A couple of weeks before the first Stubbies Classic began I flew to Queensland to interview the contest director, Peter Drouyn, about the new rules he’d devised. To keep me amused on the hour-long flight I had a folder full of material – clippings, articles, letters, interviews – by and about Peter Drouyn. I was firmly convinced that the Stubbies would be the surfing event of the year – if for no other reason than that Peter Drouyn was running it – and I wanted our buildup to it to be lengthy and entertaining. I opened the folder and started reading Peter’s letter to the invited surfers, sent out months before in an elaborate booklet: Dear Pro Surfer, Congratulations. You have been selected in the 1977 Stubbies Open Surf Classic, Gold Coast, Australia. We feel sure you have gained a berth through your various outstanding achievements in professional surfing. Apart from the information guide lines (sic) that you have already perused, I will now give you a definite run down (sic) of what judges will look for in this new style of judging. Basically you go out to do your own thing. Whether it may be aggressive or smooth or cool or smooth aggressive will not matter in as far as ‘don’t be afraid to exert in such limits on what you feel is one attitude you think the judges are wanting’… It was a mid-morning flight but after that I ordered a whisky and ice and it came quite quickly, as they did in those days. Even after nearly 40 years, I remember quite clearly thinking, what the fuck is this guy on?? But I liked Drouyn, and I wanted to like his concept. Back then, Bob Evans was my neighbour in Whale Beach (or had been until his untimely death a couple of months earlier) and because Drouyn was his friend we’d met socially a few times and I was drawn to Peter’s manic enthusiasm for everything, his sharp wit and his charm, which he could turn on and off like a tap. So I read a bit more. With what I have said in mind and remember- ing that each heat will contain only two surfers, the definition on (sic) how to win will be obvious – pressure as in other sporting activities. Those who gain or maintain complete control through constant hammering with themselves or with … Read more

In the distance, the wave was just a kind of vague etching. The rolling white water, long rocky headland and slinking lines of swell all implied it might be a magical set up, but it was too far away to tell for sure. We were in Lombok, all of us in our early twenties and on our first Indo adventure. We’d been dropped off in the middle of nowhere at an open water reef by a local who’d told us he’d be back to collect us in a couple of hours in his rickety canoe. Now I wanted to add to the sense of isolation and vulnerability by paddling across a long, deep channel to a maybe wave. No one else was really keen to make the crossing with me and in a way I didn’t want them to. I was craving the risk and the sense of unease and the idea that maybe I’d be rewarded for my troubles with a curling treasure on the other side. Paddling over the green abyss I tried to tell myself that there were no sharks in Indo and focused my attention on the fantasy I had built in my mind about the wave on the other side of the channel. It was further than it seemed and when I turned to look back it was clear my friends now belonged to some different part of the world, while I hovered in a sort of limbo. I almost turned back but some compulsion kept my arms moving towards the distant headland. Eventually I reached the Rubicon moment – the point of no return – and my paddle stroke quickened and thoughts turned only to what lay ahead and not behind. As it turned out the wave wasn’t the ideal scenario I’d imagined it to be, but it wasn’t bad either. Warbling lefts ricochet off the point and squirrelled into fun sidewinders while the bigger sets broke much wider, lurching into a steep take off that eventually tapered into a slopey, but rippable wall. Whatever the wave lacked in quality was made up for by the sense of exhilaration I derived from feeling way outside my comfort zone. When it came time to paddle back across the channel I felt much more at ease than when I’d started out. The reward for exploring new thresholds is that you eventually feel relaxed where you were … Read more

Tell us a bit about your yourself. Yep. Name is Jose Emroca Flores, born in Northern Nevada. Parents are from Mexico. Started drawing as a young baby like everyone else. My mom worked in an office so I remember stealing from the supplies cabinet to make sketchbooks and draw until my mom got off of work. I am actually glad Ipads were not invented or I wouldn’t have drawn so much. Started out drawing Snoopy then Superman then evolved to Powell Peralta and Santa Monica Airlines graphics. Caballero and the Natas models were my favourites. Got into a bit of graffiti in high school, then went off to get more serious about art in San Francisco after high school. How do you have a connection with surfing? I surf pretty much everyday, unless it’s flat, then I just work as much as I can. I try to live as close to the ocean as possible. I like where I live right now. South Oceanside. I have a nice little window of breaks from Trestles to Encinitas area. We have had a pretty fun El Nino season so it has been really hard to focus on art right now. Hahah. I feel like if I did not surf, my art would be way better. But I would be an angry, bitter artist. I met my wife on a bus in San Francisco while I was going to school, before all the online dating stuff. We actually had to go up to girls and talk to them back then. Go figure. Started to surf around that time and I am glad that I started a little later in life or I would not have ever done anything with my art. I became pretty obsessed with it. It has been a balancing act between my work and surfing ever since. But art pays my bills so sometimes I have to sacrifice some good days. I guess that coincided around the arrival of sharks and surfers in your work? My favorite time to surf is at dusk. I like that little window where the crowd dies down right before it gets dark. The wind and the colours get nice. Some- times I get a little spooked out there if I am by myself. I guess painting sharks has been a bit of a coping mechanism when I start to get my senses stirring out … Read more

Birth of the Bonzer? By 1970, surfboards had radically dropped in size and there were speed and control problems with the short single and twin fins. My dad was a sailor and interested in hull design and hydrodynamics. We talked to him about wanting to be able to ride our boards more confidently in larger waves and he suggested we try three fins. We researched a bit before coming across a drawing of a sailboat from 1876, which had twin keels that were single foiled. That’s when we decided on the idea of the long keel shaped side fins placed forward of the centre fin. Was it the first thruster? This is not really a bone of contention that Duncan and I are hung up on, but for all intents and purposes the Bonzer was the first truly functional, high performance three-fin surfboard. Dick Brewer and Reno Abellira were making some three-fin boards at the same time, but they placed their side fins behind the centre fin. Bonzer evolution? The biggest change has been the original three-fin set up changing to five. We made that modification in 1983 to keep up with the changing performance and newer styles of surfing that came from the Thruster movement. By splitting the side fins into two, it freed up the tail allowing tighter turns in the pocket, and a more controlled tail slide. Benefits of a bonzer? A bonzer is faster, looser, stays on rail longer and drives through turns better. There is a real balance to the Thruster and Bonzer because of the three/five fin set-ups. Sometimes a Twin Fin and Four Fin can trip up the average surfer on their backside. Who would we know that is using them? It started with Jeff Hakman, Ian Cairns, PT, and Terry Richardson in 1973/74. Some 45+ years later, Kelly Salter got one for Christmas. Taylor Knox has been true blue. There is a who’s who, but it can be a sensitive issue to drop names. Alex Knost has been working closely with my brother on some new Russ Short models, Juan Twycross at Rhinolaminating is our oz go to guy and of course there’s Joel Tudor, Ellis Ericson and Pat Towersey. There is a very long list of people that keep us honest. We always listen to Wayne Lynch. Best surfing on a Bonzer you’ve seen? Just the joy an everyday surfer gets … Read more

It has been a week now. A week of bars, beaches, restaurants, and infinity pools; of indulgence and low-slung ease; living like a king on the island of the gods. I have a local driver who takes me surfing in air-conditioned comfort and offers updates and interpretations of world events. Domestic angels turn down my king-sized bed and perform crisp origami on my grimy surf shirts. We sample a new restaurant each night and unfamiliar delicacies – barramundi ceviche, lychee martinis, double shot mocha Frappuccino’s – roll off my tongue. To be clear I don’t sell Sydney real estate, write Miley Cyrus lyrics or import cocaine. I’m the bloke next door: a mortgage slaving, lawn-mowing, semi-grown-up surf bum. Not so long ago I’d be flipping snags on the communal barbes at Crescent Head and counting my lucky stars. But the world has shifted: twenty years of uninterrupted economic growth and everyday Australians are among the richest wage earners in human history. Increasingly we battle our way to Bali on dirt-cheap flights – tradies, retail assistants, freelance hacks – and live like Kanye West. The luxe life takes some getting used to if you recall a time when it was exclusively for people you instinctively resented. For my road-tripping friends overseas travel meant thrift and discomfort. We slept in cars, on beaches, under stars and in train stations. We ate lentils, drank OPB (Other People’s Beer) and took guidance from Melbourne punk band the Painters and Dockers who captured the spirit of the times with their non-hit song Die Yuppie Die. A dazzling view of the blunt peninsula Photo: Childs. Few places on earth reflect the rising tide of global wealth – its pleasures and pitfalls – than the booming holiday mecca of Bali. Return visitors no longer get nostalgic for past decades they scratch their heads and wonder what happened to the Bali of twelve months ago. The pace of change is mind-boggling. 300 new restaurants opened in Canngu over the last three years, according to a recent report in the Sydney Morning Herald. Bali’s southern quadrant has been unrecognisably transformed and the development boom shows no signs of slowing, much less pausing to consider long-term impacts. Mega resorts continue to replace simple beachside warungs. Villas and gated McMansions sprawl over prime farmland. The traffic snarls get ever bigger while plastic clogs the gutters, the rivers, the beaches, the ocean. … Read more

We were drawn to a particular fjord in the Faroe Islands – a cluster of cliffs and peaks that rise out of the North Atlantic 250 miles southeast of Iceland. It was so narrow that mist and clouds coming in from the sea became trapped between its peaks. The precipitation settled and braided streams coursed along the valley’s basalt walls like silver tinsel shimmering against the black rock. The road we travelled also dipped from the clouds. It then skirted along a sea cliff and crossed a bridge before descending into the fjord. Its end met a small settlement next to a beach. There, black sand sloped into the turquoise water and crushed white shells flared across the dark sea bed in swirling patterns, glowing like cosmic dust. We’d been driving around the islands in search of surf for two days without much luck, which was disconcerting because the Faroes lay in the path of all North Atlantic swell. In fact, we could often see swell moving on the horizon. The charts suggested that if we were to find anything worthy, this would be the place. Our two-vehicle caravan pulled off at a vantage point. Across the road, a farmer heaved trash bags into a dumpster. When he saw us studying the coast he walked over with a greeting. I asked if the waves ever got big. “See my house over there?” He pointed at the hillside above the town. “One year the waves came up so high, I had to shovel fish out of my backyard.” I explained that I was with a group of professional surfers. In fact, this particular crew excelled at scoring waves in cold, craggy, dramatic places – like this. Yet the ocean below was serene. “I’m afraid you can’t surf these waves,” the farmer said. “They’re not good for that. Why would you come here of all places?” Sometimes the backdrop is more important than the barrel itself. Photo: Burkard. We parked and walked toward the water, passing houses made of wood and stone. Sheep meandered in backyards like pets. Ahead of us, a door in the side of a wooden shed cracked open. A blood-stained sheep skin flew out and landed on the sidewalk next to a wheelbarrow, which was full of animal guts. The door clanked shut and a sour stench choked the air. I held my breath as we passed on … Read more

It was just a few days before our departure to Reunion Island when we heard the news: 13-year old local surfer Elio Canestri had been fatally attacked by a bull shark on the island’s west coast near St. Gilles. Every surfer on the island knew Canestri, and the tragedy struck a painful chord within the local surf community. “Elio was one of our best up and coming surfers,” said fellow Reunion native Jeremy Flores. “Words can’t describe how sad and angry I am … It’s heartbreaking news.” Canestri’s death sent shockwaves throughout the island, which were still being felt when I stepped off the plane with California surfer Dillion Perillo and South Africa’s Brendon Gibbens. Outside of St. Denis Airport, we bumped into a Reunion local who eyed our board bags incredulously. “You here for surf?” he asked in his thick Reunion-French ac- cent. “Er … yeah,” replied Brendon hesitantly. The man put his hands in front of his face, opening and closing them in the universal symbol of a shark bite. I could almost see the blood drain from Brendon’s face as he turned to me. He was silent, but his eyes spoke volumes: “Why did we come here?”Perhaps the non-refundable tickets had something to do with it. Most surfers would have reconsidered going on a surf trip to Reunion in light of the recent events, but we knew there would be inherent risk even before we booked our flights. We went against the urging of our families and our own better judgment, tricking ourselves into thinking that Reunion’s world-class waves were worth the risk, the same way the handful of core locals still rationalise paddling into those troubled waters. Dylan arcs at a right that featured in many surf movies before the attacks began. If you’ve been following the news in Reunion, you might think that the island is the shark attack capital of the world. Almost, but not quite. Accord- ing to the International Shark Attack File, Reunion ranks No. 8 for attack activity between 2005-2014. Since 2011, the small Indian Ocean isle has been rocked by 17 shark attacks, almost all involving bull sharks, and seven of which have been fatal. That tally doesn’t include the sightings, of which there have been many, or the rumours that have been circulating the island, like the one about the dog playing fetch and being eaten by a bull … Read more

It’s been 45 days since the last reported case of Ebola when we arrive in the Liberian capital of Monrovia. The city looks like it’s been held together with duct tape, the result of 12 years of civil war followed by one of the deadliest outbreaks of disease in recent history. Our timing is touch-and go: Liberia has just been declared Ebola free, but the highway is still littered with huge signboards shouting, “Ebola is Real!” as WHO relief trucks rumble by in massive convoys. With me in the car are South Africans Simon Fish and Jordy Maree. We’re headed to Roberstport in the northwest corner of the country, hoping to ride the left points the small West African country briefly became famous for. Is a super fun left-hand point break worth the risk of ebola? Photo: Ewing. I’d first heard about waves in Liberia from veteran photojournalist Nic Bothma. Nic was the Africa bureau chief for the European Pressphoto Agency, which meant his bread and butter was going to countries most people were trying their hardest to avoid. And between 1989 and 2003, Liberia was a place you wanted to avoid. Decades of inequality and simmering ethnic tension had escalated into back-to-back civil wars with a number of rebel groups vying to overthrow the Liberian government. By the late stages of the conflict, Charles Taylor had a death grip on the country. His rebels were infamous for the bands of children they kidnapped then armed with AK47s and fed palm wine and brown-brown, a mixture of cocaine and gun powder, before they were unleashed to do Taylor’s bidding. Some of Taylor’s troops would appear wearing outrageous wigs and wedding dresses they’d looted, believing the garments would protect them from bullets as they ripped up the countryside. Some of the hardest-hit places were villages like Robertsport, the wave rich peninsula in the northwest where Nic recounted running away from mortar fire while looking back over his shoulder to see reeling left-hand point breaks cracking off in the distance, lines stacked to the horizon amongst the smoke of burning buildings. The scars of war are ever-present in this part of the world. It’s a well-known story how Alfred Lomax became the first Liberian surfer after he found a bodyboard in a rubbish dump while fleeing the same rebels in the capital of Monrovia. The beautifully made documentary Sliding Liberia tells how … Read more

Oh, to have been Peter Troy in 1975: the wind in your surf explorer hair, the faded map in your shirt pocket, the trusted single fin under your capable arm. Who hasn’t sleep-walked a few miles in the legendary surf explorer’s thongs back when Indonesia was a treasure chest waiting to be splintered open? You’d motorbike to Sumatra, haggle for supplies and ferry across to its neighbouring islands in a dreamy fast-forward montage. Your mind’s eye would slow to real-time for the climactic discovery scene. Village kids are smiling and palm fronds swaying as you scale a rise and part the jungle to behold in all its naked glory: jade-green, almond-barrelled, 6-8 foot, Lagundri Bay. The discovery of Nias – the island and the wave – rides high in surf travel mythology but it is worth recalling the flipside to the tale. Troy travelled with two other surfers to the island in ’75 – John Geisel and Kevin Lovett. Both stayed on, contracted malaria and Geisel later died as a result. Lovett returned to civilisation with tales of shadowy rituals and head-hunting shaman. He later learnt they were lucky to have escaped alive. Exciting stuff but perhaps best experienced on the page. Indonesian surf pioneering echoes with similar tales of misadventure: reef cuts fester with golden staph, fishing boats catch fire, soft faces meet hard reefs, emergency evacuations take days to reach dire, third-world hospitals. Less dramatic but more assured are the wearisome inconveniences of exploration: the broken-down buses, the rice and water diets, the week-long flat spells, the futile coastal surveying, the enforced celibacy, the growing realisation that you can’t play the ukulele for shit. The point is that romanticising the past is often futile and riddled with inaccuracies. Northern Indonesia still harbours many secrets and positively howls with adventure. It’s just that today you can approach it 100 different ways including next to a well-stocked bar, inside the air-conditioned belly of a luxury charter yacht. In many ways, these are the golden days of surfing Northern Indo. Da boys. Photo: Sullivan The pleasure zone Sumatra has the longest well-exposed coast in all of Indonesia and is flanked by a chain of islands generally regarded as the world’s best surf zone. The Mentawais are the prize jewel, but if you arc northwards to include the Telos, Banyaks, Hina- kos, Nias, Simeulue and Western Sumatra itself you have a mega … Read more