Trafford Publishing: Paraffin Chronicles

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Paraffin Chronicles

by Herb Torrens

210 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1289; ISBN 1-4120-0920-0; US$22.00, C$25.00, EUR18.00, £12.50

Do you think today's world-wide surfing culture was born out of those campy "beach party" movies in the early 60s? Think again, and meet some of the real people who helped evolve the once idyllic sport into a lifestyle of phenomenal proportion. Wax up with Paraffin Chronicles and ride the wave of the 1960s with noted surfer and author Herb Torrens.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

Did you ever wonder what it was like to be a surfer in the 1960s? Would you like to experience a magical ride through a decade when surfing grew from an idyllic past-time to a world-wide phenomenon? Experience what it was like to ride the waves of California and Hawaii at a time when surfing reinvented itself on an almost daily basis. Take a journey through time with Paraffin Chronicles and find out how movies, magazines, competition and innovation changed forever the ancient rite of surfing.
Paraffin Chronicles is a first-hand account of one the most exciting and dynamic decades in surfing history. Told by noted surfer "Herbie" Torrens, the story chronicles the dramatic changes in surfing and surfing culture between 1960 and 1970.
Growing up in Newport Beach, California, Torrens shares his experience of battling through the ranks of surfdom, from scrawny wanna-be gremmie to the cover of Surfer Magazine. Along the way we meet many of the legends of the day, and experience the dawning of an age. From the introduction of wetsuits to the pure expression of short-board surfing, Paraffin Chronicles gives us a water-level glimpse of a surfer's journey through life.
You can contact the author at htorrens@verizon.net

About the Author

Herb Torrens had the good fortune of growing up in the Southern California communities of Costa Mesa and Newport Beach. He began surfing at the age of 11, and went on to become a surfer of note during the 1960s. He participated in the first-ever scholastic surfing event held in the United States, and was a member of the world's first professional surf team: The Hobie/MacGregor Surf Team. He was a charter member of The Wind an Sea Surf Club Junior Division and surfed in the 1964 Makaha International Championships. Photos of him have appeared in Surfing, and Surfer magazines and he won several surfing contests of the period including The Hermosa Beach USSA in 1965, The La Jolla Shores Invitational in 1966 and the Newport Beach Summer contest (1965/1966). He was one of four surfers featured in a story, The Hot Young Juniors," written by Corky Carroll for Surfer Magazine in 1966. In 1967, he moved to Hawaii and became one of the forerunners of the short-board revolution. His picture appeared on the covers of Surfing Magazine Year Book (1969) and Surfer Magazine (1971). A professional writer since 1984, his first published story, "Here's to you Sea Suit," appeared in Surfer Magazine in the early 1980s. He has worked as a journalist, freelance writer and commercial copywriter for more than two decades, and is the father of four children: Brandon, Dustin, Ryan and Alexa. He resides in Temecula, California, and surfs (as much as possible) throughout Southern California.

Sample Excerpts

Prelude
Waves are life. Pure, strong, predictable yet unpredictable. Each the same in likeness, but unique in form. Shaped by wind and distance, they march toward an inevitable end on a beach of heaven or hell. Along the way, just as they achieve ultimate mass, those who have taken the time to learn the skill might join for a brief moment with a liquid life force.
It is the surfer who knows the waves. They are nomads of the sea. Endlessly searching for the next defining moment of meeting with a wave. Harnessing the energy before it ends. Riding the force of nature. Feeling the power.
Surfing can be all things to those who choose the wave path. Rewarding, frustrating, exhilarating, humiliating. Waves of life. Sometimes you ride a smooth glassy wall in the shining sun, other times you are tousled like a rag doll in a washing machine. No matter the fate, as long as you paddle back out, there's hope for the future. Redemption awaits, just outside the breaker line.
First Chapter Excerpts
Imagine being 11 years old living in Southern California in the summer of 1960. Make that Costa Mesa, a sister city of sorts to Newport Beach. The Ventures' number one hit "Walk Don't Run," blares from every radio within ear-shot. Freshly oiled girls in new-style, two-piece bikinis make the scene at the beach. And the movie "Gidget," is drawing hordes of young teens to a new bohemian lifestyle called surfing.
Okay, you got me. Yes, I was one of those hordes that headed down to the beach after seeing Gidget. Sure, surf historians will tell you that Gidget was akin to the downfall of Rome in its affect on true surfing culture. But I don't see it that way. Surfing would have "happened" without the movie. It was inevitable.
I wasn't quite a teen then, but I'd seen enough of the movie's star, Sandra Dee, in the previews to trade my regular Friday night at the Harbor Roller Rink for a night at the Mesa Theater. Gidget was a happening, and all my friends were talking about it. Actually, I had a brief experience on a surfboard the year before when a friend and I got talked into trying it to impress a girl. It was uneventful, to say the least. Still, since I'd tried it once, I felt I had a sort of connection with this new surfing thing.
And what a thing it was, according to the movie. Cool guys and girls at the beach, riding the waves together in the sun. Having beach parties every night. Living free. Oh yeah, and girls galore for those who surfed. What could be better? We all left the movie that night longing to be like Moon Doggie and the Kahuna.
Newport had surfing. So the next day a couple of friends and I caught the Orange Line Bus to the beach and got off at the Pier. It was July the 4th, 1960, a blue-skied sunny day with lots of action at the beach. Woolly-headed surfers bobbing outside the breaker line, straddling boards made of wood and foam. Morning sun flickering off sparkling walls of water. Surfboards slicing across the waves leaving ivory white trails across emerald faces. We watched, awestruck, from the beach.
********
I remember my first real wave. Not a slide in the soup at 19th Street, but a real green-water wave. It was at Doheny. My dad took Fred Dupree and me down on a Sunday in July. Boards tied to the top of my dad's '54 Chevy, stopping every 15 minutes or so to check the ropes and worrying the whole way.
No freeways in those days, and the Coast Highway meandered forever through the beach towns of Corona Del Mar, Laguna, South Laguna, and Dana Point. There were stop signals every block or so through the cities, and we stopped a lot. It could take more than an hour to get from Newport to Doheny, but there was lots to see. Laguna was famous for its "Greeter." He was an old long-haired guy with wild eyes that would stand in the center of town and wave to all the passing cars. Today, he'd probably be committed, but back then people loved him. They even made a statue of him that still stands.
We leaned out the window and waived at Larson with ear-to-ear grins as we passed him. Hey, we were surfers, on a surf trip with boards strapped to the top of our car. I remember feeling something special about that. Part of a select group. A clique of individuals who shared a common bond. We passed other surfers going up and down the coast giving the thumbs-up, or thumbs down sign as a way of sharing information about how the surf was. The guys coming from down south were all giving us the thumbs up.
Sure enough, the surf was rolling in over the outside reef at Doheny when we arrived. Maybe four-feet on the outside sets. My dad set up a little camp on the beach as Fred and I scrambled into the surf. I stuck to the inside trying to perfect my style in the soup. Okay, I was just trying to go right. Fred was pretty good and was able to get outside at first break. He got some pretty good waves and was telling me all about his rides when we broke for hot dogs at lunch. After much encouragement, he talked me into braving the outside.
Once out in the line-up, I was amazed at how tranquil it was. Sitting with other surfers, floating gently up and down with the swells, looking in at the distant shore. I drifted off into scenes from "Sunset Surf Craze." I was Peter Cole, of course, waiting for a 15-footer. When a set came, someone yelled "outside," and the pack was off for the horizon. I was overwhelmed with anticipation and struggled to turn my board and paddle out. I can't exactly remember what was going through my mind, but then I managed something I never thought possible.
I still don't really know what happens in that magical moment when you see a wave that you know you can catch. I am a chicken at heart, always have been. I'd like to be brave, but I worry a lot about what's going to happen next. I see the worse-case scenario and try to block it out. Then, something kicks in and I go on automatic pilot. It's like I separate from my body and become two distinct entities. One, a gutless wimp trying to beat himself out of a wet paper bag, the other an irrational daredevil controlled by an inner voice giving commands. You know: "Captain to crew....all hands on deck....battle stations....Go, go, go!"
Somehow, I found myself turning my board around as the first gigantic swell of the set approached. Of course, it was probably all of three feet, but in my 11-year old mind, it was 15-foot Sunset and I was (who else?) Peter Cole! I stroked in and stood up. The next few seconds were the greatest, most exciting, seconds I had ever lived. I found myself sliding down a smooth swell, going faster than I'd ever gone on skates. I sensed a strange sort of power from the wave, like it had its own agenda and I was just along for the ride. What a feeling. Pure adrenaline. I'm sure I must have been grinning ear-to-ear, but who knows. More likely I was horrified.
I had the big wave stance going though. Feet about four feet apart, low crouch that I had learned so well speed skating, and I was going right. I was almost oblivious of the other surfers on the wave, but as I recall there were at least two in front of me and two behind. All cutting toward the shore on an emerald green sheet of glass. Visions of surf movies crept into my mind. I was one of them now. Riding a huge wave and in control.
About 10 seconds later, reality slid back in to my Nirvanic state of mind. The riders in front of me pulled out. Not sure what became of the guys behind me, but all of the sudden I was alone on the wave. About then I became aware of the shoreline creeping up in my peripheral. And the wave seemed to be getting larger as it approached the beach. I froze in my Sunset stance, careening toward an untimely end. I had never pulled out of a wave, never kicked out, I had only bailed off the back. When in doubt, bail out, but even with that bit of wisdom, I was a little late.
The wave jacked up and threw out over my head. I went headlong into the shore break in my big wave crouch and got waumped. I thought for a second I was going to die. I bounced off the rock bottom, got tousled around a bit and then came sliding up the sand with the shore break. I lay stunned for a second and then jumped up to retrieve my board, which had washed up to the high tide mark. I survived! I must have relived that ride a thousand times. And that was just in the first week.
****
Soul surfing had taken on a new perspective in the winter and spring of 1968. Now, we were all really living it. That is, living to surf. Living to commune with a very special force of nature. I've described Honolua like a machine, but really each and every wave seemed to have its own personality. A living thing, that came from life's source. You picked it, or it picked you, and you danced in time. Sometimes in perfect union, other times in a fierce battle for survival. At the end of each day, you took home impressions of elation, triumph, defeat and sometimes fear. We were the workers at a factory called Honolua Bay, and the pay was good. Very good.

Catalogue Information