I was impressed by the adept way that he cross-referenced and fact-checked everything as a matter of course, even when doing something as simple as asking directions of a peasant girl on a country road. He had lived in Africa (I had lived in Africa), he had surfed in Fiji (I had surfed in Fiji), he had gone to UC Santa Cruz (I had gone to UC Santa Cruz) - there were lots of parallels, and I had a grand time sharing and comparing. I had read some of his other articles and books, and was curious to ask him about all sorts of things. We're taking a surf trip together in a few weeks, why don’t you come along and tell him in person?” With that turn of events, I subsequently enjoyed several days in conversation with Finnegan while we roomed together and surfed to exhaustion all around a distant Atlantic island. “That thing was so damn good! I’m going to try and write to that guy to tell him!” Spacek kind of chuckled. I mentioned Finnegan’s New Yorker article and raved about it. In 1997 my old friend Peter Spacek surfed a December swell with me in Santa Barbara while he escaped from the Long Island winter cold. Those of us who actually grew up surfing felt a powerful affinity for Finnegan’s authenticity, and those of us who scorned the marketing copy that usually spoke for our game were thrilled to hear an actual literary voice on the page. I was thrilled and blown away when I read Playing Doc's Games, and not alone in my reaction. It was a singular milestone because it was the one and only piece that I had ever seen which transcended the surfing milieu as a genre - every other artistic attempt, whether painting or cinema or literature, invariably issued whiffs of kitsch, however faint. I’m an unabashed fan, like so many others who read his 1992 two-part essay in The New Yorker called Playing Doc’s Games, which detailed Finnegan’s complex negotiation between his life as a hard-core surfer and an up-and-coming writer. I just read William Finnegan’s Barbarian Days, a fine memoir of his surfing life.

Bill finnegan surfing