Shocking: “I surf better than Dane!”

Do you believe Danger Mouse Reynolds is the best surfer in the world? Think again!

Memory. I was a ten-year-old wanna-be competitive surfer living in Santa Cruz. I forced my Mom to drive me down south every month for the NSSA contests which, back then, were like the WSL of amateur surfing, minus exploding phones and #TourNotes.

But, National Scholastic Surfing Federation…tha fuck?

Scholastic?

My buddy couldn’t keep a 2.0 GPA and was stripped of his open men’s Western Championship victory ‘cause he wasn’t “scholarly” enough. Side-note: the guy who placed second, Travis Mellem, began listing the title on media as one of his accolades. That’s worse than setting up a GoFundMe account to mount a WQS campaign!

We became pretty good friends, but it was more like “I saw that Surfing cover of you in South Africa…how gnarly was that!” instead of “Dane! You got dinner plans?” He was always very quiet and nice, but he and another few competitors would hang out inside the officials’ tent in between heats. That was weird.

Regardless, if you wanted free shit and cool guy stickers on your board, you had to compete. Despite the association with school, our Santa Cruz crew did our best to tip toe around that ugly word and please our sponsors while still being little punks: packing chews, taking bong hits in the sand dunes, wrestling and thrashing around the parking lots on our skates. We had some contenders, guys like Bud Freitas and Noi Kaulukukui. Mostly, I would head back up Highway 1 with a plastic fifth place trophy and sunburn. If I was lucky.

I did have my moment in the sun, however. I beat the star of Dear Suburbia, of Cluster, of Chapter 11, Dane Reynolds!

Let me set the scene. I’ve known Dane for twenty years. The first time I saw him surf in was my very first NSSA event, held at Ventura Harbor, a truly world-class break. Before the heat I saw this little buck-toothed kid standing around in his jersey wearing a hole-ridden O’Neill wetsuit but with Rip Curl and Hardware (remember them?!) stickers on the nose of Channel Islands board. Believe it or not, this was a big deal. Fuckin kid thinks some stickers on his board’s gonna take me out? Poser!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!

The hooter sounded and our heat was on. Reynolds was first up. Any notions I had about this kid’s legitimacy were silenced as I watched from the back. Dane blew his fins out six times on a two-foot left.

Being ten days older than Dane, we were locked into the same division for the following seven years. As he grew in stature and profile, the whiz kid would perform, every contest, as though he was blindfolded and we were riding inflatable zebras instead surfboards. Crazy, inverted backside carving 360 on a six-foot close out at Pismo Pier. Searing gaffs and big airs. It was like he was alien or, perhaps “touched by an angel”. I know people have claimed this kind of shit about Slater, but when you consistently crank out the most mind boggling shit imaginable every time you paddle out, people are going to shout “reptilian”. So when Dane talks about losing all the time in Chapter 11, he’s full of shit. He could have filled a pick-up truck with all the trophies he collected as an amateur.

So I continued to compete. I crafted a DR voodoo doll and ritually gored it with needles. My efforts were in vain. Every month, he’d show up, limbs and vision intact. I gave up on the black magic and just accepted my lashes and the fact we were men among the company of a god and we had front row tickets to his performance.

We became pretty good friends, but it was more like “I saw that Surfing cover of you in South Africa…how gnarly was that!” instead of “Dane! You got dinner plans?” He was always very quiet and nice, but he and another few competitors would hang out inside the officials’ tent in between heats. That was weird.

Dane was gnarly. Not Geoff Brack gnarly but Kelly Slater gnarly. However, I would have my day. I would surf better than Dane Reynolds. My mom told me to get into yoga, to work on my competitive strategy, meditation and maybe, just maybe, I’d get to his level.

I didn’t buy it. The kid was just too damn good, breezing through wins with his eyes closed. Every once in a while he’d ride an egg or a weird fish just ’cause he could.

However, I did best himand I will carry this victory close to my heart until the day I die. Even more than my equal seventh at the Kustom Tahara Pro Junior in 2005 in Japan. Is Kustom still a thing? I remember thinking it was so edgy when they came out. I mean, they spelled custom with a K. Genius.

Back to the aforementioned victory. It was the year 2000. Eminem was shocking the world and N’SYNC were wetting the panties. The location was Port Hueneme in Oxnard. WhyyyyKneeMe? WhynotSilverStrand??!! For how much quality surf on the stretch of Oxnard to Santa Cruz, in the NSSA Goldwest Explorer Division (whatever that hell that means), we would routinely get skunked. This event was no different. Shit wind. Shit tide. Shit waves. Standard issue. I had just moved up into the 15-to-17 year old junior division. And that meant I was just a minnow among nearly grown men. I’m not too sure of what I did to make it through to the final, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say luck factored pretty heavily.

The only other person I remember being in that heat was Nathaniel Curran, who still surfs really well, likes to go fast, and babysits the Channel Islands surfboard team. Nathaniel was really the only one who could give Dane a run for his money. That didn’t last too long, but in this heat, Nate Dog was Regulating. I was surfing the peak to the south, which was providing a few chippy lefts. Being a goofyfooter from the land of righthand point breaks, I figured this would give me a chance to hone my frontside attack. Actually it was just an attempt to give me some breathing room from Nathaniel and Dane, who were surfing the rights about 100 yards north.

Nathaniel owned the final. I remember watching in agony as he tore the shit out of wave after wave. For once however, I was in the zone. I caught a little wedge left and did a few snaps and buckin’ bronco butt wiggles. Where was Dane? I saw him catch a pretty decent right, but as the time ran out (fifteen minutes is not a long time to catch two quality rides when it’s flat dogshit), it was clear that he didn’t have a good backup wave.

With about two minutes left in the heat, another wedge came my way. I scratched harder than Adriano De Souza, popped up and began to string together another pair of gaffs with a little drop wallet on the end section.

The ocean went dead and the buzzer hooted. I felt pretty confident with my two keepers. Still, I saw Nathaniel murder at least three waves and the thought of beating Dane did not compute in my adolescent, drug-muddled mind. There were no live scores so we had to wait until the awards ceremony to find out how we placed. The fateful hour arrived, and Dane, Nathaniel, myself, and the three other competitors all lined up in front of the scaffolding for the awards ceremony.

Janice, the beach marshal began announcing the results. Name after name began being called. Not another fifth place? My arse puckered. Fourth place, not me. Then, by the grace of Satan, Dane was awarded the third place trophy! I’d slayed Goliath! Of course Nathaniel won, but for a brief moment, I had felt like I’d won the Eddie or Pipe Masters.

Of course, I’ve never surfed better than Dane Reynolds. A random fluke. Stroke of good luck, call it what you may, but I will carry this result as a badge of honor until I’m pushing up daisies.

I saw Dane at Keramas in 2008. I paddled up to him to rap out and he looked at me like he didn’t know me. Maybe it was just a momentary lapse of memory, but I felt like it may have been due to the fact that he was being worshiped worldwide at the point in his career. Then again, maybe it’s due to the fact that I’m just a cynical and sensitive bastard. After reintroducing myself, I paddled away feeling hurt and confused. Why wouldn’t my old chum greet me with enthusiasm and open arms?!

Wait! Maybe it was because I bested him that day at Port Hueneme! Blood Feud?

I paddled away and saw him do a six-foot lien grab air from the back. He looked like an alien blasting off to return to his (reptilian?) planet. That air scored him the cover of Transworld Surf. So yeah, for fifteen minutes, in the shittiest of surf, I surfed better than Dane Fuckin’ Reynolds.

Me.