Most of the 40 or more surfers who congregate in the chilly shadows here are career types in their 30s, 40s, and 50s: contractors, real estate agents, scientists, even a lawyer or two. The dawn patrol is their wake-up call, a cherished routine before work, and the talk is of yesterday’s waves and what nature has in store for today and tomorrow.

Similar dawn patrols occur elsewhere along the California coast. What sets Tourmaline’s apart from others, however, is the small clan of wet-suited old-timers, gentlemen well into their 70s and 80s, who move easily amid the camaraderie of the parking lot this crisp winter morning. This may be the largest single daily gathering of such elderly men still practicing what has long been considered a young man’s sport. If you didn’t know, you might not even notice their seniority, for they hold their own out on the water.

With his strong stocky frame, suntanned face, and sparkling eyes, 81-year-old Bill Heit looks healthier and happier than many 50-year-olds.

This morning he passes on the surf because he’s nursing a sore shoulder (a temporary setback), so there’s an opportunity to talk.

“I’m not an enthusiast like 99 percent of the guys who come down here, I do it as a form of exercise and for the social life,” he says, scanning the horizon. “This is a group of people that I love down here. I spend every morning till about 11 o’clock exchanging jokes and laughs, going in the water and battling for waves for an hour or two. . . . It’s not planned, it’s just something that happens. It’s a lifestyle.”

His story is not dissimilar to those of most Tourmaline senior citizen regulars: Bill “Goldy” Goldsmith, “Capt. Dan” O’Connell, “Black Mac” McClendan, Ron St. John, John Blankenship, Joe Gann, Bud Caldwell. Each is a vital link to surfing’s past. Heit, who’s better known as “Hadji” because of the way he used to wear a towel around his head after surfing, retains an uncanny memory for names, places, and adventures.

He arrived on the shores of San Diego in 1936, driving a Ford Model A to escape his home and the snow drifts of Buffalo, New York. Inspired by lifeguards on Mission Beach, he and his friends began building paddleboards to ride waves. “In those days they called them ‘kuk boxes’ (it was the Hawaiian word for ‘shit’),” he says. “We learned to surf on the waves off Mission Beach. Later we began ordering balsa-wood blanks from Long Beach and got fancy with strips of pine and redwood. Those boards would weigh anywhere from 65 to 85 pounds.” (A typical surfboard today weighs around 10 pounds or less.)

World War II brought these surfing exploits to an abrupt end. Heit joined the Army Air Corps and became an engineer, then, after the war, settled into a successful career with NASA, and retired in 1971. He did not pick up a surfboard again until the mid-1980s. “I was working, I had a family, so I had responsibilities,” he says. “I couldn’t just hang out on the beach like I did in the ‘30s. I did get into skiff fishing on the weekends. . . . We used to fish everything, from bottom fish to marlin.”

It was Skeeter Malcolm, a legendary local waterman and longtime friend, who persuaded the retiree to pick up where he had left off some 45 years before. Unlike Hadji and other old-timers, Malcolm had continued surfing throughout the war and throughout his life until shortly before his death in 1993, at age 70. In his later years he presided over a group of fellow surfing old-timers at Sunset Cliffs, a few miles south of here.

When, by the mid-1980s, it became increasingly difficult for some of the older surfers to negotiate the steep stairway to the beach at the Cliffs, the group moved to Tourmaline. “Skeeter kept needling me to get back into it down at Tourmaline, which by then had a nice parking lot, bathrooms, and showers,” says Heit. “I used to surf down here when it was just an old muddy canyon, it was only about 20 yards wide. There was a trail we used to walk down, and if it was too wet, we’d drive here on the beach if the tide was low enough. There were a lot less restrictions back then.”
Although Tourmaline was not considered a prime surfing break, especially compared to Windansea and other spots just a few minutes north in La Jolla, it became popular with recreational surfers and sailboarders soon after its parking lot and facilities were built in the late ’60s. With gentle waves, a non-aggressive atmosphere, and only a short concrete ramp separating the parking lot from a wide sandy beach, Tourmaline is user-friendly, especially for the old-timers.

Malcolm’s memory lives on; a concrete bench overlooking the waves bears his name and a bronze plaque with his picture. His friends sold T-shirts with that picture to pay for the bench. “Skeeter was the total athlete,” says Heit, holding court on that bench now. “He lettered in four or five sports in high school, became a school principal, and everybody knew and respected him. He was a real likable guy.”

Tourmaline local John Bishop joins in the talk with the story of how he learned to surf at age seven from Skeeter Malcolm. The two would meet at Malcolm’s dad’s barber shop and surf the pristine waves of Sunset Cliffs by themselves. When Malcolm and the old-timers moved to Tourmaline, Bishop followed.

“These guys are the last of the true watermen,” explains Bishop, who’s only 55 and a mere pup in this crowd. “They dived, they surfed, they fished, they boated, they built their lives and enjoyment around the water. You don’t see that nowadays. It didn’t matter to them if the waves were good or bad. . . . Skeeter used to drive me nuts by forcing me into the water no matter what.

“In the old days there was a fellowship among surfers because they were so few,” muses Bishop. “Traveling the coast, a surfer you didn’t know would become your best friend because you were happy to have someone to share the waves with. They built relationships that span the entire coast of California, and Hawaii. These were people who lived for the ocean, and that has been largely lost today.”

Heit returned to surfing because he had a lot of time on his hands after retirement. Mornings at Tourmaline became a daily priority after he began to experience heart problems and had quadruple bypass surgery. “Hadji’s life has been extended because of his surfing,” says Bishop. “How long would he have lived after all that surgery if he just sat on the couch and watched TV?

“When [the old-timers] do start dying, there will be nobody to replace them,” Bishop went on. “The rules have changed. Today, surfers have all comfortable accessories: wet suits, leashes, hats and gloves, lightweight boards. Surfing has become much less of a challenge.”

Soon, “Capt. Dan” O’Connell approaches Skeeter’s bench to exchange greetings with Hadji and Bishop. “Danny and I are the oldest ones down here,” says Hadji. “Danny, you’re what, 84? I’m going to be 82 in June. You’re in June also, aren’t you Danny?”

O’Connell was one of the earliest surfers on the East Coast, using lifeguard skiffs at Jones Beach on Long Island, New York. In the 1930s he joined the Navy and was stationed in San Diego for a while. He went on to serve in Korea and Vietnam, and retired as a Navy commander. “I surfed when I had a chance, but your duty comes first,” he says.

Although Heit and O’Connell had hung around the same beaches before the war, they did not meet until the old-timers moved to Tourmaline in the 1980s. O’Connell had returned to surfing on a regular basis while serving a stint in Hawaii in the ’60s. He retired there, but after four years “island fever” set in, so he and his wife moved back to San Diego. He heard about “a bunch of old guys” who frequented Tourmaline Surfing Park, and became a regular.

As Hadji sits on Skeeter’s bench reminiscing about the old days, Capt. Dan and Goldy continue the dawn patrol ritual, donning their wet suits and joining the younger surfers already bobbing in the surf line.

The old-timers surf right alongside other surfers, standing up. Many times they will catch the same wave and ride in twos or threes, an uncommon practice among today’s possessive, performance-minded surfers. They are given the utmost respect in the water, and their well-being is monitored by the younger guys. At Tourmaline the atmosphere is uncompetitive.

As the sun begins trickling into Tourmaline Canyon on this cold morning, Hadji, Capt. Dan, and Goldy gather after surfing as usual, at the tailgate of Ron St. John’s truck, parked in the space closest to the sand. Still invigorated by the 56-degree water, they enjoy some fresh fruit and muffins baked by Goldy the night before. To surfing historians, it would be a precious moment to freeze in time. For the old-timers themselves, it’s just another good morning at the beach. They were here yesterday, they’ll be here tomorrow.

Gary Taylor is a freelance writer and lifelong surfer who lives in Encinitas.