Colonel Killgore’s words rattle in my head like the rain on the roof as I ease my 9’6” out of the rafters. The intoxicating smell of Mr Zog’s Sex Wax wax makes me smile and I carefully carry my museum piece to the truck. Number 39, built in 1967, bought from some stoner who needed weed money for $125 about 20 years ago. The board lives in the basement for 11 months of the year, but every August it comes to life at the Cape Cod Old Timers Longboard Contest.
For at least 30 years, the small community of Cape surfers has kept this homage to the golden era alive, holding it in late August rain or shine, flat calm or triple overhead. I missed my first one in 20 years last August, something about I was getting married that day….seriously tried to figure out if I could do both and make it to the altar on time.
The rules are quite simple: ride a board at least 9 feet tall made before 1975. No leashes, no wetsuits, no whining, no taking it too seriously. I think through all these stipulations as my windshield wipers worked away and the East wind gusts under my truck as I drive to Whitecrest Beach in Wellfleet. “This is f-ing stupid,” I’m thinking, “NOBODY will come today.”
Imagine my surprise when I arrive to a packed parking lot with about 150 people crowded around the lifeguard chair, watching a heat already in the water. Stomach-high easterly windslop rolled through the lineup, tinted red from the summer algae bloom known as “mung,” a hazard of summer Cape surf. Lugging the Yater down the hill, I hear the megaphone call for 41-50 “Corporate Types”…my heat. Super.
The boys from Jasper’s Surf Shop are yelling at me to get in the pre-heat line up, so I quickly change into trunks, stumbling as I put one foot clumsily through my Birdwell’s and inadvertently bare-ass a family of 6 enjoying the contest when my towel slips off. The “Puppies” (20-30) had already surfed, and the “Yuppies”(31-40) are flailing their way through the windblown swell in the final minute of their heat. I watch a twenty-something telling his girlfriend how cold it is out there…teeth chattering so hard I cringe.
“DOW! Let’s GO!”. I pull another slug off my Dark ‘n Stormy and run my board over to the judges’ stand. We line up in front of the crowd with our antiques standing up behind us…a 2-liter bottle of Ten High bourbon is passed down the line of pale, doughy, forty-somethings and we all grimace while trying to be 21-yr-old frat boys again. Each competitor is introduced over the loudspeaker (and ridiculed)…
“Jesus Billy, you need a bikini top for your man boobs!”
“Nice Tan Casper!”
The horn sounds and we run for the not-so-clean swell dumping on the beach. Did I mention there are no wetsuits? Holy Crap, August? A week of southerly swell has taken the water temps down into the 50’s, and as I feel the bite of wax on my stomach and chest I choke through a mouthful of mung-filled water and laugh to the guy next to me “God, I love this sport.”
By the grace of Neptune, I pull a clean left ride and one clean right among all the pearling, flailing, near collisions and El-Rollo’s. The judges mock us over the loudspeaker the entire time, finally ending our torture by sounding the horn and waving us in. I’m greeted by a local guy from the next heat asking frantically, “Can I borrow your board?” I hand the magic spoon off to him and head for dry clothes and a cup of the infamous Wipe-Out punch that has been created and handed down over the years. (Legend has it, you can actually refinish furniture with it.)
The guys in the 50-60 heat (Social Security) are where its at. They’re always the ones noseriding, headstanding, spinning, dead cockroaching, all in total garbage waves. You shoulda been there yesteryear, this is the group that was there for the days of glory back in the 60’s. Several have pristine Greg Noll “Da Cat” boards, some truly glorious Dewey Weber Performers, Hansen, Bing, G&S, the list goes on. You cannot help but feel pride in being a surfer as we watch these nearly retirement age guys give the break a going-over.
There are several more heats: Team Fat, the ladies, National Seashore Lifeguards and Legends: guys with names like Willie Wipe-Out, Bug, Fatass and Johnny Go Right. The waves get worse, and the tide fills in, dumping some of the women onto dry sand as they get to their feet. Everyone hoots and cheers when anybody does ANYTHING, and we all tilt another cup of Wipe-Out as they tally the results.
I didn’t win anything this year , maybe my family mooning incident hurt me. Guys have been penalized in the past for wearing trunks that were neon, paddling an illegal board, or just because they barfed in the lineup. My wife sometimes contends if you aren’t a local/native the fix is in, but I have won this great contest 4 times over the years with some pretty piss poor surfing.
I drive home in the dark, the Yater carefully padded on the tailgate of my truck, the smell of a new long-sleeve t-shirt on my body reminding me I now have 21 years in this contest behind me. The Spoon will go back in the rafters until next summer-hopefully our kids will ride it someday in the Old Timers 2035.
Colonel Killgore was right: “Charlie don’t Surf.” But I always will.
