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A more northern shore pg 36

V7#5

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this It’s Easier Than You Think pg 56

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No minor threat. Bruce Irons in his Signature Series Dispatch™

No hesitation. No compromises. No doubts. Know Bruce Irons — one seriously heavy threat who stays calm and relaxed when it comes to his personality, but shifts to intensity and commitment when it comes to performance. Just check out some footage of the 20-foot-plus day at Waimea when Bruce

became one of only seven guys to ever win the Eddie. Or step into deep country at his home on Kauai as he hunts for wild hogs with his trusty 20-gauge. Just like Bruce, Oakley has built a bulletproof reputation for never backing down or caving in to compromises. It doesn’t get any more major than that.

V7#5 May 2010

The dichotomy of surfing as a sport and an art may never be reconciled. Gavin Sutherland throws up his best attempts.

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Heff

Contents

Canadian logging

Belinda Baggs and Crystal Thornburg find fresh power and frigid peaks in Canada

APERTURE

Creatures of Habit

A touch of color and museum-quality surfing

Beau Flemister investigates what happens when surfing becomes second nature

Heff

Falling and duck-diving is painful—not like ice-cream headache pain, but the type of pain that reaches down your throat and sucks the very air straight from your lungs. —Canadian Logging, pg 36

Contents V7#5 May 2010

12 Free Parking Mark Healey skirts a flogging and comes out smiling

18 Masthead The people that make this glossy pub a reality 20 Editor’s Note The Mull comes out of his hole; careful, he bites 22 Howzit T he lighter side of surfing—it can’t be deadly waves and high-flying airs all the time, right?

24 Inside Section R io take two // Surf in Bangladesh, who knew? Yeah, that’s right, we did, and we wrote a story about it // A winter with Bernie // Matt Meola, the best surfer you’ve never heard of // More predictions to ponder

64 News and Events L ess for Moore // Good job Goodale // Pine Trees for everyone

68 Free Plugs D ragon’s newest dragonette // Dane’s trunks // The best stick for your mug

76 Last Look Brotherly love

A product of Manulele, Inc. Volume 7 • Number 5 Publisher Mike Latronic

Editorial Editor Jeff Mull Photo Editor Tony Heff Art Director Richard Hutter

Free Thinkers Beau Flemister, Jack Kittinger, Siri Masterson, Noa Myers, Manny Pangilinan,

Staff Photographers Eric Baeseman, Bernie Baker, Brandon Ells, Tony Heff, Mike Latronic, Tyler Rock

Contributing Photographers Nathan Adams, Eric Aeder, Kirk Lee Aeder, Jamie Ballenger, Brian Bielmann, John Bilderback, Holt Blanchard, Tom Carey, Vince Cavataio, Mike Coots, Hilton Dawe, Patrick Devault, Damea Dorsey, Willi Edwards, Brandon Ells, Beau Flemister, Isaac Frazer, Pete Frieden, Kirby Fukunaga, Ryan Gamma, Noah Hamilton, Chris Hagan, John Helper, Rick Hurst, Buzzy Kerbox, Kin Kimoto, Ric Larsen, Bruno Lemos, Mana, Mike McGinnis, Ikaika Michaels, Justin Morizono, Allen Mozo, Dave Nelson, Carol Oliva, Manny Pangilinan, Christian Peralta, Pake Solomon, Epes Sargent, Bobby Schutz, Vince Street, Spencer Suitt, Bill Taylor, Paul Teruya, Jimmy Wilson

Sales Director of Sales and Marketing Sean Wingate Advertising Executive Shaun Lopez Advertising Executive Chris Latronic Business Coordinator Cora Sanchez Executive Assistant Siri Masterson

Advertising Inquiries Sean Wingate swingate@freesurfmagazine.com 808-429-8460 FREESURF MAGAZINE is distributed at all Jamba Juice locations, most fine surf shops and select specialty stores throughout Hawai‘i. You can also pick up FREESURFon the mainland at Barnes & Noble and Borders bookstores and select newsstands. Ask for it by name at your local surf shop! Subscribe at freesurfmagazine.com Other than “Free Postage” letters, we do not accept unsolicited editorial submissions without first establishing contact with the editor. FreeSurf, Manulele Inc. and its associates is not responsible for lost, stolen or damaged submissions or their return. One-way correspondence can be sent to P.O. Box 1161, Hale‘iwa, HI 96712 E-mail editorial inquiries to info@freesurfmagazine.com

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Editor’s note

Is it flat Yet? To be honest, I’ve grown a little bit sick of winter lately. Now, before you light the fires and breakout the pitchforks, let me state my case. In the waning weeks of fall, let’s say sometime in October, I’d formulated a glorious routine for myself at the FREESURF office. Around lunchtime, I’d stop tappin’ on the old digital ivory keys for an hour or so and make my way over to V-land for a quick lunchtime surf. Most days, it’d be head-high, chock full of groms and always pretty damn rippable. Nothing too hair-raising or alarming, just the fun stuff. It was a perfect routine and I abso-fricken-lutely-loved it. And then winter arrived. It almost felt like it happened over night, really. In the past, I’ve always looked forward to winter, but this year was different. One day, there I was, high-fiving 8-year-olds at V-land, and the next, I was stuck in traffic affront biblical-sized Waimea, watching layers of foam gather on the horizon and detonate in a blaze of aquatic glory. At first, it was amusing being a spectator to the carnage. But after a month of watching the buoys hit the red time and again, I was ready to, well, just have fun again. I craved for a day of 4-foot swell. I yearned for the small and fiended for the less-than-terrifying. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, it never came... Winter died and spring blossomed and the winds raged. I’d had it. The fun lunchtime sessions never made a rebirth. There was no playful spring surf. Not a drop to be found. Instead, we were faced with an army of cold and wind. I’d almost given up. Winter was too big and spring sucked. But I’m an optimist and, nestled deep in the back of my mind, there remained a feint glimmer of hope. Day after day of seeing the frosty horizon clutter the sea with whitecaps, I quietly whispered the words “summer” to myself. “Summer...” See, as a die-hard Townie, I was left with one last hope—a hope that came with sunburns, late nights and a bustling city. Summer in Town would hold my redemption. So, as I sign off on this late spring afternoon, the clouds above pissing rain and the winds screaming, I do it all with a toothy grin. Because I know what’s right around the corner, and it comes with SPF 45 and a fish. —Jeff Mull

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inside section

Off The Map Rio de Janeiro ii By Beau Flemister

Last we talked, I was describing a day in the life in the city of Rio de Janeiro, coincidentally during the whirlwind days of Carnaval. And truthfully, what started as an experimental mission into Brazil, turned into a trip lasting a few months. I was seduced by the Cidade Maravilhosa (Marvelous City as it is known) and caught in her net of beauty. But like a hostage with Stockholm syndrome, I didn’t want to leave. Rio is a city with one tense: the present. Everything is passionate, in your face and in the moment. You learn that there’s far more to Brazil, and more so Brazilians, than the passion you see in Hawai‘i. A vast and poetic existence throbs beneath Rio’s glitzy veneer of open-air beach gyms, soccer team fanaticism and people conversing at the top of their lungs. The truth, whether ugly or beautiful, is never hidden that easily. The truths, all of them, exist side by side. Sprawling favelas clinging to mountainsides creep right up to the guard shacks at the entrances of affluent gated communities. The class differences are staggering and intermingling between the rich and poor is rare, yet their proximity in everyday life is the size of the space between two people embracing. Though it is clearly a place of masters and maids, drivers and riders, degradations of black and white and every shade between, there is undoubtedly a quality that binds a Carioca (Rio resident): Everyone loves to live. No matter who you are or where you live, favela or cul de sac, everyone in Rio enjoys the same pleasures. And usually there is no problem enjoying them together. Beach, music and soccer. I’d say those are Rio’s top three loves, and loved by all. Just the other day I was walking back to the car with a friend on Ipanema beach, shortly after another award-winning sunset. Next to

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a drinks kiosk on the sidewalk an old man on a drum set and young guy on guitar and mic had plugged in and were playing live bossa nova music. Both of the musicians were on point, and before we knew it, everyone walking by was stopping to listen, and of course sing along…

Some people were singing with both tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces, strangers were dancing with strangers. and of course dance. Some people were singing with both tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces, strangers were dancing with strangers. They played for about two hours straight, and by the end of it, two street kids that I’d seen previously begging for change and finishing off the contents of discarded Coke cans were dancing samba jigs among the rest of the crowd. Even the driver’s co-pilot from a ghetto-bus stopped at the red light next to us, jumped out and danced with a stranger before hopping back on as the red light turned. It is this sheer lust for life that transcends any class borders there and keeps its visiting captives not wanting to be released.

inside section

We try to keep our ears trained to the scuttlebutt of junior surfing. And right now, the talk around the water cooler (read contest tents) is centered around one name: Matt Meola. He’s regarded by many as one of the most progressive surfers alive today. Period. With that statement, we thought it wise to catch up with Matt and find out what makes him tick...err...punt.    Freesurf: In the past year, you’ve really begun to make a name for yourself. Who is Matt Meola? Matt Meola: I was born here in Maui, Hawai‘i and I am 20 years young. I grew up in Haiku but spent most of my time in a small beach town called Kuau, where my friends and I used to meet up every day to go surf and just be groms. As for school, I switched back and forth between home and public but ended up graduating from home school in 2007. Now I’m still living in Haiku and doing my best to keep up with all the rest of the talented surfers coming from Maui.    FS: You’re regarded as being one of the most talented and progressive young surfers coming out of Hawaii these days. Being from Maui, with a whole host of guys now at the forefront of surfing, would you say those guys paved the way for you?  MM: I am so lucky to have such great people and surfers to look up to. Guys like Hank Gaskell, Ola Eleogram, and Ian Walsh definitely paved a solid road for us to follow. They are the ones that put Maui on the map and I feel like it is our job to keep it there. They definitely made it possible for all of us and I think we owe them tons of respect.    FS: Can you describe the surf scene on Maui? How is it similar to the rest of the islands? And maybe more importantly, how is it different?    MM: The surf scene on Maui is great. It’s mellow and has a more country

Erik Aeder

SpotLight Matt Meola vibe to it than somewhere like Oahu. At times it can be difficult. We don’t have the consistency of the other islands due to the strong wind and smaller outer islands blocking swell. We get our fair share of bad waves, too. But it’s amazing and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. FS: Not too long ago, you were featured in the NY Times’ website about aerial surfing alongside Christian Fletcher and Slater. Was that a trip to see yourself in the mix with those guys?   MM: When I first saw the article I was baffled. To hear my name listed next to people that I have looked up to forever was an honor. It was definitely a huge confidence booster.    FS: Are you planning on entering the Kustom Airstrike event? MM: The Kustom Airstrike is always in the back of my mind every session. Watching Dusty win it last year was sick. Time is ticking down so hopefully I can bag a keeper before the time is up. It would be awesome to keep that title on Maui.   FS: In your eyes, who’s the most progressive surfer alive right now?  MM: In my eyes the most progressive surfer alive right now is Clay Marzo. I have had the privilege of watching him surf at his homebreaks and some of the stuff he does just leaves me boggled.  FS: And in five years, what do you expect progressive surfing to look like?   MM: If you would have asked me this question five years ago I would never have thought it would have escalated to where it is now. After seeing how fast it’s progressing, I’m guessing there will be all kinds of flips and spins going down that we couldn’t even imagine. Where ever it goes, I hope to be a part of it.

Just trust us on this one: There’s so much more to Town than just Bowls and Kaisers // There is no greater joy in life than a post-surf plate lunch with your boys // If

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Janelle Cadamia

inside section

Gum For My Boat Surfing in Bangladesh

Thousands of miles away from the Surfing the Nations central office in Hawai‘i, a team of ambassadors from the surf-based nonprofit walk the sands of a beach in Bangladesh. They’re flanked on each corner by local teenagers, tanned, dark-haired, and eager to talk about anything...as long as it’s surfing. Out to sea, a swarm of local kids, riding anything from a bodyboard to a thruster to a longboard, recklessly and beautifully skip across the warm water sandbar peaks. Surfing has truly become a worldwide epidemic. A few years back, a crew from Surfing the Nations pioneered their way through Bangladesh on a mission to bring surfing to a forgotten coastline. Their efforts paid off in spades when they found a more than willing audience eager to take to the sea. Fast-forward a few years and in the wake of that first expedition there now stands a 70-person-strong surf club. It is this scene that sets the stage for the newly released documentary film, Gum For My Boat, that chronicles the nonprofit’s efforts to take surfing—and all of the positive aspects that accompany it—to Bangladesh.

The film begins with Kahana Kalama, a San Diego-based surfer, linking turns through the mud-toned beachbreaks of the country.

Kahana’s ripping, but this movie has little to do with performance, but rather is centered on soul. In the years since Surfing the Nations first made contact with potential surfers in Bangladesh, a true love of the sport has grown. Although there’s much that’s lost in translation (the title, “Gum For My Boat” references wax for my surfboard) the elemental glee that comes from looking at surf-stoked kids is truly universal. The film crescendos as the Surfing the Nations crew and the local surf club take part in a community surf contest. For those of us that grew up doing this type of thing, a day at the beach with family, friends, and food may seem par for the course, but for the people of Bangladesh, it was as if paradise had descended on them. The flick runs about a half-hour long and pulls you in for every second. Make no mistake, if you’re looking for a movie to get you stoked to go surfing, look somewhere else, but if you’re looking for a movie that will make you proud to be a surfer, Gum For My Boat is definitely worth a watch.

you want to get the shot from the water photographer, you got to aim for his lens // Is there a better summer day on the North Shore than when that one random swell

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™

NTE D

A • P

KAE

photo: Kraft

POLA R ON

AVA I L A B L E I N P R E SCR I PT ION

MATT MEOLA

watch the New Age of Surfing at www.kaenon.com/matt_meola.html

evolve optically

DELITE

KLAY

GAUGE

BURNET

PINO

Willi Edwards

inside section

To Each his own

Looking back on a winter to remember I think the jury’s going to stay out for a while on whether it was or wasn’t the best winter we’ve surfed in years or—hate to say it—decades. I really didn’t know where to go with this; there’s been so many arguments, both pro and con, from all sides. One thing is for sure: the big-wave crew hasn’t been complaining at all. But, I’ve heard enough point of views so I’ll stick my neck out and go for the bottom line—if there is one. You can’t call it just a bigger-than-big winter without dragging good ol’ El Nino into it. Track the biggest winter swells on record over the last 30-plus years and you get that global-weather-turbo-boost effect connected at the hip of every big winter. This year’s Billabong’s XXL Global Big Wave Awards were calling their nominations some of the biggest and most intense in the history of the awards competition—and all of their choices coming out of the storms were undboudtedly intensified by an El Nino season. I can think of a dozen-plus monster winters that we all thought of (back then) as just really BIG winters, but all of them have been certified by the scientists today as El Nino-driven storms and swell events. This past fall was one of the best in a long time, no one’s going to argue that; everyone found a wave to their liking plus you could feel that classic change to “winter” a lot quicker than in past years. Looking at it from a contest point of view, obviously the Xcel Pro had plenty of surf, capitalizing on our excellent September and October with the El Nino kicking in strong on this side of the equator. After

the Xcel the Vans Triple Crown of Surfing killed it for waves (O’Neill’s World Cup alone had three delays due to closed-out Sunset), the only thing we were dealing with at that time was the goofy weather that had blanketed the Pacific, killing the trades and leaving us with everything but clean winds (sorry about those Pipe finals, Kelly). That’s the major drawback with El Nino winters: The weather can work against you, no matter how great the waves are. A couple nights ago I was surfing with a neighborhood friend who lives for Waimea Bay—which broke close to 20 times this year—and everything bigger that still allows a paddle in. He thought this past winter was “the best I’ve surfed forever” (whatever that means). I countered with the poor showing for Pipe after the new year; the north winds that destroyed any chance of a great, late winter; and a funky spring. Plus, there was the Ku Ikaika SUP event at Makaha that never ran. Basically, I was countering all of his stoke and he was firing back at me with all of the great surf he had and how he had never ridden his longer guns so many times in one season. Then, there was the “Eddie” swell and all of the surf surrounding those weeks and we both agreed that for some, the winter was insane, but for the other warriors and mere mortals, it had its highlights and a lot of down time spent waiting for something rideable and less-than-death in size. Let’s see what next season, the backside of the El Nino, offers up. It could add some icing to the cake… or not. —Bernie Baker

hits in late June? We think not // You will surf better on a wider board // Make fun of us all you like, but we reserve the right to chop-hop now and then .

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I Belinda Baggs and C a n a d i a n

L o g g i n g

Crystal Thornburg Venture into the Great White North By Belinda Baggs and Crystal Thornburg // All photos Ben Moon

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t’s beginning to snow on us. The crack of gelid winds are whipping through the cedar and spruce trees above. It’s freezing, eerie and ominous. Needles of cold are stabbing into each of our fingers like pliers pulling at the end of our nails, disabling all movement and action. Belinda Baggs is standing in a puddle of ice, naked as the day she was born, wrapped in a blanket with her 4 mm wetsuit trapped around the final inch of her ankles. In a muffled scream I yank on the exposed legs of her suit. Some things you never outgrow. The locals standing have a good chuckle at our expense. It’s our third day on Vancouver Island and we are still learning the

Clockwise from above: Canadian logging, two ways; Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s even colder than it looks; Smile; Frozen toes on the nose. F RE E SUR F M A G A Z I NE . C O M

techniques of surfing survival in such a harsh environment. And for now, with the ever-looming threat of hypothermia settling in, we retreat to the blaring heater in our car. Our journey into one of surfing’s final frontiers begins in the humble abode of Ben Moon in Portland, Oregon as we embark upon the North American coastline in search of a latewinter swell and some frigid memories. Crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca, full steam ahead, we bid our adieus to the Washington Olympic mountains and our last glimmer of cell phone reception. We carry on, pushing deeper north. Two hours later and we arrive in the English-influenced, artsy urban center of Victoria. Heading northwest through the earthtoned landscapes, the scenery that surrounds us fades into a brilliant bright white. As we make our way along the windy road, meandering in and out of the dense forest, we abruptly arrive at the ocean and our eyes glaze over as we take in the stark Canadian sea. With the prospect of some much-awaitedand-breath-stealing surf on the horizon, we take refuge in a farm cottage built in the early 1900s. It’s a welcome relief and shelter from a fast-approaching storm.

Crystal Thornburg and Belinda Baggs, frozen mid-stream.

This trip wasn’t focused on chasing the best waves, but it was an opportunity for us to step out of our comfort zones and adventure deep into our unknown. Because in the end, that’s what being a surfer is all about. The adventure. The cottage is surrounded by domestic animals—lamas, alpaca, cows, chickens, ducks and cats all working in harmony to make this property a peaceful hideaway. From this turn-ofthe-century slice of heaven, we venture out to the long clean ripples of the Great White North. A short hike along the frosty trail to the beach, we were greeted by a group of friendly, dedicated locals and an army of warm bon fires. Plumes of wet smoke fill the air and stories of “you should have been here last week,” and “the swell is on its way, if you can stick around for a few days” filled our ears. And then there was the interrogation. Coming from Hawaii, we’ve come to expect it. But everyone wants to know: Why would we travel all this distance to one of the coldest surf destinations on earth when we come from the tropics? For us, it’s always been an easy answer rooted in the fabric of all surfers. This trip wasn’t focused on chasing the best waves, but it was an opportunity for us to step out of our comfort zones and adventure deep into our unknown. Because in the end, that’s what being a surfer is all about. The adventure.

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Just because it’s cold, that doesn’t mean it’s off limits.

Timeless grace in an uncommon locale.

Being here is a humbling experience, it forces you to be interconnected to the natural environment and become more aware of its movements. The tides are extreme and vary up to 12 feet between an apex and a low. The water temp stands bone chilling at around 39 degrees with the air whispering temperatures as low as 28 degrees. This is not your father’s surf trip. Getting suited for a surf session is a 45-minute process for the inexperienced. On the average day we would be wearing two layers of pants, a rain shell, two layers on the top, a wool layer, down jacket and rain shell, as well as socks, boots, gloves, beanies and scarves. The unraveling process at the back of the car is a big mistake. It should almost go without saying that getting changed in the backseat of the car is a mission, but the promise of the heater-generated warmth within is often too great. We’ve learned that the key is to get suited up in front of a toasty fire back at the house. Our neoprene alone, when dripping wet, weighs a thumping 15 pounds. Our gear consists of a hood, 3mm gloves, 7mm booties & 4mm suits, which we assumed would be warm enough for this trip, but we were unfortunately mistaken. The local attire begins with a stiff 6mm. When we enter the lineup, our primary goal is to avoid getting wet. Falling and duck-diving is painful—not like ice-cream headache pain, but the type of pain that reaches down your throat and sucks the very air straight from your lungs. If for some reason it can’t be avoided and you have to go under more than three waves in a row, you’re running a very good chance of passing out. In just one breath you can feel the temperatures shift. Rain turns to snow and an entirely new reality unveiles itself. One thing is for certain: Canada is no place for the timid surfer.

Regardless of wave quality, whether it be mouth-watering lines stacked upon a cobblestone-laden beach or wind-blown slop, each session is limited to an hour—an hour and a half at best if you’re feeling brave. When the cold hits, it hits hard. It begins with your extremities. Your fingers are the first to go; then your face goes numb, the cold acting as a word-slurring novocaine; and then it attacks your feet. By the time your body temp plummets and the frosty water finds its way into your core, muscles tense up and the simple act of moving becomes a mission. This is when it’s time to throw in the towel or risk taking on an icy and painful end. Getting changed out of your wetsuit is a whole new dilemma within itself. The debate begins with a simple question: Do I drive home wet or risk hypothermia in the parking lot? If you select option two, which we did most of the time, make sure you take your booties off first and have a good friend to guide you through meditation. Putting your clothes back on with fingers that refuse to function and you run the gauntlet of a nest of tangled knots in your hair and no bra. As the eagle flies, the town of Sookue, our next destination, is only 85 miles from the surfcrazed village of Tofino. Due to the landscape and limited access, most of the roads were intended as logging roads, leaving only a single highway on the island, meaning that you have to drive across to the east coast, then follow the 200 miles of mountainous road northeast to get back out to the west coast. Five and a half hours and one snowstorm later we arrive at our destination. Tall temperate rainforests rise high into the gray sky, laden with moss and filling the

Falling and duck-diving is painful—not like ice-cream headache pain, but the type of pain that reaches down your throat and sucks the very air straight from your lungs.

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air with a fresh scent of Christmas. A long muddy trail suddenly halts and through the fog a field of tidal flats lead the eye out toward the ocean. Tiny islands and inlets scatter the coast, a tight cove offers wind protection and an A-frame peak. As the tide fills in, the sand bank changes. What we started out surfing is now a deep channel and the dry sandbar sits under the take-off spot. Unique and breathtakingly beautiful, the natural treasures of Vancouver Island far outweigh our hunger for surf. We decide to venture back to the city. Absorbed in the landscape, free and enchanted from our encounters in the wild, we board the Nanaimo ferry bound for Vancouver in hopes that the logging industry that left its footprint across this pristine land will be managed in a responsible and sustainable way for future generations to experience. As we cross the Strait of Georgia on our ferry, French teenagers are running wild, energy is high and the negativity of reality eludes us. The boat sways to and fro with the swells and we create a makeshift bed between the gum-stained floor and isles of seating. We’ve been buried in frosty neoprene for too long and we deserve a rest. We drift off into sleep, dreaming of somewhere between here and there, between the past and future. We’ve had a trip we can never forget, heck our fingers are still cold, and we’ll never be able to shake the images of the natural beauty of this special place in the world. But through it all, beyond the A-frame beachbreaks and the frosty nights, we’re left with a feeling of responsibility. We’re left with the passion to protect these few remaining wild places on Earth. We etch into our minds the lessons learned while marveling at this amazing Earth on which we all live.

Warm water or cold, Crystal Thornburgâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grace in the lineup is inherent.

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Logging Facts

The old-growth forests of Vancouver Island are among the most spectacular landscapes to be found anywhere on Earth. Monumental trees reach heights rivaling a 30-story office tower and can live to be 1,800 years old. The 32,000-square-kilometer island’s forests are diverse: from wet rainforests with towering, mossy Sitka spruce trees and gnarly red cedars with trunks wider than a car’s length, to dry east side forests with contorted Garry oak and arbutus trees and massive Douglas firs; to high elevation, slow-growing yellow cedars and mountain hemlocks covered in beard lichens, everything seems to grow here. Logging has been the mainstay industry on Vancouver Island for more than a century. Much of the old-growth forests on Vancouver Island have been laid low by more than 100 years of clear-cut logging. Recent satellite photos show that at least 73 percent of Vancouver Island’s ancient forests have already been cut down, including 90 percent of the valley bottom ancient forests where the biggest trees grow and the greatest variety of living things are found. Unfortunately, only six percent of Vancouver Island’s productive forests are protected in parks. Old-growth forests outside of parks are being rapidly logged-off, eliminating critical habitat for many of the island’s endangered plants and animals. The Wilderness Committee and other organizations are calling on BC’s government to immediately ban logging of the island’s most endangered old-growth forest types and to quickly phase out logging of the rest of Vancouver Island’s old-growth forests by 2015. This will require the timber industry to make a complete transition into logging of second-growth forests, ideally at a slower, more sustainable rate of cut. n

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Nate Rex, neighbor island swagger on the North Shore.

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Top and bottom: Two steps to success, Love Hodel on the upswing.

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Tanner Hendrickson, no grab necessary.

Sequence: Heff

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John Florence, deep in the country.

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Mod squad in full effect. Gavin Gillette airs one out to dry.

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Freddy P. and a case of the Pipeline blues.

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Baeseman

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Baeseman

This page and opposite: CJ Kanuha, searching for new scenery.

Baeseman

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Latronic

Railwork Hands down, no questions asked, if you mentioned rail surfing on the North Shore, the first name brought up is and may always be Pancho Sullivan. He can do it all, and in any size wave, but that cutback of his is a work of art. A photo of Pancho on the rail is to capture the essence of man, speed, and sea in a blurry ménage a trios. It’s a powerful left arm grabbing the face of an azure wall of water in mid-pivot. It’s muscles and calves and waist contracting in redirection. It’s fins ripping an even white tear through a right, spray exploding from a tail traveling in hyper-drive. It is the perfect balance between man pushing, wave moving and gravity pulling. To watch Pancho on a rail is to see why the rail exists. It is definitely a move that can be repeated and engraved upon the minds of your muscles, performed on sea, land or snow. But like certain painters and their masterpieces, some lines, no matter how long their peers have tried, cannot be drawn.

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Dear Body,

How’d You Do That?

Signed, Brain

Everyone remembers it. That feeling when you first landed that whatever-itwas after trying a half-billion times prior. The thrill of falling countless times for an entire summer, wasting so many waves just to get that 360 down. And who even does those anymore now, really? Remembering the first time they were in some top-to-bottom waves of consequence, and actually committed to hanging on in that barrel, and not diving forward in fear when it felt too deep. Remembering that first long-and-drawn-out cutback that you wrapped around just right to a figure-eight bank off the whitewater behind you. Your first air-reverse, or first air-drop floater. And all the trials and mishaps, but with each fall becoming a little wiser along the way. Every surfer remembers this, and furthermore, they realize that practice never makes all-out perfect, but rather, practice makes memory. Until that roundhouse or lay-back snap becomes seemingly automatic. Until you’re pulling these maneuvers without even thinking. Some sort of metamorphosis takes place and the motion has become instinctual. The brain has detached from the body, and the body is doing the thinking. Welcome to the science of muscle memory, or the consolidation of a specific motor task into memory through repetition. The training of the body to think, or rather remember, for itself. It is a process that occurs in nearly every athletic sport and onward. From a ball player’s jump-shot to a golfer’s stroke, from riding a bike to typing on a keyboard—the body learns and retains practiced action. So much so that at times, the mind is even asking itself, “What the hell?” It’s been observed that when many pianists hear a familiar piece they’ve practiced, it unconsciously triggers involuntary fingering. It’s understandable, really. I don’t know how many times while driving home I see that low-arching coconut tree curving over the street side, I instinctually pull up under the lip. What else is it there for? How many times have we been walking on the sidewalk and a high bush seems to be curling over in a tubular fashion have we stopped and slouched a little in a Gerry Lopez-esque soul arch under the overhanging greenery. It’s

these gestures and movements that become unconsciously encrypted upon our DNA through repetition. But as much as we toil and fall and rinse and repeat, the Lord isn’t a communist in nature. As in, you might have tried those freakin’ air-reverses for a decade now, but your bro that started surfing five years after you and only surfs weekends has them on lockdown while you’re still struggling. Why do some people have it and some don’t, regardless of equal playing field and practice time? A good analogy in explaining this evident phenomena occurs when doctors have observed blind children making facial gestures, an anomoly usually thought to be a behavior learned. A behavior learned and imitated only through sight. The concept of muscle memory then seems to be contradicted by the evidence of people seemingly born with the memory of an action thought only to be learned. And the evidence, of course, is all around us. The image of the outstretched and floating Air Jordan, literally the icon of an entire sport. The once brutal and murderous potency of the Mike Tyson uppercut. The calculated precision of Rafael Nadal’s lightening-speed forehand stroke. And then, of course there are the super human images in our world , in our cherished sport. There are the double spreads in the ’90s of Kelly Slater’s samurai slicing tailslides. Whether memorized through repetition by muscle, immaculately conceived, or a combo of both, the way these athletes do what they do is what the rest of us train our bodies for and aspire to. In the following words and pictures we take a look at some maneuvers and the surfers who continue to sign their name by them.

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Whether memorized through repetition by muscle, immaculately conceived, or a combo of both, the way these athletes do what they do is what the rest of us train our bodies for and aspire to.

Aerials The being with no wings always lusts for flight. A surfer is no exception. By exploring all areas of a wave, surfers have found the places from which they can propel. And oh does it feel good to fly. Watching a World Tour event these days and it’s strikingly clear to the surfing world that the repertoire has officially been changed. Everyone is doing and landing airs in their heats. At home, again, everyone’s doing them, but guys like Jaime O’Brien, Flynn Novak and crap I guess every other kid on Maui, Kauai, and the Big Island are all pushing the envelope of flight. Airs of course are a practice-makes-memory maneuver, and the best way to start, is probably on land. Get two quarter pipes, stand them up side by side with a gap in between, kick, push, launch, grab and you’ve simulated an oncoming wave section. Once you’ve mastered this, get in the water and be prepared to put a ton of pressure dings on your board and completely ruin nine-out-of-ten waves trying them. Baeseman

Was Flynn Novak born to punt massive airs or are moves like this the result of countless hours of practice? Whatever it was, it's working for Flynn.

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Tube

Maybe Andy Irons knows something we don't.

Baeseman

The tube. The most coveted experience for every surfer. More than a huge gaff, an inverted aerial or a contortionist-like tail-reverse, standing tall in a big tube is the pinnacle of surfing. The specialists at home are normally the ones that year after year win events at Pipeline. Guys like Jaime O’Brien and the Irons Bros. Is it a practiced talent or a natural-born instinct? In the case of the tube, the answer is that it’s both. Both O’Brien and the Irons Brothers grew up on big, hollow waves their whole lives. But when you see the way most of us approach the barrel, it’s glaringly obvious that there’s something different about them. It’s the way they feel the wave differently. The way guys like Bruce Irons start pig-dog stalling behind the peak at 10-foot First Reef. It’s something more than trained knowledge. Yes it’s courage, but it’s also some sort of innate je ne sais quois that these guys seem to have. To be comfortable and poised enough to look back into the beast as it spits firewater in your face, and you have to know what you’re doing. To intuitively know when to accelerate or pump the brakes in the most sobering of all wave parts. To truly know a wave both inside and out, it takes a little something extra.

For guys like Kahea Hart, a turn like this has become completely second nature.

Tail

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Once viewed as a lack in control from slipping too far on a cutback, the tail slide, the prequel to the aerial, was only an accident. Taylor Steele’s gang in the ’90s turned the presumed mishap into a controlled and intentional maneuver, and now the tail slide, tail waft—whatever you call it—has become an art form. Here in Hawaii, it seems that every pro surfer has them down, both front side or back, with their own personalized stamp of style. But when envisioning the really technically difficult, you can’t help but conjure up an image of Dane Reynolds, Jordy Smith, and closer to home, Dusty Payne and Clay Marzo. These surfers have basically created a new form of surfing that involves only the most critical, quickest, unpredictable part of the wave to perform on: the breaking lip. It has become the science of how much of your board can be sliding above the lip without being a full aerial. For the most part it’s guys like regular-footed Dusty and goofy-footed Clay hitting lips pushing vertical, then spinning front side with a mere two inches of the nose skimming the lip, landing backwards (usually standing three feet from the tails of their boards) and then reversing (or not) depending on their mood. The move is so difficult that repetition, let alone attempts, are a rare gift. Thus, mastery of the maneuver seems to be a pre-wired quality you’re born with.

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The mastery of the drop is learned, conditions permitting, through repeated attempts, sheer bravery, trained balance and luck. Nonetheless, it is the epitome of commitment and concentration.

Drop

To survive a drop like this, Garrett McNamara know it's all about committing your body to the task ahead. Latronic

It’s something you do on every wave. Sometimes setting a precedent for the rest of the ride, sometimes, as in big surf, just the point of it all itself. At a wave like Waimea the drop is physical equilibrium personified. It is the balance of two competing influences: the sucking movement of a massive wall steepening to a topple vs the slide of man on board falling, chasing and outracing the suck. The mastery of the drop is learned—conditions permitting—through repeated attempts, sheer bravery, trained balance and luck. Nonetheless, it is the epitome of commitment and concentration. Of course every generation has had its icons and legendary captured moments—photos of Eddie Aikau or a young Brock Little at The Bay. But these days guys like Jamie Sterling and Mark Healey are signing their names under some of the most death-defying images. n

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ASP/ Kirstin Scholtz

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A little Moore Carissa Moore Donates Winnings To New Zealand Boardriders Club

The inevitable finally happened when Carissa Moore won her first World Tour event at the TSB Womens Surf Festival in Taranaki, New Zealand with a pair of high 9s over Sally Fitzgibbons. Although pundits the world over expected Moore to win an event this year, what we didn’t see coming was her philanthropic donation to the Taranaki community. After her win, Moore donated her victory check to the tune of $15,000 to the local surf club, the Waitara Bar Boardriders. “I fell in love with New Zealand and I’m fortunate enough to have great support from my family and my sponsors and that puts me in a position to do things like this,” Moore said. “The Haka that the Waitara Bar Boardriders Club performed before the event was beautiful and they’ve really opened up their community and waves to us. For this, I am very thankful.” After posting a pair of uncharacteristic ninth-place finishes at the first two events of the season, Moore’s win came as a strike in confidence to the 17-year-old Hawaiian. “I wasn’t very happy with the start of my year,” Moore said. “I expected more out of myself and couldn’t figure out what was going on. Things really fell into place for me here in New Zealand and it’s a great result for my campaign this year. I’m really excited and looking forward to Sydney.” Fitzgibbons, who surfed damn well throughout the event, simply couldn’t keep pace with Moore in the final. With her second-place finish in New Zealand, she’s now sitting comfortably in the number-two position on Tour.

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“It’s frustrating but Carissa just went mad in the Final,” Fitzgibbons said. “The waves were really good, and it was an exciting heat. I’m disappointed to not get the win, but it’s still a good result for me.” Regarded for her good nature both in the water and on terra firma, Carissa’s gift to the local New Zealand boardriders club is a move that we can all be proud of. Over the years, she’s become a beacon of Aloha in

“The Haka that the Waitara Bar Boardriders Club performed before the event was beautiful and they’ve really opened up their community and waves to us. For this, I am very thankful.” the sport and a proper ambassador of Hawaii, giving rise to a new level of showmanship that, with any luck, will become the status quo in professional surfing.

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Searching For Michael Peterson

A New Film Sheds Light On One Of Surfing’s Most Interesting Figures By Rima Rackauskas When we think of uncrowded surf breaks and unpopulated country coastlines the last place that comes to our minds is the Gold Coast of Australia. In blaring contrast to the glitz and glam of the present day “Goldie” the heavily trafficked coastline was once upon a time just that—a pristine and barren surf haven. With nothing more than a few fading memories and some weathered historical photos, for many of us, it’s near impossible to conjure up a barren Snapper. But thankfully, the folks at 8 Docos and Screen Australia have brought us Searching for Michael Peterson. Not only chock-full of 1970s footage sure to tickle any surfer’s nostalgic fancy, the film also weaves a story that will touch your heart and leave you contemplating the price of stardom as one of surfing’s most complicated and misunderstood figures has his life revealed. Michael Peterson was an Australian surf anomaly, who, among the likes of Wayne Rabbit Bartholomew, Peter Townend, Wayne Lynch and Mark Richards, emerged out of the competitive Australian surf scene in the 1970s. Against the wishes of society, this renegade group of surfers chased a spiritual journey, experimented with life’s pleasures and fled the city, migrating north. Aside from plenty of classic surf action, the film brings a glimpse of life back in the day when a surfer could escape to an ecofriendly, sustainable, country lifestyle for a mere $20 to $50 a week. Along with Michael’s brother, Tommy Peterson, M.P.’s Coolie mates recount his antics, his remarkable surfing ability and his introspective, elusive and shy temperament. Unlike his surfing compatriots, who still surf regularly and remain working within the surf industry to this day, M.P. took his own divergent path. At the pinnacle of his surfing career, an unfortunate police encounter led him to a jail sentence, the first of a series of events to bring his career to an untimely demise. For this particularly gifted athlete, the dreamy life of a carefree surfer transformed itself into a diagnosis of schizophrenia and subsequent hospitalization. Michael Peterson has been said to be many things, but perhaps most gracefully, he was labeled as “an artist painting a picture, drawing beautiful lines, as though the wave was his canvas.” There will always be a debate as to whether or not there was in fact a strong correlation between M.P.’s madness and genius, and whether or not his mental instability contributed to his rare talent as a surfer. And though he hasn’t been seen surfing since the unfortunate events that tarnished his surf career, M.P. left an illustrious stamp on surfing history that will continue to resonate into the future. Anyone who knew him or saw him surf agrees that among all else, “Michael Peterson belongs in the water.”

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The Giving Trees The Ninth Annual Irons Bros. Pine Trees Classic Gets Underway

For nine years now, Kauaiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite sons, Andy and Bruce Irons, have held their annual Irons Brothers Pine Trees Classic surf contest on the North Shore of Kauai. Something akin to Christmas in the spring, the event is free for all of the groms on the Garden Island. As has become standard operating procedure for the event, the contest rained prizes on all of the groms. From first place to last, boys and girls, any grom that wore a singlet that day walked away with a bevy of swag, a handful of memories and a beaming smile. In the weeks preceding the comp, Kauai had been inundated with a relentless barrage of rain. But as the morning dawned for the

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Pine Trees event, the sun crashed through the clouds, creating a beautiful day for a surf contest. The waves on hand for the comp were fun and ripe for the ripping, creating perfect conditions for the groms to strut their stuff for their idols. “The conditions were perfect for the contest,” said Billabong Marketing Director Enich Harris. “The surf was small and mellow, the rain clouds stayed away but kept it cooler—the day was perfect.” This year, with Andy back on tour and training in Australia, Bruce held down the fort. But in the same fashion of year’s past, the event went down in supreme fashion. Huge mahalos to Bruce and Andy, the event sponsors, and all of the people that helped put on the event.

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On The Up

Questioning Dylan Goodale By Jeff Mull Kaua‘i’s Dylan Goodale has flown under the radar for quite some time now. He’s been a consistent figure in the trenches of the junior series for years, elevating his game and tightening up his rep among those in the know, but in the public’s eye, Goodale’s gone largely unnoticed. Not anymore. After dismantling a litany of legends recently at the ’QS side of the Vans Pier Classic in Huntington (a pro junior event that's run simultaneously with the ’QS event) he’s begun the process of garnering the reputation he undoubtedly deserves. FREESURF: So you were quoted as saying that you weren’t necessarily in the ’QS portion of the Vans Pier Classic expecting a good showing, but you were instead more focused on the Pro Junior event when you showed up in Huntington. Can you talk about that a bit? Dylan Goodale: Well, I guess when you do a contest you’re in it to win it no matter what, but I definitely was a lot more focused and content on winning the Pro Jr. I just want to focus on the Junior Series this year because last year I came so close to qualifying for the World Juniors and just barely came up short in the end. FS: You looked like you were surfing really sharp every time you hit the water? You were surfing against some pretty big players and pretty much smoking them. DG: I was feeling good for sure. My first heat in the 'QS event and I had Mike Losness; he surfs so good and won the event last year. To start off the event by beating him was a confidence booster for sure. I’d say I surf better when I’m competing against better guys because they raise my level...make me take risks and really blow up to get scores. That’s the kind of surfing I like watching so I wanna be doing that. FS: Did you have a strategy at all or were you just going for it? DG: That was my strategy—just going for it and trying some big airs. All event long the judges were giving good scores for those type of maneuvers and especially after watching the Ezekiel Pro Jr. final right before my final. Brother [Kolohe Andino] was blowing up and was getting rewarded so I kinda adopted his strategy for my final. Also for the first time in pretty much forever I was really patient and waited for the good waves. Usually I just paddle for anything that moves rather than battling for the two or three good sets.

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