Historian Matt Warshaw on childhood pal and surf-skate icon Jay Adams, dead at 53…

The historian, magazine editor and former pro surfer Matt Warshaw grew up and learned to surf and skate alongside Jay Adams, the Z-Boy who died in Mexico today of a heart attack.

In those pivotal years between eight and 13, in the years 1968 until 1973, the pair were fast pals. Warshaw was the only kid who wanted to surf and skate as much as Jay. “Against all odds, me a timid bookworm and him doing all this crazy shit, we became tight,” says Warshaw. “We would surf for hours and we’d skate for hours. That first summer together in 1969 his mom (Philane Romero) took us to the beach every single day and we pushed our surfing and skating.”

And so, this morning, after hearing about Jay’s death, and over half-an-hour or so, Warshaw told me the stories that made Jay great (his impossibly large charisma blended with his preternatural skill on whatever board) as well as the beliefs that made him cruel and difficult to be around (a hatred of gays, including a gay bashing murder charge and his addictions).

On Jay’s rebellion: “The whole thing about Jay bothered me at times. He was such a legend for being really hardcore anti-authority and I always laugh at that because he had nothing to fight against, nothing to rebel against. He had the best childhood. He was poor but as he told me over lunch he was a happy kid growing up with two adults who loved him. His step-dad Kent Sherwood was making surfboards and skateboards for him and he lived in an environment that was encouraging of surfing and skateboard and being who he wanted to be. The whole notion of Jay as a rebel strikes me as ridiculous.”

On rebellious icons like Jay: “But that said, all the charisma that came off him, he became a symbol for people. They want to have this larger-than-life character that makes surfing or skating cool and charismatic. Miki Dora was the same. You can’t take your eyes off people like Jay or Miki. Why is that? Why are we attracted to people doing things that are so weird and so different. And I have to admit, I’m as susceptible to it as everyone else. I was looking at photos today of Jay and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He just… glows, even in 40-year-old video clips.”

He was such a legend for being really hardcore anti-authority and I always laugh at that because he had nothing to fight against, nothing to rebel against. He had the best childhood. He grew up with two adults who loved him. His step-dad Kent Sherwood was making surfboards and skateboards for him and he lived in an environment that was encouraging of surfing and skateboard and being who he wanted to be. The whole notion of Jay as a rebel strikes me as ridiculous.”

The great Band-Aid commercial: “One of our friend’s parents worked in casting and he had us all answer this casting call for a Bandaid commercial. And we had to all get up in front of the camera and sing: ‘I am stuck on Band-Aids ’cause Band-Aids stuck on me.’ All us Venice kids trying to be cool and we all just sucked. We froze. And Jay got up and… nailed it. Boom. He gets the job. And then the day of the commercial he just blew it off. My parents asked me why Jay didn’t do the commercial and I didn’t have a clue but I knew it was just… cool. He just fucked it off. He didn’t care. There’s a really fine line between being incredibly stupid and incredibly cool and he walked it like a champion.”

On ADD: “He was out of his head, even as a kid. I’m 98 per cent sure he was ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). He was so charismatic at nine, 10, that you couldn’t believe it. We didn’t know what it meant, but we’d all gather around him like moths to a flame. We wanted to hang out with him but he was so…manic. You’d be waling along the sidewalk and, next thing, he’s picked up a rock and thrown it through a window for no reason.”

On Venice beach late sixties, early seventies: “We had total freedom. We were running our own show. From breakfast til dinner we were all on our own. It sounds great and I romanticise it but for a lot of kids it went really wrong. Some died, some didn’t get very far. It went bad for a lot of people and Jay’s one of ’em.”

When the friendship split: “He and I went separate ways when he hit it big as a skater. I was on the Zephyr surf team but not the skate team. He had this rocket ride to skate stardom. And that’s when the shit started to get weird. For years afterward, I’d get all this bad news… Jay’s doing drugs… Jay’s broke… it would all come to me from people who knew we’d been friends.”

Jay as a skinhead: “After the stardom went away he went really, really hardcore punk with shadings of white supremacy. Skinhead stuff. It was really, really ugly. There was a gay bashing, a gay murder charge, which was horrible. He did time for meth. I saw him on the North Shore in 1990, he was really wired, he came in, and then ran out of the side door. A couple of years later, I saw him at a trade show and he was so high he had no recognition of me.”

Jay reconnects of FB: “A could of years ago, he friended me on Facebook. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him or talk to him again but I accepted his friend request and we started talking on Facebook. And then we had lunch together at Santa Monica. The weird part about that was he’d become a hard-core Born Again but he was on the rabid right side of Christianity and he was really, really bummed about all the gay rights stuff that was going through. That was really hard to hear. He’d go on all these rants about “gays killing America.” One of our best friends, Johanna Johnson, she was transgender and she actually had the operation (from she to he) and he’s one of the sweetest human beings – we all fought to get her time and attention. And Jay started ranting about Johanna going to hell. I didn’t want to hear about it or know about it. I unfriended him for a while after that. And then eight months ago we friended again on Facebook, for what that’s worth.”

But childhood memories last: “When we talked of our childhood, about what we had, that was nice and that’s forever. When someone’s with you when you’re doing something as profound as growing up and surfing, that gets you past all kinds of other shit. When I heard he’d died I was crushed. Part of my childhood dies off with that too…”

Guns, suds and cheap food. What more could a gal want?

Last year, Noa  Deane slipped into the USA to chase waves and photos. Based in Malibu with Dillon Perillo and, later, Santa Babs with BeachGrit’s Morgan Massen, Noa flew to Mexico twice (first, with Dillon and Sterling Spencer) and then with Craig Anderson and Dane Reynolds. His journeying was rewarded with many waves and a short film, by Maassen (a new edit is coming very soon to BeachGrit).

During his work vay-cay, Noa got to indulge in that wondrous triumvirate of American greatness: weak, cheap suds, nasty, cheap food and cheap, over-the-counter guns.

BeachGrit: You love American beer, food and guns…but why?

Noa: I love how cheap beer is in America. It must be 10 bucks for a 12-pack. It’s ridiculous. Less than a dollar for a beer. Morgan (the photographer) hates it. He was freaking out that I was drinking it. I’d make him buy me 12-packs of Pabst Brewing Company beer and take me to In-N-Out and eat hell crappy food.

BeachGrit: How many 12 packs did you mow through?

“It’s so unhealthy and cheap. It’s everything I want. Everyone’s all gluten-free and shit but it’s so hard to do that when you’re not earning a million bucks a year. It costs a lot to do that.”

Noa: Four or five. I was only there for a week. Six beers a day or something. They’re really weak do you don’t get too fucked up on ’em. I mean, you do if you have a 12-pack, but not if you have a six-y.

BeachGrit: Tell me what you like about guns?

Noa: I like the away they look, though not the fact they can kill. It’s a powerful fucking thing in your hands. It’s a weird feeling. You’ve got a gun with a bullet that can kill someone. Is it sexy? Yeah.

BeachGrit: When are you happiest in the USA?

Noa: I was bummed the whole trip because Morgan wouldn’t take me to In-N-Out Burger and as soon I get one of those burgers and one of those shakes, I was the happiest man ever. The burger’s a double double with onion and I flip the tomato off – of course, because I don’t like tomatoes – and then they got this weird, Thousand Island orange sauce with onions chopped up through it. It’s fucked up. And then the fries, you order ’em Animal Style and they put two slices of cheese on it and more of the orange sauce on top of that. And then you get this shake that’s so thick it won’t even come up the straw. It’s so unhealthy and cheap. It’s everything I want in one thing. Everyone’s all gluten-free and shit but it’s so hard to do that when you’re not earning a million bucks a year. It costs a lot to do that.

BeachGrit: Do you ever feel disconnected from Australian culture particularly after a stint in the US?

Noa: I like it more after being in the US. Going to the pub, getting a counter meal and a beer is pretty fucked up. It’s amazing. I did it last night, I probably do it a couple of nights a week. It’s cheap and the beer tastes so much better. You come back here and you get a schooner of VB or New and it’s so flavoursome. In winter, you can get the beer and the counter meal for 15 bucks. It’s a warm meal and there’s a standard that counter meals uphold, a good standard. You know you’ll never have a bad one, you’ll never have an amazing one, true, but you can trust ’em. It’s not like a sketchy Indian restaurant that you can’t trust. You can go to any pub and it’ll be good. And the beer’s the same. It’s sick

 

Surfing's most desirable 20 year old on psychic traumas and Oedipus complexes…

How much more pleasant are the simple, straightforward intense emotions of a dog? He wags his tail or he barks his displeasure. But for a young man on the make, like Creed McTaggart, lately seen in the Joe G/Globe film Strange Rumblings in Shangri-La, existence is more complex. All those stray impulses!

Here, over two separate interviews, BeachGrit attempts to unspool, via psychoanalysis, the labyrinth of Creed McTaggart’s unconscious.

FEARS: I freak out about stability. I feel like in this surfing game, you don’t really know how long it’s going to last and what’s going to happen. I see so many fucking good surfers and really amazing people that just get dropped and within months they’re just gone. I always freak out about that. I feel guilty if I’m doing fuck-all at home or partying too much. I feel like I don’t want to waste it. When you think about it, it’s like living 10 lives in one.

ON BEING UNIQUE: I don’t strive to be unique. I strive to fucking be myself.

ON COURAGE: I wouldn’t call myself a brave person. I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I fucking quit school. I wish I didn’t quit school. I really liked school.

ON THE FATHER-SON RELATIONSHIP: When I was 13 I wanted to be strong like him so I’d have two protein shakes a day and I went boxing training for six years. But it never really worked. By the time I was 17, I just went, fuck that.

DRIVING CARS:  It’s really scary for me. I feel like I don’t belong on the road. If there’s someone tailgating me, for example, I freak out and speed up. I’m semi-dyslexic and I always to forget to fucking turn on the lights and the windscreen wipers. All that pressure! Once you’re on the road, you’re part of a family, a whole family, but no one likes you and everyone gets road rage. It’s this one giant seething organism trying to get to this place and that place and  I’m stuck in the middle cutting people off, totally oblivious, just trying to learn. I just fuck with my own head, really. It’s probably not like that. I get really nervous and anxious.

ON COACHES: Coaches fucking piss me off. I did four ISAs and I just fucking hated it. It’s such a weird vibe. So intense. It didn’t feel real. It felt fake and I hate coaches telling you where to put your arms when you surf. I’ve always want to surf how I wanted to surf.

“I feel like I don’t belong on the road. All that pressure! Once you’re on the road, you’re part of a family, a whole family, but no one likes you and everyone gets road rage. It’s this one giant seething organism trying to get to this place and that place and  I’m stuck in the middle cutting people off, totally oblivious, just trying to learn.”

ON MARIJUANA: There’s a time and a place. Coming from Margaret River there’s a lot of kids I went to school with who got into it too hard and they smoke billies all day and do fuck all. That’s really sad. I don’t rate that.

ON HEAVEN: There’s a heaven I enjoy by myself where I’m lying in bed and it’s thunder storming outside and I’m all cosy and I’m reading a book or listening to music and there’ll be moments where I think, fuck this is heaven. And then there’s the other type of heaven with your friends, having beers in the afternoon. I get a lot of flashes of heaven. More heavens than hell, I try to make it.

 

When a surfer gets old it ain't golden pussy and endless summers anymore. A weekly online serial.

Fucking ukuleles. Fucking rich baby shits with their straight white teeth and trust funds lives. Strumming some faggot song with their little bitch birds hovering around a store bought campfire. Playing at being soul boys for a few days until they pack up and head north to their dorm rooms and credit cards. All a man wants is some peace and quiet and what does he find? Poseur brats with lifted trucks and boutique huaraches. Lank blonde dreadlocks woven with plastic beads, pseudo-progressive bullshit spewing from their idiot mouths.

I got fucked in Mexico. Swindled by two bit beaners, left to scrape together what I could. Sold off the condo piecemeal.  Fixtures, tile, plumbing, molding, furniture… twenty fucking grand. Twenty grand for my life’s saving. Combined with what I had left there might be enough to live off. If I’m lucky enough to drop dead in half a decade.

Listen to their little sing a long. Stupid fucking children, whole waste of a life ahead of them. I can’t wait for them to live it. The little blonde in the corner. I hope her husband beats her. I hope her womb drys up. I hope her dreams rot. I wish she was fucking dead.

I slunk back to San Diego and bought a shitty van and a sleeping bag. Found a nigger on Craigslist who was willing to sell me a shotgun for eight hundred bucks. For fifty more he tossed in some shells. It’s wrapped in blankets in the back of the van, under a board I don’t ride. I keep it loaded. I’ve never fired it.

You don’t get searched going into Mexico, not when you’re a broken down old man heading south to die. Tecate stinks, Tijuana’s nothing but filth and frat boy faggots looking to get their cocks sucked by some dried up beaner whore. A beggar brat steps in front of my van and I’m tempted to run him down.

“I read about a man named Kehoe. They took everything from him. Left him broken, destitute. He burned his farm, wired his horses’ legs together so they couldn’t escape the flames. He’d hidden bombs throughout a local school. Killed thirty-six kids that day. He filled his truck with scrap metal and dynamite and drove to the scene. Blew himself up out front, killed six more people.”

I filled my cooler in San Quintin and drove until I felt alone. Took a dirt road west and tucked in above an empty cove, nothing but desert scrub and rotting seaweed to keep me company. I had an entire day of solitude. They came roaring in. Music blaring; laughing, smiling, naive little shits with no sense of decency or respect. They made camp not twenty yards away and had the gall to ask if I had extra firewood.

I read about a man named Kehoe. They took everything from him. Left him broken, destitute. He burned his farm, wired his horses’ legs together so they couldn’t escape the flames. He’d hidden bombs throughout a local school. Killed thirty-six kids that day. He filled his truck with scrap metal and dynamite and drove to the scene. Blew himself up out front, killed six more people.

Won.

I could leave. Tuck my tail like the good beaten dog and scuttle away. Spend every day running, hiding, living like a shadow of a man. No reason to live, no reason to care. Dry up and blow away.

But I won’t, I can’t. This is mine. Here, now, mine. I let these brats beat me, where does it end? I’m worth something. More than them.

I cook dinner in the fire, canned food in the coals. I don’t bother with a light, just grab what’s at hand. When it’s ready I burn myself picking it up, and drop it into the flames.

Motherfucker. I can hear one of the brats laughing. At me. Because I’m a joke, the big funny loser joke, nothing and no one, eating his canned garbage in a shit van in some fucking desert hell hole. They make me sick.

I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I watch them play their stupid little pubescent games, nothing but hormones and hope and trust in the future. They’ve started to pair off, no doubt a few of the bitches will fill themselves with greasy little cocks before the night’s done.

One of them notices me watching. Starts to stand, then sits back down and waves.

“Hey buddy, what’s up? You want to come join us? There’s plenty of room.”

Fucking brat.  Fucking stuck up, silver spoon, daddy’s boy prick.

“Man, you okay?”

“Just leave him alone.  He’s creeping me out.”  That little blonde slut.  She’s got her hand on his leg.  Little fucking cunt.

The shotgun’s where I left it.