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There’s nothing quite like thesmell of grilling peppers andonions on the boardwalkand the click clack of a metalspatula on a skillet.

Not every Italian is a guido, just like every guido isn’tItalian. But count the vowels at the end of the names inNew Jersey’s unwritten surfing history—the Randazzos,Pileggis, Grottolas, Ditellas, Capones, Pollionis, Cresitellos,Curcios, Ciaramellas—and they sound like roll call at ameeting of the Five Families. But we’re not all tied to LaCosa Nostra. The other half is McBriens, McMullins,Keenans, Kellys, Noonans, and Gleasons.

Growing up in New Jersey, you just assume that youlive in the taint of the universe. The world is constantlymaking cracks about filth and corruption. The surf media,a narrow view of surfing’s peeling aqua ideal.

In your impressionable mind, Californians, Floridians,and Hawaiians wake up to sunny skies every day, skate tothe beach, surf warm water, eat some tacos, then surf again.All your mags, music, movies, and icons come from some- where else. Florida doesn’t have a harsh winter that beatsyou into submission, Hawaii doesn’t have dirty highways,and if Californians had our work schedules, there wouldn’tbe 60 guys at Cottons on a Wednesday.

Sam Hammer navigates this scene year round. Youmay know him as that guy from Jersey who pulls intobelching black barrels, but you likely haven’t seen Hammerslinging suds at his parent’s restaurant on a summer night.It doesn’t matter how deep he buries the rail of his DanTaylor, this is where the money’s at.

A few summers ago, Hammer had a friend from outof state visit. It was a weekend and buff guys named Sal,Gino, and Tony, sporting skin-tight Ed Hardy gear, gleamingwhite sneakers, and hair product, were in heat for BergenCounty princesses with two-inch nails, pink Yankee hats,and even more hair product.

They walked the famed boardwalk of Seaside Heightsand made their way back to the lewd late-night Boulevard.

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A New Jersey Surf PrimerBy Jon Coen

Power Drive Power Drive

Tanning index of 10. Welcome to a stretch of the New Jerseycoast better known for lousy club music than good waves.Fortunately there are exceptions to the rule. The iconic CasinoPier doing its thing. R

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“He didn’t know that people like that really existed,”laughs Hammer, “I was like ‘welcome to my neighborhood.’We took him to Merge, which was the mecca of all guidoclubs. Everyone was fist-pumping and drinking waterbecause they’re so messed up.”

A year later, the world got that same view when MTVaired Jersey Shore. It was kind of like watching hyenas onthe Discovery Channel, and this one-dimensional stereo-type certainly bothered many natives of the Garden State.But guidos are nothing new. Folks in New Jersey will clamorthat these abdominally obsessed monkeys are a terriblerepresentation of Cape May to Sandy Hook. Most of the castis from Staten Island (hell, Staten Island probably won’teven claim them).

Bordering New York and Philadelphia, millions offamilies have sought sand and sea on summerweekends for decades. Elaborate coastal New Jersey

resorts were originally social hubs of the wealthy. But beingin such close proximity, blue-collar families could pack upand escape the city by train for a day, as well, creating oneof the oldest beach cultures in America.

Duke Kahanamoku surfed Atlantic City in 1916,cruising coastal resorts on demo tours between Olympicswim medals. Decades later, as with so much of surfing’shistory, everything points back to Tom Blake. The firstreports of a New Jerseyian surfing were when teacher andfootball coach Henry “Stretch” Pole rode Ship Bottom in1932 on a Blake production board. It was Blake’s travels thatbrought the first splinter quiver here and his now-famousinstructional articles in Popular Science that sparked a fewgarage enthusiasts to build their own boards.

Several men in the ’40s and ’50s, mostly of athleticand lifesaving backgrounds, rode boards—John “Bull” Careyin Ocean City, Howard Roland in Belmar, Bill Howarth inVentnor, Earl Jackson on Long Beach Island, and RichardLisiewski, who lived in Riverside. Think George Freethplayed by Steve Buscemi.

Cecil Lear was a surfer all his life—just withouta surfboard. He moved to Belmar during hissophomore year. He and his waterborne crew were

experienced bodysurfers and lifeguards and could pull theirshare of clams, crabs, and fluke out of the Shark River. Learwas already married with three children when a co-workerfrom California handed him John Severson’s first issue ofThe Surfer. A 9'6" Hobie arrived in May of 1961.

New Jersey was one of the few places in the worldthat charged a fee to use a public beach. It still is. With allthat revenue, towns weren’t about to let bathers get whackedby 50-pound fiberglass missiles in the surf. Plus, the idea offree-loving/freeloading youth hanging around made thetowns nervous. An old ordinance on the books that outlawedany kind of “dangerous” craft was all they needed to relegateboard riding to times before and after the splashing masses.

Fortunately, Lear was still tight with the Beach Patrol.“We went to the town fathers and assured them that therewouldn’t be any of the nonsense that they were afraid of,”says Lear.

He and his fellow wave riders formed the JerseySurfing Association in 1963. Soon Belmar had the firstdesignated surfing beach on the East Coast. Lear would goon to initiate the Eastern Surfing Association, which todayspans from the Great Lakes to the Gulf states.

New Jersey was primed for the surf boom that camewith the post-war materials era. Back when boardswere long and seasons short, there were few coast-

lines in the U.S. with such a dense beach-going population.Perhaps the growth was even more dramatic, considering thepursuit didn’t have the foothold already enjoyed out West.

Things blew up overnight. Charlie Keller had builtthe first foam/fiberglass board on the East Coast in ’57 andwas establishing himself in Lavallette. In 1960, Lisiewskiwent to California and learned from Bob “The Greek”Boland in Huntington and pioneered the Matador/Collierlabels. Dan Heritage began the predecessor of HeritageSurfboards soon after in Margate, as Bob Ribel took tomowing foam in Belmar.

But the first shops that really established themselvesdid so on California labels—Bill Minder carried Webers atMonmouth Beach Surf Shop. Ron Curcio sold both Webersand Nolls in Atlantic City. Lear’s buddy, Les Wrightman, soldHobies at Manatee. Joe Simonello, who was also known tocounterfeit boards and strong-arm shapers, built up CustomSurf Shop on G&S. Greg Noll found a second home at Koseff’sin Beach Haven. The infamous Ron DiMenna, the forbearerto the pastel nightmare now known globally as Ron JonSurf Shops, established himself in Ship Bottom on Hobies.

Shops built teams based on the West Coast labels,and various regions began to identify themselves. Surferswere quick to take surfing year round when they discoveredParkway Wetsuits, who manufactured dive suits in nearbySouth Amboy, despite water temps that later promptedSunny Garcia to say that had he grown up here, he wouldn’thave surfed.

In the 1960s, Ocean City was ahead of its time.Surfing gained legitimacy when Don Pileggi recognized itas part of the municipality’s recreation department. Thisspawned the Ocean City Surfing Association, which builta strong tradition on year-round events including the SpringSwing, Polar Bear, Turkey Trot, Summer Surf Series andsurf films at the Rec Hall.

“Ocean City was the first adult behavior beinginjected into surfing,” remembers Bob Sergeant, an earlyemployee at Ron Curcio’s Surf Shop in neighboring AtlanticCity. While it made surfing more digestible to the town,it caused others to rebel.

George Gerlach, of Surfer Supplies, and Dan Heritagein Sea Isle City were able to walk that fine line in the ’70s. PH

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“Hey, Jerkoff! The wind’s gonna kill it in an hour. Get out there.”

Despite the obvious brutality factor here, true-heart New Jersey surfers have been known to hop last-minute flights from Hawaii for swells like this.

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1960s Absecon Island crew (top left, L to R): Jo Garrity, John Page, MikeBeschen, Ernie Rettberg, Michael Sykes, Bob Leeds, Paul Breitinger, BobSergeant, Joel Magen, Rick Leeds, Chip Houser.

The infamous Grog (top right) at the infamous Casino Pier.

Like a French beachbreak (above), minus the nude girls, or any girls for that matter.

The Islanders Surf Shop (below left) circa 1980, Long Branch. Legendary membersof the E Street band lived behind the building.

Vince Troenic (below right) in The Islanders in ’87 with shop dog, Apache.

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Heritage’s son, Brian, remembers that his father would havebreakfast with the Pagan Motorcycle Gang and lunch withthe State Troopers. But he also saw the value in buildingteams of locals that groms would emulate in South Jersey.Gerlach directed contests, mentored, traveled, and reallylaid the groundwork for what would become the greatestconcentration of talent north of Florida.

The competitive scene here is where NJ’s first “mademan” was actually a woman. Most people mistakenlyassume that Dean Randazzo was the state’s first World Tourcompetitor. But Brigantine’s Linda Davoli was a dominantforce in the early days of women’s pro surfing. In 1980, atthe historic Bali OM Pro, she defeated several top malecompetitors and finished the women’s tour in third place.

Still, breaking onto the world scene was as likely fora surfer from New Jersey as from Mars. Randazzo’s purewill drove him to California, through the qualifying ranksand onto the World Tour in 1996. New Jersey’s patron saintof determination overcame incredulous odds to competeamong the ASP’s elite without a solid sponsor paying hisway around the world.

But tour life turned out to not even be his mostimpressive feat, as he’s kicked cancer’s ass four times in thepast decade, each time returning to competitive form. Thefact that the collective hero of the state should be subjectto such adversity is a New Jersey tale like Springsteenmight spin.

Ironically, the name Randazzo also pops up inorganized crime history. There is no known relation, thoughDean acknowledges that his family descends from a townof the same name in Sicily. But Randazzo’s South Jerseyfamiglia—Matt Keenan, Frank Walsh, the Kelly brothers,Andrew Gesler, Kevin Richards, Jamie Moran, ZachHumphreys, Luke Ditella, and others—owe some of theirsuccess to Dean, and like the head of any family, pay tributeaccordingly.

One of the best tales of the Jersey Shore has yet tobe told in the context of the surfing world, thoughit has already been heralded for its significance

in American culture.Music and surfing were inexplicably connected in

the 1970s, and author Bob Santelli, a North Jersey Italiankid who gravitated toward the famed Greenwich Villagemusic scene in the late ’60s, found himself at a rock ‘n’roll crossroads.

When his family relocated to Point Pleasant, he fellin with the surf crowd. They introduced him to the ocean,and he was their de facto guide on voyages into NYC forHendrix or Stones concerts. His first forays were for surfmagazines, penning the tales that would accompany Dick“Mez” Meseroll’s travel photos.

But while Mez’s trips got longer and his status asa lensman grew, Santelli’s calling was documenting theAsbury Park music story as it unfolded in the ’70s.

“There was this tremendous intersection on theShore between surfing and music. A lot of the surfers weremusicians, and a lot of the musicians surfed. Springsteenwas a big surfer,” remembers Santelli, now the ExecutiveDirector of the Grammy Museum in Los Angeles, “He wasn’ta really good surfer, but he surfed. Danny Federicci—surfer.Vinny Lopez, Springsteen’s drummer—better surfer. A wholelot of other people in the Asbury Park music scene weresurfers. There was a close connection between surfing andthe whole counterculture thing. Music was just natural.”

Asbury Park is a story in itself: a once thrivingsummer playground reduced to a gritty city by fires, raceriots, depression, gangs, and corruption. Eternally in a stateof “redeveloping,” it remains a haven for bikers, skaters, thegay community, rockers, artists, and surfers looking toescape more traditional beach towns.

Santelli yarns about the band playing after-hourjoints like the legendary Upstage Club on summer nights,emerging at sunrise, and paddling out. They would sleepon the beach until the lifeguards kicked them off. Thenthey’d seek cover at Challenger Eastern Surfboard Factory,run by Carl “Tinker” West.

West is still a riveting character, known as a shakerand mover of the peace generation and a rather eccentrictoday. This brilliantly forward-minded San Diego engineergot into building Challenger Surfboards in the 1960s. Whenhe realized how many boards were shipping to New Jersey,he decided to drive there (by some accounts he was runout of Pacific Beach). He would set up shop in Neptune,New Jersey. Not only did surfers from up and down thecoast gravitate to his factory, but musicians did as well.

West became a concert promoter and eventuallythe manager of Steel Mill, an early incarnation of BruceSpringsteen and the E Street Band.

“We used to go to Steel Mill concerts right there atTinker’s. He had a spot in an industrial complex. One sidewas the surfboard factory and the other was the recordingstudio. I remember going there with Jesse Brand to grab aboard for dawn patrol,” recalls Vince Troenic, the LongBranch light foot that owned The Islanders Surf Shop from1971 to 1986. The E Street guys lived behind his first shop.“Springsteen was sleeping. Jesse would say not to wake himbecause he’d been up recording or playing late. I remember

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“Boards were breaking daily,guys were getting wrappedaround pilings, but the aggro in us made us surf better.”

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stepping around him to get through.” The Boss still showsup at Manasquan Inlet from time to time.

R ight after “Balsa” Bill Yerkes documented the classicera with the first East Coast surf film Summer of ’67,the pace of change quickened. Down south, Jimmy

Earle, who had worked for Ron Curcio, opened Reef SurfShop in Ventnor in 1969. A force in the water, Earle tookthe next generation with him. The cross-stepping childrenof the ’60s who embraced the sport into young adulthoodwere developing a bit of an edge in the shadows of AtlanticCity’s high-rises.

“States Ave. became very competitive. The wavewas bigger than anywhere, and it was actually a wave ofconsequence,” recalls Mike May of Margate, who droppedfrom his 9'8" Challenger East in 1968 to a 6’9" Reno AbelliroInner Island by ’69 and a 5'6" Corky Carroll by ’71. “All of asudden there was a pecking order. I was pretty anti-socialto guys I didn’t know.”

This was also a golden age for Manasquan, anarchetypically quaint surf town on the north side of theManasquan River. The Inlet tended to both magnify andsculpt a swell, the stomping grounds of Charlie King,a.k.a. “Tuna,” and Carl Danish.

“When the surf was up and really pumping, it wasthe Inlet that got the limelight,” recalls Scotty Duerr.

‘Squan life revolved around three focal points—theiconic break at the Inlet, Ken Klos’s Inlet Outlet Surf Shop,and a bachelor pad known as “The Holy Mackerel.”

The Mackerel was a beach shack built in the ’50s onPompano Avenue, the home of “Big Bob” Duerr and histhree sons, Charlie, Bobby, and Scotty. Duerr Sr. called it“the oldest established permanent floating stag party inManasquan.” Traveling pros that came through the stateeach year looked forward to the brand of hell that brokeloose at the Mackerel. The biggest keggers stretched all theway to the phragmites of Fisherman’s Cove. At one suchsalty soiree, the Duerrs accidentally set the Manasquanbulkhead on fire, creosote and all.

Charlie and Bobby retain their status as O.G. ’Squanloggers, but younger Scotty was a poster child of theshortboard revolution.

“If there’s a high level of talent, then the fieldreflects that; everyone brings it up a notch,” recalls BobDuerr, “Scott was friendly, but extremely possessive of thepeak. You could expect to be paddled around, called off,backdoor—all those maneuvers that stalwart locals havein their bag. He was like Lopez at Pipe, Kech at Sebastian,or Grog at the Pier. Scott didn’t have to give a vibe; he justsurfed around you.”

Bloodshot eyes started to turn toward Seaside Heightstoward the mid-’70s. The Heights had been promoting itsbawdy boardwalk to a younger crowd for decades. The famedCasino Amusement Pier was not only a magnet for raucousfun, but hollow bowls as well. The Pier was a catalyst that

brought surfing’s increasingly aggressive behavior and theShortboard Revolution together with a raw Jersey attitude.

Greg Mesanko’s parents met in the Heights in 1939.Say what you will about hooking up in the Heights, but it’sbrought more people together (some for a lifetime, othersfor a nighttime) than Match.com. Grog wound up riding forSimo’s Custom Shop, and when Morey Pope’s vee-bottomBob McTavish designs arrived, Simo paid Grog to travel thecoast in a VW van, surf the boards, and let others feel theliberation: the predecessor of professional surfing in theNortheast.

Grog opened Natural Art in Ortley in 1969 with ArtHenderson, who lived in the shop loft. But undercover copsinfiltrated and found that the grass was actually greener inhis partner’s bed, ending Grog’s first venture. Grog contendsto this day that his old boss Simo dropped the dime inretaliation for opening a competing business right downthe road.

Later that year, he opened what would become Grog’sSurf Palace. Grog was the quintessential Jersey hustler. Justthe name alone—Surf “Palace”—indicates the kind ofbusiness he had for 28 years, forming tight bonds with MR,David Nuuhiwa, and Shaun. He carried the top labels andfor seven years ran the Grog’s Seaside Pro in June as partof the fledgling World Tour.

As boards shrunk and crews sought more criticalwaves, packs took ownership of heavy spots in Long Branch,Point Pleasant, Atlantic City, and Harvey Cedars. But thePier was the next level.

“There were a lot of surfers wanting to surf thePier from other areas. We pushed each other farther andfarther in front of it, taking off as far back as the other side,which resulted in some dangerous situations,” remembersGrog. “Boards were breaking daily; guys were gettingwrapped around pilings, but the aggro in us made us surfbetter. And the pier guys were the best, like that ‘don’ttake off on us ’cause we’ll beat the shit out of you on thebeach,’ attitude.”

Guys like the Mesanko brothers, Monzo, “NoStomach” Pollioni, Squirrel, Stanko, Liver Lips, Kevin Casey,and Eagle Beak stood between any casual surfer and thelines coming off the pilings.

“There was only one guy we seemed to give a pass to,and that was Michael Grassly from Santa Monica. He wason the run and somehow ended up in Seaside. He was anincredible surfer that taught us how to surf better backside.He was the first O’Neill wetsuit rep and later was murderedin Santa Cruz after a wedding.”

By 1977, Ray Hallgreen, a shy transplant from Trenton,was one of the few photogs on the East Coast shooting inthe water with an Ikelite commercial diving housing. Hequietly documented the whole thing. The Pier boys surfedharder and when the Strand Skilo lit up, they raged. Andwhen the hot rods left the strip for Bergen County inSeptember, they pushed harder.

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Save your “What exit?” jokes; those are serious peaks out the back. Northern Monmouth County, just a few miles as the crow flies from New York Harbor.

Not every overhead swell is a January jam. Andrew Gesler, hard off the bottom in trunks.

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Margate’s Zach Humphreys in the greenish brown room, Long Beach Island.

Jersey falls are magic. Case in point, the aptly named Point Pleasant, 1980.

Garden State Parkway, New Jersey Turnpike, or the Atlantic City Expressway—yougotta pay the toll.

“There’s winners and losers and don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line.”

Brian Heritage, keeping the family shaping tradition going in Sea Isle City. Fatherand son’s boards have been a mainstay under many a Jersey surfer’s feet for years.

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Everything about the pier was gnarly, from the musicblasting out of the Himalaya ride, inebriated tourists, andfishermen casting their lines toward surfers.

“I was hooked and dragged off my board like a bluefish,” says Grog, “I grabbed the line and cut it on my fins.The hook was hanging from my leg and I just kept surfing.The guy was screaming at us and calling the police. Thepolice showed up, telling us to get out of the water. But guesswhat? It’s six-foot and offshore. No one’s getting out. Afterdark we crawled down the beach to safety.”

Soon after, Chris Mesanko was arrested for surfingtoo close to the pier. He beat the charge in court, and, tothis day, the water next to the pier belongs to the surfers.There were other tales as well.

“Fran Moran had gotten into a little trouble andneeded to leave town before he was put in jail. So, he andhis wife planned his demise. He put his surfboard in thewater at 4 a.m. in the shorebreak and left his I.D. on thebeach near his towel,” retells Grog.

That morning, a fisherman spotted the board andnotified the police of a drowning. Meanwhile, Grog wasdriving Moran and his wife to the airport.

“I gave him a new board and they flew to Puerto Rico.When I got back to the pier that morning, the Coast Guardboats and helicopter were searching the beach and waterall around the pier for him.

Some of the local crew was suspicious of a setup. “When his mother came down to me to tell her the

truth, I lied and told her the worst.”Moran later died in Tijuana where he was playing

saxophone in a band.No longer looking to California for a cue, Jersey

surfers developed their own identity. There was nothingsubtle about Grog or Seaside Heights, as the town wenthurtling into the neon ’80s. It was a circus before Domino’sPizza ever pulled its MTV ads from Jersey Shore.

But while the world gawks at some steroidal Cro-Magnon from New York popping Snookie in themouth, surfing continues to co-exist within the

Heights chaos. The reason folks in New Jersey are up in armsis obvious—the geographical Jersey Shore, spanning 127miles north to south, is a vibrant mix of Victorian towns,pine forests, glitzy casino hotels, pristine natural beaches,and charming fishing villages. Yet the perception of theGarden State is based on eight characters in one party townthat accounts for less than three square miles.

It’s understandable that Jersey folks claim Seaside“isn’t part of the real Jersey Shore.” But not me, hell no!It’s a big part of who we are.

My grandfather was born in Seaside Park and workedthe first half of his life as a commercial “pound” fisherman,a fitting occupation for the seafaring Croatians. Sometimeswhen I paddle out in a 5-mil, I think about Pop pushingthrough whitewater in a 33-foot boat in 33-degree water.

My parents also met in a bar in the Heights. My wife’sparents met a mile away. My father bartended at JoeyHarrison’s Surf Club (still one of the most celebrated guidohaunts in the world) and was a Heights lifeguard. Thereweren’t many beach patrols who had to handle drunken,sandy brawls in the 1960s. When Cecil Lear held the EasternStates Surf Contest through a raging nor’easter in ’67,Corky Carroll sat on my dad’s stand.

Some of my first waves were caught within sight ofthe Log Flume. When I was 13, he snuck us through his old

patrol HQ to watch Shaun, Potter, Archie, and Robby Bainsurf the Garden State Pro. The promoter ducked out on theprize money, prompting the ever-brazen Pottz to say, “I’dlike to thank the sponsors, if there are any....”

I’ve pulled into left bowls at Casino Pier, have foundhypodermic needles on the beach, and almost lost a walletto the piss-soaked bathroom floor of the Sawmill—that wasthe old Sawmill, before they cleaned it up, when you couldget a soda and a slice of pizza as wide as a twin-fin for $1.25.

I’ve witnessed late-round heroics at various pierevents, most notably the Smith Optics Garden State GrudgeMatch, created by pier local and Smith Optics rep RobCloupe, where the top 24 surfers in New Jersey dropwhatever they are doing anywhere in the world and getback to Seaside Heights to throw haymakers. It’s surfing’sequivalent to shirtless brothers wrestling in a gravel lot.Nearly every year since Dean Randazzo won the inauguralone in 2002, the event has featured hellacious conditionsfor man-on-man heats.

“That pier just has a way of coming to life for thesecontests. It did it for Cecil in the ’60s. It did it for me in the’70s and ’80s, and it does it every year for Cloupe now.There’s something really special about it,” offers Grog.

There’s nothing easy about surfing or simply survivingin New Jersey. Opportunity is a commodity. It’s among thehighest costs of living with a monstrous wealth gap. With itsdense population, New Jersey and competition go togetherlike tomato sauce and mozzarella. There is limited supportfrom any industry, surfing or not.

You wanna make good, tough guy? Bite and clawyour way up. “In the ’70s and ’80s, you could pick outguys from Jersey in a second out in California—in asecond!” says Santelli, who after his Asbury days, wound up

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“Our life is not like The Sopranos.It’s nowhere near the Housewivesof New Jersey, but we do residewithin that context.”

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graduating from the University of Southern Cal with fivejob opportunities and a request to be the surf coach atUC Irvine. “We talked faster, we moved faster, we hustledharder because of where we came from. There could besomeone from Iowa who’s like that, but they’re the exception.Lots of people from Jersey, the success that they had, it hasa lot to do with that.”

The surf existence in the Garden State is a uniqueone based on specific environmental factors, none the leastof which is that inherent East Coast work ethic, one thatruns counter to surfing’s laid-back esthetic.

“I think when the traveling pros came to NewJersey, they saw how hard-core we were about everything,”remembers Vince Troenic, who enjoyed taking Shaun andNuuhiwa to the racetrack at Monmouth Park. “They sawthat surfers were involving themselves in restaurants,businesses, and other ventures. Everything is full motion.Your day is planned. Anybody who left Jersey for Californiawas successful.”

Another factor is that surfing isn’t woven into thefabric of society. “You travel to other places and surfing isso much more a part of the landscape. Whereas in NewJersey, just the concept of surfing is so antithetical to theculture that we’re clearly apart from the mainstream,”explains psychologist, surfer, and former Surfrider Boardof Directors member Bill “Doc” Rosenblatt.

A third point is that folks in the northeast tend tohold on to their heritage. These shores are where mostimmigrants first came to America, and generations laterthe traditions still run strong.

“We retain that ethnicity here. Even the Jersey Shoreshow kind of exemplifies that. Those guidos retain theirbackgrounds,” Doc adds. “As surfers, we have a dual culturalidentity—it’s your ethnic background and being part ofthe surfer tribe.”

We have a lot more in common with SammiSweatheart than we care to admit, including pride in wherewe’re from. But possibly the most obvious is the battle withnatural elements.

“The change in season and different conditions ofsurf and climate are what really define a New Jersey surfer,”offers Scotty Duerr. “Our dedication is a bit higher thanthe normal.”

It is, in fact, one of the few places in the developedworld where you can score offshore, hollow waves ofconsequence with just a few friends. Most West Coastersare taken back by the “pound for pound” power. And thereare some winters where each receding tide leaves a yellowlayer of saline slush on the rocks. Surfing in a neoprenestraight jacket would be misery if you didn’t come out ofso many kegging barrels last February.

In the summer, decades after Cecil Lear’s efforts,towns still corral surfers to a single beach to fight for scraps.It’s still generally one single designated surf beach per town,despite the fact that the number of surfers has exploded. The

Atlantic has no lack of ways to disappoint in this season,and every potential douche bag from Staten Island toPennsylvania wants to be a surfer.

Summer can also mean pleasant evening glass-offs,fresh soft-shell crabs, and dry humping under the board-walk. Though largely over-hyped, hurricanes can providerespite, but this is generally a time to put your head downand make hay (or pizza) while the sun shines. Surfers rentboats, sling drinks, catch fish, bang nails, and teach surfing,anything to make a little scratch out of the state’s $38 -billion-a-year tourism industry.

“If you’re smart, you take advantage of that,” saysSam Hammer, a vocal proponent of the Shore-area visitors,“So what if your town gets a little crowded? It’s two monthsof the year. People from North Jersey and Staten Island,they cross the line sometimes. But Jesus Christ, so do I!Every surfer likes to travel. You can make a lot of moneyin those months and get out of your comfort zone in theoff season.”

When Vince Troenic owned The Islanders, he wasknown to charge $5 to park in the vacant lot next to hisshop, even though the property belonged to the city ofLong Branch.

Fall is where it’s at: Labor Day through December.The real storms return to the mid latitudes, temps returnto normal, striped bass return to the waters, and the collegeboys return to their frat houses. Alex DePhillipo’s 2010film, Dark Fall, won awards for illustrating just that.

If you drive the Jersey Turnpike into New York orarrive in Newark Airport, the smokestacks still make the“Garden State” look like industrial hell. And now, becauseof this silly MTV show, a whole new generation is goingto have a skewed perception.

“Our life is not like The Sopranos. It’s nowhere nearthe Housewives of New Jersey, but we do reside within thatcontext,” explains Doc.

Despite the closed-out swells and pungent Dolceand Gabbana, New Jersey surfers usually wind up settlinghere. While other places in the world may afford easierliving, consistent surf, and a more relaxed environment,there’s always something missing. Adversity becomes likea tough-love family, one you hate growing up in, buteventually can’t live far away from. People develop an outertoughness around warm hearts. And absorbing the constantJersey ridicule only makes your love of home grow.

Most of the world is never going to know the truthabout fresh-caught striper after an empty October session.As a writer, it puts me in a certain ethical dilemma. Shoulddefending my beloved New Jersey Shore become a recurringtheme in my work to change the perception of those whosimply view my home as a toilet of humanity for easyamusement?

Nah. As we say here— “Fuggem’.” ◊

Going Deeper: www.surfersjournal.com/20­3

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In a slightly muddier—and colder—version ofBackdoor, Jamie Moran stands tall, proud tobe a product of New Jersey and everythingthat that entails.

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