We knew flying into Bombay that Airport Customs was on a total trip about foreigners filming religious sites or any kind of exposé, for that matter. If you brought a camera into the country you could count on losing your film. Tourists, Hollywood cinematographers, even unknown filmmakers were taking a big risk. You couldn’t even buy film on the street in 1963, except in the black market. But the thing was, India wasn’t a stopover for us. No photos, no filming, we weren’t even leaving the airport for God’s sake. We’d be in and out like a flash and on our way to Australia before we could blink. Instead, our plans took an unexpected left turn when Bruce’s cameras were impounded practically the minute we landed.
I had one carry-on. Travel light; it’s the only way to go. Bruce and Robert lugged the rest of the camera gear, suitcases, and everything else we dragged across Africa over to the Customs counter. That’s the way it was back then, traveling from country to country. You had to physically carry your bags to Customs before boarding your next flight. But this was no leisurely vacation. We’re talking about Bruce’s career here, and he was worried sick; hell, we were all worried that if his cameras weren’t released by the time we boarded the plane, it might mean the end of The Endless Summer.
Pushing my way through the noisy mob of turbans, business suits, and Kodak cameras, I put some serious distance between myself and Bruce and Robert. It was way smarter for me to walk ahead. That way, at least one of us could go for help if needed.
Down one crowded corridor, then another, it sure wasn’t hard to get swallowed up in the chaos. Floating along in a sea of humanity from every part of the world, it was wild, kind of like shooting the rapids at the Colorado River. I just stood there while an invisible force propelled me through sitar music playing in the background, past the odor of patchouli incense and curry mixed together. Whew! If that didn’t clear out your sinuses I don’t know what would.
Skimming the corner and down another hallway I looked for a break up ahead, some place, any place to come up for air. Then, wham! I put the brakes on. It was the end of the road, no turning back, if you know what I mean. Located up ahead were two very serious Indian Customs Agents rifling through one suitcase after another. To Bruce, this was one of those make-or-break moments. Would he get his cameras back or not? To me, well, let’s just say I was going to have to pull a full-on Houdini to get out of this one.
I slipped into the line on the right, trying to be cool like I’d done it a million times before. This whole customs trip was new to me. Except for Mexico, I’d never been in another country, and all they did at the Tijuana border was ask your nationality before they let you back into California.
I took a deep breath. No way was I going to let them call my bluff. They didn’t have to know I was scared shitless. But you just don’t know how you’re going to react to this kind of scene until it hits you smack dab in the face.
Bruce and Robert caught up to the Customs counter and veered off to the left. Bruce knew he was going to get hassled. I mean, seriously, what were a couple of surfers doing dragging surfboards and a movie camera through the Bombay Airport? He knew we were basically sitting ducks. But at that point, it wouldn’t have mattered if we were carrying cameras or not, all of us stuck out like sore thumbs.
Thinking the best way to get through this craziness was to cooperate, Bruce did a stand-up job of playing the game while the agents gave him a bunch of shit. He was a sensible guy, twenty-six years old, married, who’d been filming surf locations for a few years now.
Bruce also knew that the last thing you want to do in a foreign country is to piss off an official government agent and get thrown in the slammer. Not a good situation to be in.
Robert, on the other hand, was a different story. Here’s this eighteen-year-old kid from Seal Beach plucked straight out of high school with Hollywood good looks and eyes as big as saucers. Sure, he’d been flying back and forth between Southern California and Hawaii since he was a kid, but you should have seen him. Innocence can sometimes work to your advantage. It was so obvious he’d never been through anything like this before. What the hell was I saying, neither had Bruce and I for that matter.
I was up next. I looked over at Robert’s face for one last laugh, inhaled, and set my carry-on on the counter filled with trunks, surfboard wax, shaving cream, and pomade. I held my breath and waited for the shit to hit the fan, still trying to be cool. Luckily, my guy was lightning fast, but instead of the inquisition, my bag was checked routine, no hassles, and I was let through to board the plane.
I couldn’t believe it was so easy. I even stood around for a second, waiting to be handcuffed and dragged away. But it turned out that Bruce’s impounded cameras worked to my advantage. All the commotion gave me just the distraction I needed.
I have to admit I was feeling pretty cocky by the time I reached my seat. The engines warmed up, passengers boarded and got settled, and the stewardesses ran around before takeoff. But where were Bruce and Robert? When I left them Bruce was still being hassled by the Customs Agent. Nerves took over. I strained my neck, watching people come down the aisle. Even as fed up as I was with them I never wanted to see those two guys so bad in my life. All I needed was for us to get separated. Who the hell was I kidding? If that happened I wasn’t sticking around. I was ditching them for Hawaii. Screw that!
Time dragged. Not knowing if Bruce and Robert were detained was starting to drive me nuts. I gripped the armrests tighter and imagined all kinds of crazy scenarios. The warnings we got in Africa replayed in my head. Two days before in Durban a surfing buddy filled us in about a trip he took where all of his film had been confiscated, something we could not afford. That’s when I told Bruce I’d been paying attention to the airport customs we’d hit so far and suggested we smuggle the Cape St. Francis footage through India.
Damn it, no Bruce and Robert.
Bruce knew what had to be done. The reels he shot at Cape St. Francis were way too valuable to lose. Up to that point he had mailed all the film he shot back home to be edited by his crew. But this footage was priceless. It gave the trip a real direction, something he desperately needed if he wanted a commercial product, and Bruce wasn’t going to risk anything happening to it. So we hashed out a plan when Robert wasn’t around. It was better if the kid didn’t know what we were getting him into.
I checked again. Down one aisle, up the other, I scanned the rows of passengers for a familiar face. Just when I was ready to give up hope and fly solo to Australia, I saw Robert’s dark hair towering over an older Chinese woman holding her grandchild and Bruce’s skinny ass was right behind. Both looked like they had the wind knocked out of them. Emptying the stale air from my lungs, I think I took my first deep breath since before boarding the plane.
I swear I couldn’t get out of my seat fast enough. Taking my cue, I jumped into the aisle, made a mad dash toward the back of the plane, locked myself in the cramped head, and started ripping the sixteen-millimeter reels from my ribs. The precious Endless Summer footage that would go on to earn thirty-million dollars and a permanent spot in the history of surfing had been stuck to me since Durban and the tape was itching the shit out of me.
[This excerpt was published in TSJ 18.6 and pulled from Transcendental Memories of a Surf Rebel, by Mike Hynson and Donna Klaasen Jost]
