10/13/2025
Strangely, our junior high school library carried a subscription to Surfer magazine. We werenât anywhere near the ocean, but those glossy, untouched pages opened a world Iâd never seen. Two names appeared again and againâMike Doyle and Joey Cabell. To me, they werenât just surfers; they were the faces of surfing, familiar as old friends, even though I only knew them from print. Fast forward to 1971. I was standing at a stoplight in Encinitas when I spotted someone who looked like Mike Doyle. I nudged my surf buddy and said, âI think thatâs him.â âIâm going to ask for his autograph,â he replied. âHe wonât give you the time of day,â I shot back. âSix-pack says Iâm right.â We crossed the street, my friend asked him the time, and Mike kept walking. I turned and said, âYou owe me a six-pack.â My first impression wasnât flattering. Years later, when I retold the story to Mike and Annie, she laughed and said, âHe probably didnât hear your friend.â Knowing what I later came to know of Mike, I believe her. I was properly introduced to him through our mutual friends, the Lymanâs. Chris, Elaine, and I were walking up Gr**go Hill when Mike and Nat Young pulled up. We were invited to dinner, where Mike and Nat made us feel like old friends. Later, they asked us to join them for a dawn surf. I hardly slept that night, thinking about whirlpools, drowning, and whether Iâd be good enough to surf with my heroes. By morning, the ocean was alive. I set up my tripod and camera, knowing Mike and Nat had a flight to catch. While they surfed, I watched and waited for the tide to drop. Eventually, I paddled out, caught a clean wave, and pulled into my first barrel of the day. As I kicked out, Nat grinned wide and shouted in a flurry of Australian slang. I only caught a word or two, but I knew what he meant: youâre in. Out in the lineup, talk shifted from waves to snowboarding. Mike was already into it. I admitted I couldnât figure out my heel-side turn. He told me: âMeet me in Aspen next week, Iâll help you fix that.â
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