Inside Rockin’ Figs Surf Headquarters the walls are cluttered with memories of faded blue waves and tan skin. Pictures of the beach, the heroes, the waves. Each one tells its own story of legends, epic waves, and the laid back lifestyle that is surfing. Only one man is truly able to relay them all. Rick Fignetti. Just call him Fig.
From day to day the look stays the same but with minor adjustments. Red “Rockin Fig’s” trucker hat one day, camo of the same the next. Sometimes there are shorts, but most times there are comfy sweat pants. And an occasional Lost Clothing tee-shirt makes it’s way into the outfit, as Fig has friends at Lost. His hat of the day always holds a brown mop of thick-curled, salty hair down to the level of his chin. Square tortoise-shell glasses sit below hat’s bill, and hold a prescription that refracts the shop light so that it’s hard to see the details of his eyes.
It all began in Los Angeles at St. Vincent’s Hospital in 1957. The Figster is originally known as Richard Fignetti, at least that’s what his birth certificate should say. His parents are Japanese and Italian. A little Irish slipped in there somewhere, from a grandma or someone way back. After spending a few years of his early childhood in the Inland Empire, Fig and his family moved to Huntington Harbor while he was in the third grade. His new home was a moderately priced place right on the water with four bedrooms, a giant living room, a den, a three car garage, a patio, and a front and back yard. A dream home on the beach, it was perfect for Fig’s dad’s boating recreation and spending time at the beach. Initially, Fig’s parents bought the house to use as a rental property, but when the potential residents bailed, the Fignetti’s decided to take it themselves.
A soft sunlight illuminates an empty Main Street. Fig turns the corner a block away and bounces his way towards the shop. He’s sporting his normal red shop trucker hat and a Western Surfing Association T-shirt and Rockin’ Figs grey sweatpants. On his hip is a black fanny pack that holds dozens of business cards, as well as the usual money, cell phone, and ID. In one hand is a large cup of convenience store coffee.
Opening up the front door that’s covered in an array of surf stickers, Fig enters the shop and flips the light switch on. Radio on. Strip the tape off a few brown boxes from Billabong. A few wetsuits and Pro Tahiti shirts. In the background, Kevin and Bean banter on the radio. It’s always tuned to 106.7 KROQ. Fig picks up the store’s cheap pastel pink phone that is stuck tight to the corner of the front desk and calls the station. He greets either Kevin or Bean, turns the radio volume down, and waits. “Okay, all righty,” he says as he nods his head. He pulls out a worn
microphone that seems to have collected dust in its cracks since the ‘80s. On the front of it is a deteriorating KROQ label.
In Fig’s hand is a piece of paper with his radio surf report
scratched down in writing only he can read.
“If anyone tried to decipher my writing...” Fig trails off as he shakes his head and gives a little laugh. He waits for the countdown: 3, 2, 1. He’s on. His voice bubbles into radio mode the second his cue hits. Normally, his lingo is laid-back and his voice rolls softly from his throat. But now his speech is quick and round and full of electric life. He has to roll the words off fast, otherwise “it sounds, like, really slow,”
he explains after he closes with a low growling
“Kkkk-ROQ” that you might expect from a WWF wrestler.
Walk a little north of the pier and you’ll see “the white apartments.” These are enclosed adobe condos that sit directly on the beach. If they were any closer to the water, they could be swept away by a big enough storm. Nowadays each is privately owned. Current rent here for a month is equivalent to a 1998 Ford Ranger, or five and a half new Channel Island shortboards, or a trip to Indo for over six months. Years ago, Fig used to live there for $800 a month. That amount, for a two bedroom place, was split with a housemate as well. Every morning Fig would pour a cup of hot coffee, walk out onto his shiny green astroturf-covered balcony and silently appraise the surf. This prime location made him the perfect candidate to be the KROQ wave reporter he is today.
Fig takes a seat on the red leather stool at the end of the bar at El Ranchito. The place is slow this Monday night, even though it’s dark outside and dinner time is well on its way. Inside the bar and rest of the restaurant is dimly lit. Fig looks over at Brandon, a bartender who regularly spends his free time chilling in the shop, and asks him for a Corona. His shoulders slouch a little, making it easy to tell that he is still moping a little bit. Yesterday there was more than one Corona cracked open. Fig needed those beers after an upsetting loss in his final competition for the West Coast Finals out at Church’s at Trestles. After a handful of contests up and down the California coast in which Fig collected enough points to be a sure-shot for the over-all win, he pulled out a disappointing third place. His closest competitor for the title managed to gain 2500 more points from the judges with a first place win at Church’s, despite hardly catching a wave during the final heat of the competition. Sometimes the judging works that way. But Fig really wanted that eleventh title. Nothing he can do now. He tosses a few dollars at Brandon as he finishes his bottle. Time to call it a night.
He’ll be back out in the water tomorrow.
The surf is flat. The crummy weather has finally begun to shift into sunshine, although there is still a chill in the air. Inside the shop, the boys are moping a little. Chad has bought new paint pens and hasn’t stopped designing and coloring every board he can get his hands on. Fig hasn’t surfed since last wednesday. Almost a week.
After plopping down on one seat, Fig swings his legs over the armrest of the other wooden swiveling chair. Each sit so close to the front desk that they rub the stickers off the glass case as people twist them side-to-side.
How did he first start announcing surf contests? He doesn’t respond right away, but stares and blinks a few times as if he doesn’t understand the question, or doesn’t understand what the importance of knowing the answer to that question is. “How?” he stretches out. It began with a tryout in 1987 at Wild Rivers to take over the announcer position on the U.S. Tour. During the ‘80s, it was fairly common for contests to be held at man-made wave pools. Fig’s test was to announce as he saw fit. He aced it.
From then on, Fig announced all his events solo until about ten years ago. N.S.S.A. Nationals, the O.P. Pro, the U.S. Open. Four, five, six days of competition; calling the play-by-play, updating scores via computer, keeping the competitors informed,
entertaining the crowd, interviewing surfers.
Nervous? Fig thinks about this for a few seconds.
“Yeah,” he drags out again. He begins to shift his body into regular sitting position in one chair only, and begins to grasp his chest. You get a little freaked out when you start thinking about it and then you start swallowing, like hyperventilating. Fig swallows like a dying fish gasping for air. You get some water and go for it. Once you do the Open for 16 years, it’s a little easier to deal with the fear of
100,000 people listening to you announce.
So as Fig likes to call himself, he’s a “winger.” He used to watch the Speedway races growing up and loved how the announcers narrated the competition. When Fig first began, announcers would state check-in times for heats. Maybe scores. Not much action. And as Fig hates to say it, his play-by-play style paved the way for contests today. Nowadays, surf contest commentators may mention “peekaroos,” or that a surfer is “slicin’ and dicin’” while in a heat. No doubt people will hear the token monotone call of “Five minutes. Five minutes remaining.” A staple solidified by Fig.
What does Fig love more than the ocean? The waves? The adrenaline rush of the wave lifting you as your mind tells you to commit; leaning in, gliding, picking yourself up and searching for the neverending curl of water in front of you. He loves the sport for the affect it’s had on his life. It’s love and it’s an obsession. It’s a lifestule. One he will never quit, will always stay true to, and always be a staple part of.
