy, then I go through the security no problem. MP walks through and all the bells go off. This was two weeks after Black Sunday in Munich, hijackings are taking place all over the world, everybody's uptight—and here comes Michael with hair down to here, leather jacket, and he's forgotten about the switchblade he bought in Mexico a week earlier, which is right there in his pocket. Two security guys are frog-marching him to who knows where. And I'm off to Hawaii for the first time, by myself. I was 17.

I sat there in the terminal and met every incoming flight from San Diego. For hours and hours, no sleep, just hoping that Michael was going to arrive. I was just about ready to panic, this was 9:00 PM the following night, when he finally strolled off the plane, cool as you please. I spent $60 for the cab ride to the North Shore, we got dropped off at Rocky Point and slept on the beach under a bush. Surfed Rockies all the next day, and that night we crawled up onto the patio of one of the Rocky Point A-frames, which happened to be Sam Hawk and Owl Chapman's place. They took us in, and we had the time of our lives.

The next year you went up to the Open division and started competing against MP.

, man. We became mortal enemies. We'd both make a final and he'd walk up, put his face six inches from mine, staring me out, then finally he'd say "You're a fuckin' kook Bugs. You're a kook and you'll never beat me." That went on and on, that kind of psyche. It went on for years, and I knew I had to counterattack, and that's a big part of why I became who I was as a surfer.

I've always thought that, more than the rest of the first-generation pros, you really needed a world title.

That your sense of self, then and now, had a lot to do with being champ.

I think you're right. I needed my world championship, yeah.

My title year was 1978. The year before, in '77, man-on-man surfing came along. That was the first real world tour, '76 was kind of a last-minute deal, nobody was ready for it. But '77 was real, and Shaun and I went hammer-and-tongs around the world that whole season, and in a really stupid move, I didn't go to Brazil that year. I instead went off with Harry Hodge to film 

. Had I gone to Brazil, I could have won the '77 title. That's the only regret of my entire career. On the other hand, losing was an easy thing to come to grips with. Shaun deserved to be a world champion.

There was not a single moment in '78 that I didn't think I'd win the world title. I owned that year. All the way. I didn't share the lead, ever. I won the Stubbies to get things started, and went wire-to-wire, lead the whole way, never looked back. In a way, really, 1979 is more interesting to me than '78.

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