It was Mexico City, Christmas 1974, 2AM. This was back in better times; before drug lords ran the country, birds died mid-flight from pollution or the Wal-Mart tumor of capitalism was built next to the Pyramid of the Sun. For the most part, it was a great time. Despite the fact that the city was going nuts in honor of Christmas, I was a wee tot and was really tired and cranky. My family and I walked around, me crying like a small child, which I was. You could walk up to a stand and buy a ¼ stick of dynamite or a 3 foot long sparkler, but I was unfazed. My pretty little head was a fist full of peanut butter, barbed wire, white noise and flickering fluorescent light, screaming through the slits between the bleeding fingers. In my finite wisdom I knew we had to get right back up in a few hours to catch a plane to somewhere else. That few hours later came seconds after I shut my eyes. My grandparents were quite perky as they jostled me awake and it just pissed me off. It was dark outside.

It has taken me decades to sort of get over the dread of waking up when it is still dark outside. Having to catch a bus at 6AM one summer to get to work by 7AM didn’t help matters. But then again, sometimes getting up really early is fun and necessary to score good surf. The classic dawn patrol is a crucial strategy to getting those clean, crisp, offshore sessions, free of all the chumps who are too hung-over, well-rested, cozy or wrapped around a nude girl to join you. They will join the world of the living at their leisurely pace, long after conditions have gone to shit, comprising the less savvy ‘Yawn Patrol’ ™ team. We pity them in unity as we drop into that first pit and soak in the glorious sunrise. Well most of them…

Getting up that early can be rough. It is dark, cold and tired outside. You negotiate with yourself for a few more minutes in those toasty blankets you worked so hard to heat, knowing full well your pushy friend will be pounding on your door in a few minutes. In order to save time, you have a careful and simple routine you can manage while half awake. For me, there are 3 parts; getting dressed, eating and remembering my surf gear. The last thing I want to do is think about what to wear. Finally, I arrive at the theme of my latest installment; favorite surf clothing. I now pry open my closet and proudly present, the Scum Sweater.

I will begin by assuring you, despite what you have heard, I am no slave to fashion. There are times when looking your best can really function to your advantage, gaining you the respect of your peers and currying the favor of the opposite sex. These are important occasions, like Halloween. While this condition often works against me, when getting ready to race to the beach, I am unhindered by elitist concerns. And it all began with the scum sweater. The scum sweater was a green-ish brown hooded sweater that zipped up in the front and was a harbinger and symbol of any traditional or ritualistic surf clothing worn for reasons beyond not offending that old lady walking her poodle. It covered my ripped bony body, had no logo or crass commercialism, a hood to cover my messy hair and some pockets for my hands or an apple or something. Its origin was unknown. You just put it on, and you were ready to go. I would wear that thing essentially every time I surfed unless it was too hot outside. It served me well and could directly be attributed to any decent surf session enjoyed in its presence. I wore it to see GG Allen do unmentionable things in the name of rock and roll, when I felt obligated to wear clothes that could be thrown away with no hard feelings. It attained cult-like status, and as all things holy, it could only be washed with pure rain water. Since it didn’t really rain that much, it also garnered a following of blasphemers and heretics who’s main mission was to see it burned to ash. As all tragic comedies go, the life of the scum sweater was cut short by a simple house cat. One day coming home from surfing Morro Rock I sensed something subtle yet horrible. My sinuses are usually filled with a combination of snot, bone and salt water, so my sense of smell is less than acute. I had to bury my face in my scum sweater to be fully repulsed by the smell, and moved to action. That was the end of it. It served me well and was given a decent burial in some landfill. No cats were harmed in the temper tantrum that immediately followed, not for lack of trying.

The fabled Scum Sweater was followed by a string of other equally important outfits that logged miles of beach trips in majestic, unwashed glory, generating heat from their intrinsic filth. The $hit-Brown Jacket, immortalized in ‘Drugs and Guns to Northern Baja’ was like a second skin as it turned from cotton to a strange leather hybrid over the years. One day I wandered into a giant garbage dump that all of us mistook for a flea market. There I found a box of rags posing as clothes marked down to ten cents. Thus was born the black cut-off shorts of doom! My current ensemble, which I wear as I strut down the runway, consists of some grey slacks that I hate and a black bomber jacket that I found and repaired. On my boat, I would wear it over my wet wetsuit on the cold ride back. The bomber jacket is handy in Oxnard when I try to fit in like I have been listening to Nardcore bands like Aggression, Ill Repute and Dr Know for 20 years, which I have, and not some L.A. pansy with $200 sunglasses and a cellphone up his arse calling 20 more kooks to flood the line-up, begging to have his windows waxed. In one particular case, the outfit of choice required nice button up terrycloth shirts and good attitudes as a disguise so my friend and I could surf a restricted area under embarrassingly false pretenses. It doesn’t work anymore, but we still look sharp as players in our fancy shirts.

I remember walking down to the beach at a central coast reef break I won’t name and seeing my friend Mundo’s clothes scattered all about in the dirt like his pockets were full of marshmallows and were discovered by seagulls. The surf was that good. Later, I pull off my wetsuit, changing with no towel like you were meant to, and slip into my favorite surf outfit of the moment. Strangely it is still warm, as the salty fabric refuses to breath, like my scattering friends. I am the comfortable yet fashionable surf pimp in my royal finery, thumbing my nose at the surf industry and taking full credit for good waves as my outfit slowly composts on my body, turning lint into dust. I scratch my chest, pray for rain, stare off at infinity and then wonder if The Emperor would be better off wearing no clothes.

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