. . . Imagine the vast spaces of that era’s oceanfront—the place, the pace, the parcel itself. A young man shoulder-hoists the olo in a terse yet aloof jaunt from the waterline. Toweling off, squinting through the a.m. glare, he considers the tides and another paddle-out later. Victorian ladies stroll by the grassy beachfront lawns sheltered beneath parasols, palming their hats in the summer breeze. Genteel glances and leisurely nods. The casual elegance of a time which moved to a different time. “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine” crackles warped and softly from a distant Victrola. . . .
Boards in arm, three groms in their thirties go cycling along the feeder road leading into the low-rise suburban sprawl of the Northend, past the low-slung live oak grove and the bejeweled mimosa. Light northwesterlies hone clean the corduroy of an oily-slick daybreak Atlantic. They draw lines in their heads as they pedal in anticipation, there in psychic momentum before they’ve even touched the water. . . .
. . . Imagine the vast spaces of that era’s oceanfront—the place, the pace, the parcel itself. A young man shoulder-hoists the olo in a terse yet aloof jaunt from the waterline. Toweling off, squinting through the a.m. glare, he considers the tides and another paddle-out later. Victorian ladies stroll by the grassy beachfront lawns sheltered beneath parasols, palming their hats in the summer breeze. Genteel glances and leisurely nods. The casual elegance of a time which moved to a different time. “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine” crackles warped and softly from a distant Victrola. . . .
. . . they spent their first date sanding old varnish off his Tom Blake surfboard at a place near Rudee Inlet on the oceanfront’s south end. It was an epic, if charming, first-date faux pas. She looks like Sophia Loren meets Laura Petrie. He looks like Gene Kelly meets Joe Strummer. . . . John T. Ferebee, Stewart Ferebee, Terry Ferebee, Virginia Beach Surfing
. . . While perpetually upgrading its carnival bling to include many non-surf-stage-draws, such distractions threaten a diffusion of what is still implicitly touted as a surfing championship. Harking back to Chuck Dent’s prophetic rant-a-logue from MacGillivray Freeman’s classic surf film, Five Summer Stories, surf-culture and surfing itself often find themselves at curious odds. A hallowed tradition to some, a three-ring spectacle to others, the ECSC is the East Coast’s longest running surf competition. Even from its very early years, the ECSC attracted world-class surfers such as David Nuuhiwa, Corky Carroll, and Mike Tabeling, along with the best locals. Near the old Cue South, Pete Smith would preside from atop a simple lifeguard stand at the Steel Pier site with nothing more than a clipboard, a visor, and a microphone, uttering witty, surf-speak-laced Southernisms in his consummate, slow-motion Tidewater accent. . . . Mason Gamage
. . . By the middle of the 1960s, the West Coast-informed surf boom was fully realized here in the East. As the Cold War Era missiled into full swing, boards yet again were changing. This very place was changing too as, with scant official opposition, sketchy elements of gambling and racketeering persisted towards permanence at Tidewater’s Oceanfront. In those days, as Mayberry-By-The-Sea seemed hell bent on becoming Vegas-By-The-Sea, Virginia Beach precariously edged toward resembling W. Somerset Maugham’s smirking description of the French Riviera: “A sunny place for shady people.”
. . . In June of 1968, Sports Illustrated did a cover story titled “Surfing’s East Coast Boom.” The cover photo, taken from the Steel Pier looking south, shows visiting legend Phil Edwards gracefully negotiating the micro-curl of a right-hander breaking in the once sacred, now mythical, 75-yard zone between the north side of the First Street jetty and the south side of the pier. Roughly 10 years later, the rickety Steel Pier would catch fire and be demolished, prompting locals to rename the popular surfing spot as The Jetty or simply First Street, “a two-block surfing insane asylum,” according to Surfing magazine.Edwards is quoted in the article, speaking to the core of the surf experience—beyond the contests, sponsorships, and commercialism: “I think maybe the best surfer in the world right now is some little kid whose name nobody knows. . . who is riding out there by himself, locked in some curl somewhere, having the ride of his young life.” Stewart Ferebee, Virginia Beach SurfingMaggie Peterson
Almost as quickly as the change in surfboards took place when the post-war 50s entered the Pop era, so too did longboards begin to obsolesce at the dawn of the speed-conscious mind shift, which presaged the Shortboard Revolution. Spearheaded on a local level by pioneer shaper Bob White and his Wave Riding Vehicles quiver of space-aged foils, the new lines being drawn were hitherto unimagined. The area’s first nationally recognized surfer of the new high performance generation was a lithe, flame-haired, scat-talking, wild-child named Jimbo Brothers. . . .Tail-ending the 60s and front-facing the 70s, a revolution in both surfboards and wetsuits will transpire, innovations which are, ironically, the by-products of the very military/industrial complex so derided by the inner circles of the Vietnam-War-era’s surf-culture bohemia. During this timespan, a cast of characters straight out of Tom Wolfe’s “The Pump House Gang” rules the Steel Pier parking lot, that sacred zone consisting of stray dogs, ramshackle vehicles, surfer dropouts, and fishermen-widowers. Al’s Surfshop beneath the ramp of the pier smells of resin, bloodworms, incense, and wax. Nearby, foosball tables rattle and clatter with roll-fakes and crank-shots. “Trampled Under Foot” by Led Zeppelin blares from the Jensen triaxials of Jeff Duff’s forest green Karmann Ghia as it sputters off Loop Road. Fifty-cent tacos at Speedy Gonzales. Dusk sooths everything, and in the days before video killed the radio star, BYOB-surf-movie nights round out the days of the seemingly never-ending, ever-present summer of the mid 1970s. . . . Stewart Ferebee, Virginia Beach Surfing
. . . Adding also to the area’s distinct identity was a continuing tradition of local surfboard making—niche-specific wave-tools better suited to the corporocity of Virginia’s swellular vernacular than many of the imported shapes built in California or Hawaii.The same tradition is alive and well today, noting talented young shapers such as Jordan Braizie and his Valaric label, and Austin Saunders at Austin. Throughout the golden era of the shortboard revolution, Bob White, Rosi, Con, America, WRV, Westwind, Bearcraft, Seasoned, Bill Frierson and Hotline all bore the local standard. The surfer/shaper reigned in the days before automation. . . . Stewart Ferebee, Virginia Beach Surfing
. . . As another era exerts itself inexorably towards the future, and another checkered decade comes jangling to a close, another balmy Tidewater day wanes at the Oceanfront as Allen White smooths a wave to pieces. When the 80s forced its way in on the preceding decade, some people stuck with the beach music program. With the pinks, the greens. And the Shag. Others moved on. Others still, never went there in the first place. Punk rock changed everything. So did the Thruster. . . .Allen White Surfboards
Today, interestingly, a freethinking new crew of stylists would seem to, at least potentially, defy Oscar Wilde’s maxim that youth is wasted on the young. Cam Fullmer, for example, grew up at the Northend and was taught by resident local Bud Easton. Now 21 and a sponsored longboarder, riding for Freedom Surf Shop locally and for Chris Christenson in California, Fullmer and his tight circle are primarily the products of a neo-retro discipline, which leaves many diehard Thruster-era types in a state of bemused stupefaction. Rather than an aquatic reversion to the horse and buggy, their equipment is efficient and functional, especially given the consistently modest conditions. And there are other implications—both philosophical and cultural—that reach down into the very core of the user. “It’s less jock-like,” says Fullmer. He often uses the word “motionlessness” to suggest what he’s after in his surfing. . . .Stewart Ferebee, Virginia Beach Surfing
Stewart Ferebee, Surfing Virginia Beach, Wave Riding Vehicles Virginia Beach, Nihiwatu, Westie, West Highland Terrier
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