BOARDING
SCHOOL
By
Corey Levitan
Once every 10 years, Bruce Brown receives
a
slew of
calls from East Coast reporters.
"To what do you attribute the new
popularity of surfing?" they ask.
Brown always gives the same answer:
"(Expletive)!
Why do you guys call me every 10
years
and ask the same question?"
Brown -- surfing's most legendary
filmmaker --
doesn't
notice his favorite sport wading in and
out of
pop culture. To him, it's an endless
lifestyle.
Nevertheless, a new wave of interest is
being
stirred
by "Blue Crush," the surfer-babe movie
opening
Friday with Michelle Rodriguez and Kate
Bosworth.
And Brown once again finds himself
riding
the curl of that wave. Turner Classic
Movies
is presenting eight of his documentaries,
two at
a time, every Sunday in August.
Hosted by Brown, the series launched last
weekend
with his classic "The Endless
Summer,"
the
true story of two teenage surfers circling the
globe
in pursuit of the perfect wave. Brown shot
the
1966 movie with a wind-up Bolex camera and
$50,000.
It earned $30 million.
"It used to piss us off when they
made 'Beach
Blanket
Bingo' movies," says Brown, 64, who began
surfing
in his Southern California hometown of
Long
Beach as a teenager in the '50s. "We were
trying
to make surfing respectable."
The call Brown receives from this East
Coast
reporter
is in person. The Post has sent me out to
his
home surf, near Santa Barbara. But rather than
just
ask about surfing, they decided to test the
man
dubbed "Chairman of the Boards" by
Entertainment
Weekly.
Is Brown worthy enough to make a surfer
of
this
chicken of the sea?
As far back as junior high on Long Island,
I
was
accused of looking like a surfer dude.
However,
although I've lived no more than five
miles
from ocean my entire life, the only waves I
ride
are brain waves -- and most not even to
completion.
Brown tears his four-wheel drive Honda
across
a half
hour's worth of winding coastal mountains
like a
fly across a diner. (Raleigh car racing is
his new
kick.)
"Unfortunately for you, the surf's
come up all
over
and it's huge," Bruce says, pointing out the
crystal-blue
Pacific. "It's not a good day for
learning."
A Southern Hemisphere swell has ventured
in
from
New Zealand, he explains.
"These waves have had 8,000 miles to
gain
strength
and kill unsuspecting reporters," Brown
says.
(One way or another, a story about today
will
run.)
"But I know a place where the waves
won't kill
you,"
Brown says. "You may only lose some front
teeth."
We arrive at an 8-mile-long stretch of
pristine
coastline gated off to the public.
"If you tell anybody where we are, a
big
Hawaiian
guy is gonna break your femurs," Bruce
says.
"Not just one, but both."
The waves don't look scary from the
shoreline.
They're
more like the ones the Monkees fled on
their
TV show.
"Wait until you try to ride
them," Bruce says.
The humbling process begins on shore. All
the
power
my right foot can muster won't squeeze it
through
the opening in Brown's extra wetsuit.
"That's the sleeve!" yells
photographer David
Pu'u,
laughing.
I request a board without the regulation
leash.
Tying a surfboard to your ankle does not
strike
me as the most efficient way to not get
conked
in the head by it.
Moot point. Mine has no ankle tie. It
barely
has a
tie to surfing. Called the "Half-Day Boat,"
it is a
giant fiberglass banana built by Robert
August,
co-star of "The Endless Summer," for the
express
purpose of fishing. It is so big and
buoyant,
Brown and his friends sit on it, poking
their
line through holes dotting its edges.
"Paddle out to me!" shouts
Bruce's son Wade, a
40-year-old
soundtrack musician tagging along
because
his father, a heavy smoker and drinker,
hasn't
surfed in a year and fears he's out of
shape.
I enjoy the taste of seaweed wrapped
around my
sushi.
However, when wrapped around my sinuses,
not so
much. I now discover how Tom Hanks felt
trying
to escape the island in "Cast Away." Each
sudsy
wall of bricks rams me backward five
paddles,
as icy brine gushes into holes in my head
I
didn't know I had.
Wade grabs my banana boat and turns it
around.
He
waits for a "green" wave to launch me upon (one
that has
not already broken).
"Those are easier to ride," he
promises.
From eye level, the waves each look like
the
tsunami
from "The Perfect Storm."
"Here's the one!" Wade
pronounces.
The board starts gaining speed without my
consent.
Attempting to shift from my stomach to my
feet, I
shift instead into a new sport: diving.
The
coursing whitewater yanks my arms, legs and
head in
different directions as I plunge deeper
than
WorldCom stock. And, despite its lack of a
leash,
the Half-Day Boat proves a precise head-
seeking
missile, delivering the much-dreaded conk
as it
rockets up from the abyss.
Cue the ABC Wide World of Sports
"agony of
defeat"
music.
"Are you still alive?" Wade asks
when I emerge
10
seconds later. "Paddle out again!"
Bruce assesses my problem as "trying
to stand
up too
quick," before getting a feel for my center
of
balance. But I don't know how my balance can be
off. My
feet are size 10 1/2, my body 5'6". I'm
surprised
that I've ever fallen in my life; I
should
always pop back up like a Weeble.
My next run endangers not only my life, but Bruce's, who is directly in my steerless path.
"I killed the Chairman of the
Boards!" I yell
as I
slice into his head with my giant yellow
blade.
Bruce emerges, his right eye red with
blood,
but
flashes the OK sign and smiles. I apologize
over
and over.
"That's OK, I'll kill you on the ride
home,"
Bruce
jokes (I hope).
After three more tries, I manage to stand
for
about a
millisecond before wiping out onto ocean-
bottom
rocks that tear a small gash in my toe.
I did it. I hung about a 1.5 instead of
10,
but I
did it. I'm now a surfer dude.
Overcome by the desire to celebrate my
achievement
by dancing to bad guitar music on a
blanket,
I scan the shoreline for Frankie Avalon
and
Annette Funicello.
"Not bad," says Bruce, who
claims I can star
in his
next surfing movie.
"Yeah, if I ever make 'Dorf on
Surfing.'"
