Phil Jarratt’s tenure as Tracks editor between 1975-1978 put him at the epicentre of surf culture during a period of dramatic evolution. Phil was uniquely positioned to observe and document the genesis of professional surfing, the rise of the surfing industry and the counter-culture purists who continued to rail against both. In this new column Phil reflects on the colourful characters, farcical adventures and timeless moments from his career as a writer and surf industry figure.
I’ve seen a lot of these over the years, and my personal award goes to Freddie Pattachia for his brilliant Snapper left into the rocks – an excruciating and agonising portrayal of the depth of frustration felt, but left unsaid, by many of the competitors at the wave-starved Quiksilver Pro. The perfect dummy spit – point made, no one hurt. Unfortunately Freddie’s one-act tragedy was overshadowed by the petulant on-air obscenity of the reigning world champion, a lame display of immaturity that was soon forgiven and all but forgotten, as it should be. Call that a spray? Bobby Martinez telling it like it is at the Quik Pro New York, now that’s a spray! And who can ever forget the Kliney cringe as he threw back to the studio, whereas Pete Mel’s hasty cut-off was so white bread sportscaster that you almost forgot that the guy is a real surfer.
Surfers on the WSL these days are playing for serious stakes, but in the early Tracks years there was little or no money on the line. This didn’t mean their dummy spits were any less venomous, however. The original Nat Young was one of the most volatile throughout his career, but he raised the bar at the Australian titles at Greenmount in 1970, just a couple of months ahead of Tracks’ first issue.
The person formerly known as Peter Drouyn was beating him hands down, and Nat, looking for top gear, snapped with all his power and broke his fin out on a rock. In front of a big crowd, he staged a full meltdown, bellowing obscenities and punching holes in his board. Watching from the hill, Rabbit Bartholomew recalled that a small, middle-aged man in Bermuda socks and shorts, puffing on a pipe, quietly descended the stairs to the beach, grabbed Nat firmly by the arm, despite giving him at least a foot in height, and led him away. “It was like a horse whisperer,” said Rabbit.
The horse whisperer was Australian Surfing Association pioneer Stan Couper, and this was neither the first nor last time his quiet authority was called upon to save us from ourselves.
Michael Peterson inherited the chief dummy spitter mantle from Nat, making a memorable debut at the Australian Titles at Margaret River in 1973 when Richard Harvey was the man to beat. MP prowled the line-up throughout the final, abusing the other competitors and blatantly dropping in. When he was inevitably called for interference, he confronted the judges with a shower of white spittle and invective before spinning wheels in the car park and heading for the airport, in what would become the time-honoured fashion.
During my Tracks editorship MP became a friend, although he sometimes had a strange way of expressing it. He wasn’t very friendly when I had Captain Goodvibes artist Tony Edwards draw a briefcase in his hand and we put the picture on the cover. He was the best pro surfer in the world at the time, and the doctored picture was meant to represent another day at the office, getting down to business etc. The really funny thing was that MP often did turn up places with a briefcase!
In Sydney for the Coke contest, he spat the dummy big time, threatening me with all manner of violent retribution. But next time I saw him, two days later, it was “G’day, Chine,” again.
Terry Fitzgerald, another surfer who became a lifelong friend, also blew up over a made-up cover story, “Get Your Fins From Fair Deal Fitz”. As far as I can recall, Terry never hit me, although I did see him get very physical one time on Phillip Island when Paul Neilsen lobbed an egg that splattered all over his Panama hat. When we put the Bronzed Aussies onto a very dodgy cornflakes box cover, all hell broke loose again. Mark Warren saw the funny side, and PT soon came around, but it took Ian Cairns a few years.
This became the pattern of those formative years of the pro tour. The dummy spits about our coverage of the dummy spits on and off the beach were far bigger and far more life-threatening, and sometimes just as public. Even the cool outsider guys were susceptible. When Owl Chapman sidled up to me at a competitors meeting (in a bar, of course) and said, “These surfers are so serious you’d think they just walked through Customs with a suitcase of smack,” I duly reported it verbatim. The next time I saw him, Owl said: “I read what you wrote, man, and it stinks. You’re just vermin.” I reported that too.
The problem was that we – and I include Frank Pithers and Steve Cooney in this – couldn’t take it seriously. It was just a handful of guys (and a few very odd chicks) travelling the world, behaving badly and having a lot of fun. There were no tour millionaires, no rule books.
If I was covering the tour today, I’m sure I’d take a different view, which is one of many reasons (including decrepitude) why I’m not.
