Localism and Crowded Waves Frequently Lead to Hostile, Sometimes Physical, Confrontations

BY GLEN STARKEY

If California had a state sport it would have to be surfing. It’s all about living on the coast, facing individual challenges, and being close to nature.

But for many, the search for the perfect wave has a dark side. In recent years, the local surf scene has disintegrated into a backbiting, angry, violence-prone free-for-all, stripping it of its joy and making an already dangerous sport even more so.

How has this sport of Hawaiian kings fallen on such bleak times?

To outsiders, surfers are seen as a singular close-knit group, but the reality of the surfing subculture often flies in the face of this shiny, sterilized ideal.

In truth, surfers travel in separate, often competing tribes. In San Luis Obispo County–deemed "The Lost Coast" in the mid-’80s by Surfer magazine to illustrate the area's status as a refuge for a few rugged surfers riding highly guarded and otherwise unexploited secret spots–increasing crowds in the water have stepped up the sense of competition and urgency.

In the case of Van Curaza, a local surfer and surfboard shaper, he was ostracized and run out of business when a photo of him surfing Hazard Canyon in Montaña de Oro was published in Surfer magazine in 1996, even though neither the spot's name nor its location were revealed.

Why? Because the "locals" who surf the break saw the photo as a betrayal and an exploitation of their "secret" spot–even though Hazard's is probably the most well-known "secret" spot on the West Coast. These locals set about hassling and "vibing" anyone riding one of Curaza's boards until he suddenly found himself without any clients.

While Curaza’s problems were primarily financial, surf altercations often turn violent.

In Shell Beach a few months ago, two surfers–both 30-something adults, mind you–ended up fist fighting on the beach because one "cut off" the other. Greg Lampert pummeled Paul Winje, resulting in an assault charge.

Many local surfers believe Winje "got what he deserved," since he "cut off" Lampert. California law, however, doesn't take into account surfer etiquette, and Lampert was charged with a crime.

The plain truth is, surfing can be incredibly hazardous, even without such territorial fisticuffs. Besides the dangers of drowning, rip currents that will suck you out to sea, being hit by your board or the board of another surfer, there are also dangers particular to location–sandbars ready to break your neck if you hit head first, rocks ready to dig deep gashes into your flesh, and sea life that thinks you'd make a nice snack.

For these reasons surfers have a highly evolved set of unwritten rules that govern everything from right of way to issues of etiquette. But sometimes these "rules" are broken by surfers whose desire to catch waves supersedes their efforts at civility.

"Look, you're dealing with an aggressive environment," explained beating victim Winje. "There are sharks swimming underneath you, waves coming toward you and moving fast. This is not a passive thing. You have to be aggressive."

In Winje's case, he broke what is commonly seen as the most basic rule of the surf: Whoever attempts to take off closest to the peak (or curl) of the wave has the right of way.

While surfing in Shell Beach he "cut off" Greg Lampert. Even though Lampert was deeper (or nearer the curl), Winje took off in front of him anyway. Furthermore, he "faded" his board back into Lampert's, causing a slight collision.

"From my perspective, it was a beautiful day," recalled Winje, a 32-year-old with long hair and an athletic build. "All my friends were out. I hadn't been out in the water for about four weeks, so I was really in the mood [to surf], just having a great time. I was ripping that day."

When Winje first got out in the water, he was alone. It remained that way for about an hour, but eventually people started trickling out. Soon there was a crowd of about 20. By his own admission, Winje tends to be pretty aggressive out in the water. He's in good shape and likes getting a lot of waves.

He and Lampert–both on longboards–were paddling for the same wave, both planning on going right, with Lampert nearer the peak. However, Winje, 40 pounds lighter and a faster paddler, got to his feet first.

"The first one to his feet has the right of way," said Winje, even though every surfer interviewed for this story disagreed with that statement. "If a guy's still paddling and isn't strong enough to get in the wave, there's no way. It's my wave."

As far as Winje is concerned, he didn't do anything wrong: "I faded him out. It's a common surfing procedure. My intentions were not to hit him. I just wanted to catch the wave and there was no way he was paddling fast enough to catch it himself."

As Winje got to his feet, instead of immediately traveling right, he first "faded" left into Lampert, thus making it more difficult for Lampert to get to his feet. It was during this "fade" that the two bumped boards.

"As I was paddling back out he paddled over to me and said, ‘You hit my board. I'm going to take you out,’" recalled Winje. "He was ready to take a swing at me, but I said, ‘I'm not going to fight you out here.’ I started to paddle away but he grabbed my leash [which attaches a surfer to his board] and pulled me back. He said, ‘OK, I'll see you on the beach.’ I said, ‘Yeah, right. I'll see you on the beach.’ I paddled over to my friends and waited for the next wave. The sets were about 15 minutes apart that day. When I finally caught another wave I rode it right to the sand and he was there waiting for me. I hadn't even got out of the water when he pushed me. I set my board down and grabbed a handful of sand."

Lampert, a strapping 230-pound construction worker who stands 6-foot-2, has a slightly different version of what occurred after the collision. He said after paddling over to confront Winje, he was told there was a "local priority," meaning this Shell Beach break was for local surfers.

"He faded over and hit me on purpose," said Lampert. "When I confronted him, he said, ‘Locals have priority around here, dude.’ I told him I was more of a local than he was. I said, ‘Next time you run into me we're going to go fist city.’ Then he told me, ‘The best thing for you to do is leave and never come back.’ I got angry and threatened him. He said, ‘You don't want to fuck with me in the water.’ So I said, ‘Let's take it to the beach.’ He tried to throw sand in my face, so I beat him up."

Winje denies telling Lampert "to leave and never come back," and Lampert denies pulling Winje's leash and pushing him as he got out of the water.

Lampert also said he felt the need to assert himself, since Winje was engaging in "localism," which is defined as an act of aggression–physical or mental–designed to keep unwanted surfers out of the line-up.

Said Lampert: "In order for me to keep surfing there, I have to see what's going on, you know. Is this guy going to keep running into me on purpose? I was forced to defend myself and I had to deal with this guy on my own. We make the rules and we have to enforce them."

There are no cops out in the water. Like the old West, sometimes surfers create their own justice.

What happened next is open to dispute. Witnesses, in their statements to police, didn't see who struck first. According to Winje, Lampert took a swing at him, which he blocked: "He swung at me and I blocked it while I tried to throw sand in his face, but I telegraphed it–I should have thrown it underhand–and it missed him. Then he swung twice more, and I blocked both punches, but then he got ahold of my hair."

Lampert says Winje tried to throw sand in his face so he simultaneously tried to punch Winje.

Whoever started it, witnesses agree Lampert eventually got Winje by the hair and began punching him repeatedly in the face. Winje was basically defenseless at that point. It took two guys to stop Lampert's beating, and he still wouldn't release Winje's hair. Eventually they were separated.

Winje estimates Lampert punched him 20 or 30 times, although his injuries were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, and swelling.

"I was in a fight," said Lampert. "Legally I have a right to protect myself. I'm sorry and I apologize openly for any misunderstanding; I wish it hadn't happened. But I can't say I punched him 20 times; I don't know how many times I punched him. I was in a fight. When I get into fights, I do my best to win the fight. I felt bad about it. I would have done anything to walk away. But he provoked a violent reaction. He didn't apologize after cutting me off and hitting my board. He was the aggressor out in the water. He's the one who told me to get out."

After the fight, as Lampert was gathering his things and leaving the beach, Winje walked beside him and said, "You're going to jail." Winje went up the cliffs and called Pismo Beach police, who pulled Lampert over a few blocks from the beach.

"I feel like I was defending myself, because he started the fight in the water when he endangered me by running his board into me," said Lampert.

Most surfers agree Winje was in the wrong, but most also agree that Lampert went beyond mere "self-defense," administering a punishment more severe than the crime warranted.

"If he would have hit me once or twice, I wouldn't have said anything," said Winje. "But he kept pounding me. I had to have two of my friends pull him off, and he still wouldn't let go of my hair!"

Lampert doesn’t understand how he became the bad guy in the eyes of the authorities

"This guy cut me off and ran into me with his board," said Lampert. "He voluntarily comes to the beach and voluntarily fights me. Well, guess what? He lost, and now he's hiding behind the police. He could have injured me. These are things people aren't going to understand and I'm probably going to lose in court, and on top of that he can probably sue me. But it's not OK to enforce localism.

"I'm not trying to romanticize myself. I don't hate this dude. I just don't like that he pulled this localism stuff and then called the police. I hope this story will put pressure on the DA to open his eyes."

Lampert secured the services of Pismo Beach lawyer Paul Phillips, who's also a surfer. Phillips said this week that he has arranged a deal in which the charges would be dropped if Lampert would pay Winje's medical bills, about $600. Winje said he agreed to no such deal and won't drop the charges, but the DA has the power to make such an agreement without the approval of the victim.

"I want to see him go through anger-management class," said Winje.

What's most confounding is that both Lampert and Winje seemed like genuinely nice guys during the several interviews New Times conducted. Both are articulate and thoughtful. But both also admit to getting into fights in the past–Lampert has a somewhat lengthy record of violence. Both also claim to have been abused as children and young adults. Lampert was in and out of foster homes and never had a mother (he was adopted by a single man, calling it "the best thing that ever happened to me").

"I've got nothing to hide," said Lampert, who admits to being on medications, including Risperdal for paranoia. "I take this stuff for all the anger and shit I'm carrying from my childhood. I used to get into fights on purpose; I've been in so much trouble. I've tried everything. But I'm finally in a place in life where I feel blessed. I go to church regularly. I'm trying to straighten out my life. I can't afford another assault charge."

Winje now lectures on domestic violence at the California Youth Authority, among other places.

"I preach nonviolence, and lately I've been studying Buddhism," said Winje. "I know a lot of judges, their families, DAs, and stuff like that. So for me to contradict myself and attack someone would be really bad."

Both seem to genuinely regret the incident.

"Lately I've been talking to my friends and we agreed, we're getting too old to squabble with people, especially over something like this," said Winje.

But Winje, a native of San Luis Obispo, persists in promoting the idea of localism: "There is a local priority, and it's that way anywhere–Hawaii, Santa Cruz, wherever. Generally the locals who surf a spot have knowledge of where it's going to break, what the conditions are like, all that.

"Here we have to deal with a lot of students," added Winje. "There's a courtesy for elders and locals, and there is a pecking order. I know it sounds sort of primal, but that's the way it is."

Lampert said it's precisely this attitude that got Winje beat up: "I'm tired of this predatory behavior, and that's what this guy was exhibiting and what I'm combating."

Almost all the local surfers interviewed for this story agreed on two points: There's no place for localism here; and Winje was in the wrong.

"I don't know about that local priority thing. I'm always a guy who ascribes to ‘deeper in the peak.’ I don't fade into anyone," said Central Coast Surfboards manager Steve Carlson. "The years go by and we don't get any smarter. I find the whole thing to be quite comical. I hear these stories regularly; I get a laugh out of a lot of them. The days of localism should be over with."

Moondoggies sales associate Josh Hartley agreed: "I personally feel that someone who has the deeper position on the wave, whether you feel he's going to catch it or not, has the right of way. It's an unwritten law, you just don't paddle for it. In this case, he ended up getting his butt kicked. It was settled on beach, and it never should have ended up there. I'm always the kind of person who avoids confrontation, unless the guy is a complete ass."

Judging from the stories many local surfers told, there seems to be no shortage of asses in the water.

Mike Durant, a SLO native and CCS employee, was recently run over by an overly aggressive surfer: "He didn't really cut me off, he was aiming for me! He pretty much ran over the back half of my foot. I had to get five stitches. I think it's all about intimidation. The guy just glared at me like it was my fault."

The problem is one of numbers, said Durant: "Crowds are getting worse, especially in the last five or six years. I think more people are picking up the sport. These [overly aggressive guys] are the exception; most people just want to have fun."

Debra Colvin, a local surf photographer whose pictures have appeared in major surf publications as well as with this article, summed up the local scene this way: "These guys are just like dogs in the water, hair standing up; it's so their spot."

Zack Hartley, Josh's brother and a local part-time professional surfer who also manages Moondoggies, finds the episode in Shell Beach ridiculous: "That whole localism thing gets a little bit out of control. What's your definition of ‘local,’ someone who lives at Shell Beach? I think real locals pride themselves on surfing throughout the area. A local should stand out, in and out of the water, as a gentlemanly individual and good surfer, not some guy trying to push others around.

"The rule I follow is whoever's closest to peak has the right of way at all times," continued Hartley. "I don't care if he's a beginning surfer, if he's closer [to the peak], it's his wave. They use that rule in the Association of Surfing Professionals rule book. [Winje] is assuming that he's above everyone else; it doesn't matter who you are, he's going on every wave. That's just plain wrong."

Jerry Grantham, who's surfed this area since 1959, agreed: "If this little snake is out like he's in a contest, getting every wave, then he's going to get it. That contest-surfing, first-to-your-feet crap is bullshit. Soul surfing is what it's about. If you talk some shit, you better be ready to go. If that guy pulled that shit in the old days he'd get beaten every day. And to do that and then stand behind the law? That's bullshit.

"I think the guy [Winje] doesn't even know what 'local' means," continued Grantham. "I can tell you this: It don't mean him. I'll just say this: I remember surfing in the ’60s, and I remember how many surfers there were around–everybody knew everybody back then. You talk to people now and they say they surfed here in ’60s, and that's bullshit. People are always saying they've surfed longer than they have."

Grantham, a local surfboard shaper and owner of Pismo Beach Surf Shop, knows a bit about localism. He, along with Jack "Whitey" Martin, are the two most notorious locals to ever ride the crushing waves of Montaña de Oro. Both surfers regularly used scare tactics and outright aggression to drive other surfers away from their coveted breaks.

"Me and Whitey did harass a lot of people," admitted Grantham. "But I mellowed out. Plus I'm shaping a lot of boards, so I don't need the hassle."

Despite his claim to have "mellowed out," at least one local surfer doesn't agree. According to Curaza, after he was pictured surfing Hazard Canyon in Surfer magazine, Grantham, a competing surfboard manufacturer, began intimidating anyone riding one of Curaza's boards. Curaza said he soon couldn't find anyone to buy his boards.

Lampert also knows both Grantham and Curaza. "I think that Van [Curaza] may have been unfairly treated," he said, "because he got the picture in the magazine, which caused a lot of jealousy. I don't think surfers behave very well. If [Hazard's locals] could find a way to get him out of the line-up they would, because he's the best surfer out there."

Curaza, born and raised in San Luis Obispo and a surfer for 25 years, said he's experienced years of harassment at the surf breaks in Montaña de Oro.

"Whitey, Jerry, [and] all those guys would gang up on me. It was a constant hassle," he said.

According to Curaza, after he started his own shaping business the rift between he and Grantham widened.

"He pretty much ruined my life. He screwed with my business and that affected my family," said Curaza. "I don't have any respect for any of those assholes out at the Canyon except for Whitey. He's the only one who was man enough to apologize for all those years of abuse."

Jack "Whitey" Martin systematically vibed people in the water, employing all the localism tactics at his disposal: blocking other surfers from taking off, glaring at and paddling into surfers, and verbal threats of violence.

But Whitey mellowed out after he was the subject of localism at Cayucos Pier. After hassling another surfer, he was dragged into the shallows and held underwater. It was a happy day for the many surfers whom he'd hassled over the years, but it was also a wake-up call for Whitey, who wouldn't go on the record for this story.

Those close to him, however, paint a portrait of a changed man. He's 52 and no longer has the physicality to back up his threats. Whitey still surfs the Canyon but, according to other surfers, he keeps to himself.

Curaza was once considered part of Hazard's local crew.

"My sole affiliation with them is that I desired and craved the same waves," said Curaza. "Our relationship was just in the water. A lot of these guys were my customers, so they became my friends, but after that photo appeared not one of them called me to go surfing. Not one. I was completely cut off."

The picture incident happened in 1996, when then world champion surfer Tom Carroll brought two photographers to the area to gather material for a potential surf story about the Central Coast. The photographers clandestinely perched themselves on the high dunes above Hazard Canyon, camouflaged so they couldn't be seen from the beach, and proceeded to take shots of the highly guarded break with telephoto lenses.

It was this photo session that yielded the Curaza photo in question, raising the ire of the self-proclaimed "Canyon locals." Even though Curaza had nothing to do with bringing the photographers here, many of these locals blamed him for what they perceived as an unwelcome exploitation of their secret spot.

The incident became so bad that Carroll felt it necessary to send a letter of apology to local surfers and claim sole responsibility for the shoot.

"Even though it was a nice experience surfing the wave and meeting with you on the rocks that day the reputation you all have in respect to violently protecting what’s dear to you gouged a major hole in my better judgment. I was, yes, fearful!" he wrote.

Carroll closes with an appeal for peace: "It takes two to tango–right or wrong?–this is all fear-driven human baggage. Let it go and be positive."

But they didn’t, and Curaza actually left town for two years. "I was afraid of what I might do," he said. "Then I thought, no, I won't just go away or quit. I'm a fighter and I've worked for everything I have. I'm not going to let them take that away from me."

Curaza said he has found a way to coexist with everyone except Grantham, the mere mention of whose name seems to rankle.

For his part, Grantham says Curaza’s story is completely false.

"Oh man, what a trip that guy is. It's interesting he's putting the blame on me. It was Whitey and all the boys at the Canyon who blackballed him. No, none of this is true. He did it to himself. He wants to blame me?"

And his closing words give little hope that the dark side of surfing will be getting better anytime soon.

"I want out of this article. I feel like wringing your neck right now. I don't even care about the whole thing. This is what the media does. This is so far from the truth it's unreal. I'm going to get an attorney. I'm telling you right now, I'm one of the key locals around here and you're going to be in big trouble. You've ruined any feelings I had for you. This ain't going to be good." Æ

Surfer and New Times staff writer Glen Starkey frequently asks his co-workers mysterious questions, then scribbles their answers in a notepad while muttering something about "psychological profiles."