“I wear my Sunglasses at Night” while I’m surfing in my Pink wetsuit on a 5’9” Simon Anderson Thruster!

I was in quandary, and knew that at some point I’d be forced to trudge this path and sift through the detritus of my surfing past for something of worth for “Simon Says”. Whilst flipping through those well-thumbed pages of surfing nostalgia the neons of the 80s managed to catch my eye, pterygiums and all. Soon enough my face was smeared with neon zinc oxide, The Police were “Watching Every Breath I Take”, and I was dreaming in checkerboard graphics. The big swell of ’82, Robin Auld at Kalk Bay, Martin Potter fins free at the Bay of Plenty on that black and yellow T&C board – you know the one- I was at home. While the circus maximus of the Spur Steakranch Surfabout was doing its thing at the Outer Kom I was bumbling about at Cemetery on my Bordello quad in a howling north wester with some school mates.

Before the net, cellphones and MP3s there were the 80s - the “Me Generation” wedged between Bee Gees disco flare and the smelly nirvana that was Kurt Cobain. The 80’s were my surfing summer, my heyday punctuated by suburban train surfaris, the edible scent of Mr Zog’s Raspberry flavoured Sex Wax, blanket jackets from Pep, and The Corner on crisp Autumn mornings. Sometimes a berg wind would carry us over Chappies to dreamy high tide A-Frames, that’s if we could coerce a Mom into making the drive. Even though we cursed our wetsuits, the endless summer days of the 80s stretched on forever, give or take the 6 to 8 weeks of the Christmas hols.

Being young and a surfer in the 80s was great, and at times life felt like an endless long weekend, despite crotch busting boardshorts and wetsuits with detachable arms (possibly the most dysfunctional surf accessory of the decade). Was life simpler back then for isolationist South African surfers? I’m not sure, but éVoid, Bright Blue and the Gereformeerde Blues Band played our soundtrack. ZigZag put words to our stoke, complete with the most rudimentary layouts and blown-out photos of mysto spots, made all the more ominous in high contrast black and white. Groms shivered in damp blanket jackets and Ballies grumbled over their Ricoffy. At times paddleskiers, windsurfers and even bodyboarders clawed their way into those kooky layouts.

Paddleskiers were a waterborne virus that reached almost epidemic proportions in the 80s, infecting almost every spot, and inspiring a loathing best compared to the current SUP infestation. Surfing and Surfer gave us Kodachrome snapshots of the “real world”; but what was it about surf videos that brought out the worst in Sony’s Betamax format? Stretched tapes turned surf slang into Klingon, and those ubiquitous blizzards of grain transformed Backdoor into K2, but hey that was half the fun of 80s surf videos.

The 80s also marked the advent of the surf label. Instinct drawstring trousers in Miami Vice pastels were de rigueur urban wear for any self-respecting surfer, often accompanied by Oakley Frogskins and oversized shoulder pads. These bizarre fashion ensembles were almost always topped off by dubious New Romantic fringes complete with sun kissed highlights. Duran Duran, The Cure and Ultravox didn’t know rail from rocker but fashion conscious surfers were never far from their trusty hair dryers in the hope of emulating those Wild Boys; or where they girls? Perhaps these coiffured surfing fashionistas were salty precursors to that emasculated phenomenon of the 21st Century; the Metrosexual? Who knows, but an equally irritating regional fashion trend flourished; the so-called “ethno-bongo” look. This egregious attempt at coming to terms with Africa was proof enough that the South African surf scene was a hub of Post Modern eclecticism. Ethnic prints, dutifully unwashed tangled locks and loping bare feet through upmarket shopping centres were quintessential “ethno-bongo” surfer statements. Sadly they still are, but in the guise of the “Trustafarian”, give or take a nasty parasitic skin infection or two.

Surfboard design progressed at a phenomenal rate, from MR Twinnies to that quantum leap in surfboard design; Simon Anderson’s Thruster. By the close of the decade, surfers were riding quads, thrusters, paper thin Persian slippers and even longboards. Pop Tom Morey’s marshmallow in the microwave(s), and soon enough summer stoke was in the reach of landlubbers who normally preferred 16 holes with their corporate mates on the weekend. Even country bumpkins from the hinterland were getting wet. Boogieboards and paddleskis would make the invention of the “gook cord” look like a three stroke paddle out. More folk took to wave-riding in the 80s than the soul kinders of the 70s could have ever imagined.

It was love at first sight, suddenly Surfing had a fiancé; and she was a leggy blond called Commercialism. The old adage “Chicks and sticks don’t mix” was also blown out to sea by local wunderkind Wendy Botha, but Roxy mania was still a decade in the making. Average 80s surfer girls preferred “klapping” their errant boyfriends than “hitting the lip” of their local spot, but that would all change.

Going vertical and even ‘beyond vert’ were ambitious 80s moves borrowed from the backyard pools and skate parks of the late 70s. Re-entries, snaps, white-water rebounds and fins free lip gouges screamed skateboarding. The rip, tear, lacerate surf skate synthesis would pave the way for another skate inspired move; “the aerial”. Yes, surfers were ‘getting air’ but it was no more than an exploratory test flight. Most surfers would eject on an aerial but only a select few would surf away from a wobbly landing. Surf photographers relished the creative possibilities of the aerial domain, and surf mags splashed photos of surfers “getting air” across their pages. Mindsets would change and paradigms shift; surfing was amputating the 70s with a rusty chainsaw.

80s wetsuits were one long leaky experiment. Wetsuits wailed in girly hues, acid greens and muted blues, but most surfers survived if a little chilly, only to be presented with an accessory worthy of a hamster’s intellect - the webbed paddling glove. Thankfully, most “Webs” were hacked to bits and used as butt patches. Rip Curl and O’Neill were coveted by most surfers, but Reef and Zero were local staples. Rash vests were unheard of but a trusty jar of Vaseline was always in reach, and used in copious amounts towards the end of a good swell. Vast quantities of petroleum jelly always managed to find its way onto the rails of your Faith twin fin, and the consequences normally had the makings of a slasher movie. Another crackbrained 80s fashion involved wearing a single bootie, usually on one’s back foot. Considering the cut and quality of the average bootie back then, surfers would have been better off wearing a gumboot duct-taped to their wetsuit.

Slithering silently in those long summer shadows was a darker side to the decade for white South African surfers. It was a place of foreboding and darn right fear, a two year wave drought some called a ‘right of passage’ and others, a ‘violation of rights’ - Conscription. Call-up was a reality for most, and stalling tactics included pulling a doctorate out of your boardbag, or for the affluent set, simply escaping to your parent’s London pad for a 2 year jol. A few brave souls refused to serve and the ECC (End Conscription Campaign) screamed blue murder in the face of a finger-waving colossus, but in most cases a lengthy prison term ensued. Some never bothered to get back in the water after “Nationale Diensplig”. The Border, Townships and even “Basics” had a way of sucking the marrow from many young men’s souls, but that’s another story.

By the close of the decade the “New Wave” was no more than a shoreline dribble. Surfing was becoming a highly profitable cash cow, and that “Best of the 80s” cassette had been fast forwarded one too many times. The excesses of Yuppiedom had reached its apogee, and would give way to the kids of Generation X, Seattle Grunge and the throb of Trance. The party was over, our Summer of Love was kaput. Long live the 80s!