
Moonlight Beach, just up the coast from Swami Beach, California, is a favorite hangout for this crowd, and once a year, treasured woodie wagons are brought together to have a sort of Surf ’N Show woodie wagon event. This is where you'll find 21st-century surfers practicing the authentic tribal art of gauging the immense force of swells crashing on the beach by the sound waves that rattle the paneled walls of their woodie wagons and whistle the wind's signals to paddle out.
Woodie wagons, a staple of surfing culture in America during the 1950s and 1960s, were adorned with surfboards mounted on their roofs. Some surfers even slept in the back of their wagons, a tradition that had its roots in repurposing farm vehicles and depot hacks into beachside shelters for those eagerly awaiting the chance to merge with the divine on a particular night. These surfers dreamed of riding the Big One, a legendary wave of immense power and exhilaration.
During WWII, American automotive manufacturers built upon wooden frames to conserve metal for the war effort. In the post-war era, metal-frame automotive production became standard, and woodies fell from favor. Woodie wagons were originally marketed as “estate” station wagons to haul hay and barn necessities from the local feed and seed store for weekend farmers.
These unique hand-fitted wooden vehicles found new life re-purposed as surf wagons. This bevy of wooden beauties pays tribute to the vibrant surfing community clustered around Swami’s Beach point break near Encinitas, California.
From the Beach Boys “Surfin’ U.S.A.” song:
If everybody had an ocean
Across the U. S. A.
Then everybody'd be surfin'
Like Californi-a …
Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' U.S.A.
To ride the wave is to kneel down, not with flexed knees, but with humility towards the hydraulic forces beneath your board. It's about dancing across your board, adjusting and shifting your weight in harmony with the surge of pure power beneath you.
On the west coast of the United States, and in Hawaii, typhoons in the Pacific Ocean siphon low-pressure systems into cherished surf spots a few days each winter. These powerful pressure differentials coalesce into physical forms—terrifyingly large waves that send every surfer's heartbeat into arrhythmia.
From all corners of the globe, the palpable palpitations rebound, and surfers descend upon airports, boards in tow, in pursuit of the Ghost Wave at their beloved surf breaks around the globe. Standing on the beach and sleeping on the beach to better read nature's enigmatic language, they await the perfect moment when the tide aligns, granting them the chance to conquer one of these colossal waves.
Puerto Rico, Australia, and other southern hemisphere intersections have their own breaks where underwater reefs form a shelf for water to crest upon. In Hawai’i, the famous Banzai Pipeline dominates culture. The first time I went to Hawaii, I made a point of going to see the surfers on the Pipeline. I had no idea how difficult this sport was for beachside observers; I only knew it was the place to go. I sure didn't want to miss it.
Armed with my two eyes and a telephoto lens that I quickly realized would be crucial for capturing these renowned surfers in action, I zoomed in to witness their diminutive human forms silhouetted against the vast expanse of water. The sight that unfolded before me had a profound impact on me, and left me with the unambiguous certainty that I would never be a surfer.
I gained a profound respect for the sport of surfing, although it is not for me. All it took was one mountainous wave to pin me to the bottom of the sea for more terrifying moments than I care to remember. When I broke the water’s surface, I dragged myself from the sea, vowing to never dance that duel again.
Salute! Ride on, my fearless companions, upon the steed that ignites your spirit. Alas, for me, it is four wheels or a fine pair of wings. Not bad, not bad...
Collect them all!

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