1985 Stubbies Pro
Surfer journalist Derek Hynd once wrote that nine times out of ten he could pick the winner of a contest from the very first round, that they oozed a distinct rhythm and resoluteness. I missed Brad “The Gerr” Gerlach’s early heats of the 1985 Stubbies Pro, but from the quarterfinals onward his victory seemed predestined.
Oceanside’s peppery sand was packed from water’s edge to parking lot. Shimmering overhead surf crackled on an outside sandbar. Biplanes streamed Corona banners across the cerulean sky. The Smiths’ Meat Is Murder thumped on the sound system. It was Beach Blanket Bingo meets Woodstock, albeit with day-glo and Oakley blades.
Gerr was possessed. He wore a yellow O’Neill spring suit, his hair spiky and sunbleached. Before heats he shadowboxed and gyrated hips and scraped hooves. In the shade of the competitor’s tent, flanked by racks of surfboards, he resembled a bull about to be let loose in a ring.
His wave selection was quasi-clairvoyant, his lines crisp and magisterial. He’d pop to his feet, wind up his shoulders, then launch into a series of electric off the bottom/off the top combos. Buckets of spray burst from his red and yellow board. He never stopped moving. In the flat section between the outside and the shorebreak he was ten feet ahead of himself, dancing and slashing and hurling his life forward.
On the morning of the final he woke with a powerful sense that he would win. In the car, on the ride to the contest, his emotions flooded so hard that he broke into tears. He blitzed through the semis. In the final he came up against reigning two-time world champion Tom Carroll. Gerr vaulted past him as if he were not even there.
It was not only Gerr’s victory, but mine too. He had turned pro a few months earlier. I followed his ascent closely—I would be right behind him. Watching a colleague triumph over the world’s best gave me great hope. Five days earlier he was just another loudmouth rookie with a dream. Now he was a full-blown superstar.
Exiting the water, he was flocked by fans. He signed autographs and posed for photos as if he’d been doing it his entire life. A security guard escorted him up to the competitor’s area, where he eyed the Currens and Occys and Top 16 brazenly, as if to say, “You’re next.” On the podium, in front of a sea of applauding fans, he was handed an oversized check for $4,500. Under a shower of champagne he raised his fists in the air and roared.
Gerr and Kennedy
In Hawaii Gerr rented a convertible Maserati. In Capetown, a Mercedes 560 SEL. At the Coca-Cola Surf Classic at Manly Beach, in front of cameras, TV crews, and a massive crowd, he paraded across the sand and surfed a crucial heat in tight-fitting lime green Speedos—unthinkable in the macho surf fraternity. Between stops on tour he performed stand-up at The Comedy Store in San Diego.
Gerr’s bold acts made the pages of the surf mags. New sponsors and even more money followed. He bought a zippy red Nissan 300ZX and a large Spanish-style home in Leucadia, a sleepy beach town near San Diego. As his confidence snowballed, so did his desire to excel in every aspect of his life, to conquer fears and inhibitions. On a long drive in South Africa he told me how he pushed himself.
“You know when you’re at a club and you see a killer chick and you’re like, ‘She’s way too good for me…’ Then you psyche yourself up and go talk to her, and she just gives you the full-on brush, just looks down her nose at you and makes you feel this big? Well I’ve been playing with just standing there. Instead of walking away, just stand there and feel it, enjoy it.”
His zeal was contagious. I’d walk away from my exchanges with Gerr all raring and drunk with confidence. It was strange to be so enamored of a fellow competitor. This was one my revelations upon arrival in the big leagues: heroes and opponents become one and the same. Can too much respect and admiration dull killer instinct? Was this what Derek Hynd meant when he told me I was too nice a guy?
Gerr traveled with Dave Kennedy from Florida, a regular foot, a thinker, a reader of Beat poetry. Gerr and Dave Kennedy’s relationship went far beyond just travel partners. They shared each other’s clothes. They got in each other’s heads. They cried together. Like Gerr, Kennedy was theatrical. He wore his long, golden hair in a ponytail. His boards were decorated in giant peace signs. On the tennis court he was Bjorn Borg. On the pool table he was Minnesota Fats. On a magic mushroom trip in the Waimea Valley he was Timothy Leary.
As Gerr’s unofficial coach he took on a sort of Kwai Chang Caine-in-“Kung Fu” quality. “You’re at your best when you quiet your mind and let your body take over,” he might say to Gerr. “But your mind’s going to fight back. Your mind is terrified of being upstaged. Push that aside. Get out of your own way.”
In the Foster’s Surfmasters at Fistral Beach, England, Gerr came up against world champion Tom Curren in the final. It was a best-of-three format, and in round one, Gerr choked—a departure from the ace form he’d shown in earlier rounds.
The best-of-three format allowed competitors the advantage of a break between rounds to collect themselves, assess, strategize. Newquay is a long, flat, sandy beach that experiences severe tidal changes, sometimes as much as a quarter-mile. To accommodate, Foster’s had appointed logo-bedecked jeeps to chariot athletes from the competitors’ area to water’s edge.
In the left jeep, clad in sky blue short-sleeve full-suit, rode Tom Curren. In the right jeep, wearing a canary yellow spring-suit, rode Gerr. Sitting directly behind him, massaging his shoulders and whispering words of encouragement in his ear, was Kennedy. Kennedy read Gerr’s rattled grimace and creased forehead as a sure sign of overthinking. If Gerr was to stand a chance in the next rounds against the almighty Curren, he had to snap out of it.
As the jeeps lumbered through the sunburned crowd, fans stood and applauded the American finalists. The sky was overcast. The surf was waist-high and blown-out. The commentator ranted about the “brilliant surfing that’s about to take place.”
As Gerr stepped out onto the wet sand, Kennedy said, “Hey, Gerr.”
Gerr turned around.
“Don’t forget—” he said, and pointed to the seat as if Brad had left something behind.
Gerr leaned forward.
Kennedy slapped him across the face. Hard. So hard that Gerr’s face banged against the jeep door. In a fraction of a second Gerr went from stunned to fuming. He balled his hand into a fist.
“That’s it,” said Kennedy. “Right there. Take that to the water.”
Written On Water is a forthcoming memoir from Jamie Brisick
