If you were an actor working on the Columbia lot in 1965, whether in a feature film or on a new or returning television series, you went upstairs to the makeup and hair department located on the second floor of a three-story building directly across from most of the soundstages. Instead of every show having its own separate expandable makeup trailer—like it is today—at that time, all the actors with morning calls, from all the different shows, went “through the works” together. Every morning as the sun was inching out of night, I entered the department, where it was brightly lit, buzzing with activity, and smelling like bacon and eggs from the local coffee shop. Scurrying around were eager young people with the lowly title of second second assistant director who patiently took the orders, then delivered the food.
Since Gidget needed very little time in the chair, other actors were always there before me. Barbara Eden—who was working on I Dream of Jeannie—seemed to live there, because every time I stepped in, there she was, in exactly the same chair, singing most of the time, and I never saw her anywhere else. Wonderful Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched was usually there, sitting quietly in the corner, not singing. But then Elizabeth didn’t need to do anything, not sing or even talk. To me, she was perfect without doing one single thing and remained that way. (Later the cast of The Partridge Family and The Monkees would be moving in and out of the big barbershop-type chairs, but I was on a different show by then and don’t want to get ahead of myself.) Everyone would eventually depart to their separate soundstages, which were lined up in a row opposite the building. Only Gidget’s set was located away from the others on one of the two stages across from the drive-on gate, next to the parking lot. And that’s where we spent most of the day, Gidget and I. Except for the day or two each week when we’d shoot on location.
The majority of the days off the lot were spent working at the Columbia Ranch, a huge parcel of land sitting in the heart of Burbank and filled with various faux neighborhoods and city streets. It also had a dreadful fake beach called the Berm, consisting of a man-made lake filled with dark, stagnant water and surrounded by tons of coarse brown sand—not like the sand on a real Malibu beach, more like the stuff they use to make cement. As we’d sit in the dirt with the cameras rolling, acting as though it were another happy day at the beach, it felt slightly ridiculous to be looking out at the flat, lifeless sludge and yelling “Surf’s up,” then grabbing our boards and running off camera where everyone would pile up out of view of the lens, desperately trying to keep from stepping into the water, which seriously did not smell right.
The reverse shots, the ones revealing where we were running—toward the ocean—were filmed during the few days when we actually went to one of the beaches in Santa Monica or Malibu where I’d spent so much of my life. On those days—as few as they might have been—I’d vibrate with the same excitement I felt when I was a kid, knowing we were going to spend the day frolicking in the ocean. But the ocean I’d always known in the Augusts of my childhood was very different from the one I met that November day when we first filmed on the beach. It was freezing, both the water and the air. Everyone was wearing gloves, ski hats, and heavy down jackets. Everyone except for me, that is, and of course the handful of surfers—real surfers—who clustered around totally unfazed by the weather, the cold water, or the waves. While I clung to the large terry-cloth robe that had been placed over my shoulders, most of the true surfers were so eager to jump in the water that they’d barely registered theirs, abandoning them immediately. White terry-cloth piles ended up scattered around the sand.
I can’t say the swell was especially big—three to five feet—but to me the waves looked huge. Adding insult to injury, this was not a “point break” like the easy rolling waves of Mondos Beach above Oxnard, where I’d been taken many times by Darryl, the surfing coach. This was a “beach break,” and Zuma, for God’s sake. Notoriously difficult to ride. While I stood there shivering, hoping they’d decide to shoot something else, the assistant director held up his bullhorn and screeched, “EVERYONE IN THE WATER.” And since all the other surfers were either paddling out or standing knee-deep already, he basically meant me. Let’s be honest: Even though I’d become a strong, confident swimmer and was one hell of a boogie boarder, surfing was never going to be my sport, with or without Darryl’s instructions. I didn’t even have a car before I began to work, and the huge board, which weighed more than I did, was the same size as my new MGB, so how would I have gotten the thing to the beach?
Just in case someone on earth had missed his last message, the assistant director blasted another “IN THE WATER!” So off went the robe and into the icy water went the girl. Since it was supposed to look like a sunny summer day, no one wore wet suits of any kind, and the water was so cold the lower half of my body instantly went numb. There I was in the water, sitting on a board the size of the PT-109, trying to power a stiff blue body that barely knew how to maneuver this craft under the best of circumstances. I mean, really, what the hell were they thinking? Were they just testing to see if I was serious about this whole acting thing? Then again, was this acting or a study in humiliation? Or is acting always walking on the edge, always flirting with the possibility of falling flat on your face, or of wiping out and losing the top of your bathing suit? I know that the latter option was going through my mind when I heard the faint but unmistakable bullhorn voice shriek, “TAKE THE NEXT WAVE!” and before I could even look to see if there was indeed a wave to take, I heard the heart-stopping word: “ROLLING!”
Even now, as I remember this moment in the cold Pacific so long ago, it’s not the sound of the waves I hear, or the screeching bullhorn; it’s the sound of Jocko’s mocking laugh when I’d fail to dive into the water or flip over the pole as he demanded. I hear his repeated shouts, “Do it! Arms straight, toes pointed. Don’t think! GO!” And I’d stand there, with my toes gripping the pine platform, frozen, feeling worthless and afraid. Though frozen for sure, I was no longer on that high dive, my toes gripping nothing but the edge of yesterday.
Without hesitation, I put my forehead on the board and began paddling furiously, pumping my legs up and down at the same time, trying to inch my big board forward, now aware of the wave forming behind me. Just when I thought I’d failed, had missed the wave and the shot would continue on without me, Mickey Dora, the champion surfer who was by my side, pushed my gigantic board in front of the wave, exactly where I needed to be. When I tentatively started to stand, Mickey grabbed my hand as he expertly maneuvered his board beside me. Small though it might have been, we rode the entire wave until finally we slid gently to the shore and the flabbergasted crew began to cheer. I don’t know how many more waves I caught, or Mickey tossed me into—it didn’t matter. I’d found something new. I was terrified, yes, but instead of letting some other part of myself perform the task while the rest of me floated away, I had held the reins and fearlessly, without thinking, told myself to just go.