Bruce Brown, the father of surf filmmaking, shown here in the mid-60s. Photo: Bruce Brown Films
I remember the first time I was invited to Bruce Brown’s home. Heading south on Hwy 101, pulling up to his gate, driving up the long dirt driveway and walking across the lawn. Bruce’s cattle dog Rusty our escort, howling as we walked to let his master/friend know there was company. And there stood Bruce, cigarette in hand.
The first words he spoke to me were, “Hey, asshole.” That was my nickname for the next four years.
Now, I didn’t grow up in a beach town. I lived an hour and a half from the coast in Richmond, California. My mom would take me out to Stinson Beach in Marinas often as she could. By the end of the day, I was a shriveled prune, and I loved the ocean. On the car rides home I remember thinking, one day I’ll live at the beach.
Sometime around 14, I had saved enough money to get my first surfboard by mowing lawns and a paper route. My mom drove me to the surf shop in Mill Valley and I proudly purchased a Ben Aipa swallow tail single fin with yellow flames. This was 1984 and single fins weren’t cool, but I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew I was on the right path.
Fast forward to the few months before I met Bruce. I’m living on the Hollister Ranch, just
Article source: https://www.theinertia.com/inspired/my-unexpected-friendship-with-bruce-brown/