We all remember some cool old guys that were there before us, and maybe we were lucky enough to know.
Was down in the bay area recently, visiting kids/grandkids, went for a walk along the bluff above several of my favorite waves, waves I literally used to surf alone for years.
At the south end of the ridge sat down with my feet dangling over the edge, thought about the years spent, and about one of the coolest old cats I was ever fortunate to meet.
Where I sat was also alongside where I had spent the nights for 4 months in an old truck and camper shell after being discharged from the service in 71, until I finally found a rental in what used to be a very small town with few to offer.
Came back up the cliff one day after a long, solo morning session, to find a nattily dressed elder in his 70’s standing at the top, a big smile on his face. He said the waves looked really fun, which they were, and we got to talking.
Turned out his name was Stan Ross. I had heard about Stan and his pioneering mat surfing exploits along the coast since I had started surfing, and the wave I had just been surfing was called Ross’s Cove, a wave he had pioneered long ago.
I had a couple of folding chairs at the truck, set them up exactly where I was now sitting, and we sat down, me with my wetsuit rolled down, Stan with his checkered shirt, bolo tie, and trim leather jacket, and listened to Stan talk story for quite a while as we watched the unridden sets roll into the cove.
And what a story he had to tell. About the waves he had surfed, adventures and hi-jinx with the friends he had known, the work he put into improving his surf mats (the glue was the thing), the wool clothing used for cold water protection as that was all they had, trips down the California coast, camping in the field across from Steamer Lane, early forays with Jack O’Neil at SFOB, all told with a smile and stoke that still permeated every word he spoke. After he left, I felt like I had been given an early Xmas present, a damn good one.
Saw Stan a few more times during the next handful of years, usually at the cove bearing his name, once at the Lane where we chatted some more while watching the surfers at play.
What turned out to be the very last time I ever saw Stan, after not having seen him for quite a while, I’d walked up the path and found him staring intently at the cove lineup, which was firing pretty good.
As I sidled alongside, noting he looked much frailer then the last time I had seen him, I cleared my throat, not wanting to startle him.
Then inquired politely, “Hi Stan, what’s up?”
“Surfing” Stan replied, keeping his gaze focused on a breaking set, “and i’m getting some very fine rides.”