Le Diabolique Monsieur Dora
The headline, in its brevity, made me buy the magazine. "The Legendary Da Cat, One of the Most Charismatic Surfers in the World, Died January 3. He was 67 Years Old." At least that’s what I think it says. I can’t speak or read French, and the magazines in English sold at the airport didn’t interest me.
I knew Miki Dora shuffled off this mortal coil — The Philadelphia Inquirer, of all places, informed me. I only knew him through stories, faded photographs, and trails of global fraud, a third- or fourth-hand account of a life. If you don’t know the details of Dora, you’re probably better off; the tendency is to either seethe with rage or cascade into daydream at mention of his name. It seems he either cheated you or acted as the brother you never had. Or sometimes both.
All the surf magazines have eulogized Dora by now, mostly as a footnote in the history of our aqueous passion. France’s Surf Session provided the longest piece I’ve seen, even if I can’t understand most of it. Only fitting since Dora spent some time living on the fringe in coastal France. The article seems to revel in his rebellion, equating his life-as-performance-art with "a festival of excess."
I could be wrong, though. Like I said, I can’t speak French.
Even if Dora never opened his mouth, dropped his trunks, or launched into some other infamy, I think he secured his notoriety with his screen time in Endless Summer. Despite what you may think about his life and how he lived it, face it: the man could surf.
From Surf Session: «L’heure est maintenant aux souvenirs, aux anecdotes, aux clichés.» My souvenir: An 8"x10" newspaper photo from the 1960s, intended for a stock image. The image pure Dora, trimming along waist-high Malibu, poised but not posed. On the back of the photo, written in pencil: "Miki Dora, Malibu. File under Surfing."
I can’t think of a more appropriate eulogy.