From West of Oz

From West of Oz Russell Ord’s unique brand of heavy-water surf photography

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The run of coast north and south of Margaret River is rugged and remote.

But for a handful of frontiersmen, and photographer Russell Ord, Western Australia’s mutant reefbreaks are a worthy pursuit.

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journal originals / FROM WEST OF OZ

Contents 5 Introduction

By Jake Howard

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6 Portfolio: Russell Ord Cold and shallow, close to home

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38 VIDEO: One Shot – Russell Ord’s line of fire

A look from the water at the floggings and constant peril Ord faces while gathering his still-frames

By Darren McCagh 40 Blood Brothers Over the edge with Kerby and Courtney Brown

By Yasha Hetzel From issue 19.4

54 West of Gracetown

By Jamie Scott From issue 21.4

The Surfer’s Journal pledges at least 1% of our sales to the preservation and restoration of the natural environment.

For info, visit onepercentfortheplanet.org

Under-over on Russ Bierke, driving through South Oz.

Russell Ord is the friend you have that

you don’t hear from very often, but when you do, for whatever reason, you’re kind of surprised he’s still alive.

An email will read, “Just drove 1,500 kilometers to the middle of nowhere. Complete hell trip. We scored.”

Issues of mortality come into play when you begin to understand what his idea of “scoring” is. For most civilian wave-riders we’d contently swap a couple flat tires and some cactus spines in the ass for a head-high, flawlessly tapered, sand-bottom point. But to Ord and the crew he runs with, the idea of a score is as distorted as the waves they pursue.

Ord calls Cowaramup, Western Australia, home. It’s a town of less than 1,000 people, most of whom are either dairy farmers or vintners. The living’s good, simple, and pastoral.

Ord reckons it’s a nice place for his three kids to come up.

Cowaramup is also strategically located in the heart of Australian big-wave country. Margaret River is a mere shuffle down the road. The infamous Cow Bombie (derived from the town’s name and its affinity for all things bovine) is less than 10 minutes from his front door. The Box, North Point, Yallingup, and a slew of other high-grade spots are where Australia’s biggest surf and most rugged challengers collide. Ord’s one of a few who document the action regularly, and one of one who prefers to shoot from the water.

It’d be a gross overestimate to say that even one percent of the surfing populous have any desire to ride the slabs that Ord and company stalk so diligently. They are the 0.001 percent.

Most of the setups they’ve discovered are preferably located in some remote bend in the desert on some remote reef outcropping. The girth of the waves and their isolation are good in the sense that they’re both strong crowd deterrents, but on the flipside, it’s nearly impossible to get any emergency help if a femur or spine snaps. In the warped eyes of Ord, the ideal wave will pull all the water off a barnacle-encrusted shelf until it’s bone dry. Stair steps and indeterminable mutations in the walls are a constant source of variety. The ocean temp is uninviting at best. And the sharks, the Whites that ply the waters, are among the most unforgiving in the world over.

Ord laughs about it, “Anybody can shoot Pipeline…I just hate crowds.”

Ord has the photographic chops to expand his operation, but living in the Wild West has its allure. He’s never been one to winter in Hawaii or post up in Bali. On a recent swing through Southern California he marveled at how accessible all of the surf companies were, that everything was there, just laid out for the taking. “It’s good, I guess. It’s so easy for a kid to be sponsored here. A 14-year-old who can do an air reverse on a three-foot waves gets a big contract, but the guy who puts his life on the line at Cyclops doesn’t get anything. You have to earn it in West Oz. I can’t wait to get home,” he smirked over a sandwich.

And while that solitude has afforded Ord both the solace of open spaces and the opportunity to produce some absolutely stunning images, he’s coming to terms with the struggle that being so far afield presents. With so much photography moving online, it’s one of the only ways he can really expose his work to the world. The ranchers and winemakers he calls neighbors certainly aren’t interested. But Ord’s an outspoken proponent of photographer’s rights on the web. He’s helped start a Facebook page called “Don’t Steal Our Work,” which is intended to expose people infringing on photographer’s copyrights.

“It’s unfortunately part of being a photographer today,” he says. “People will steal your intellectual property and not think twice about it. Some don’t even see it as stealing. On one hand it’s good because you can have your work seen by so many people and you can really put it out there. On the other hand people don’t hesitate to take it and use it for their gain. I put my life on the line for some of these images. I’m not about to just give them to some clown so he can make a quick buck or get a couple new followers.”

Undeterred, Ord presses on, waiting for the next swell to pop on the charts, his helmet and water housing always at the ready. He may have to drive another 1,500 kilometers and risk life and limb to put them to use, but they’re ready, and he’s more than willing to, as they say in Australia, “Give it a go.”

— Jake Howard

PORTFOLIO:

Russell Ord

No straps required. Mark Mathews in the blue at an out-of-the-way spot known as Reds.

Shooting fisheye offers a sense of depth and scale: Ord plays triggerman in the danger zone with Ben Rufus on point.

You won’t find Cale Grigson’s mug plastered across a shop window in Bondi. He does most of his surfing in the clean, clear, western outback. This fact alone makes him a favorite subject of Ord’s, but Grigson has a twisted penchant for pulling into just about anything, even if it’s bucking in ankle-deep, urchin-rich waters.

For Cale Grigson it’s all about the late, great Joe Strummer’s war cry, “Death or glory.”

Outback living, replete with circled wagons.

Chris Shannon at a local “secret spot.”

Most places in the world it’s not even considered a surf spot.

So, after you make the beyond-vert drop and contend with all of the steps in the wave face you’re still going to have to stare down the boil in the foreground. Dino Adrian, focused on the now at a spot known as Backyards.

Land of the long-running left, Gnaraloo is but one of a multitude of world-class left point-breaks that lie within Ord’s strike zone. The road is long, rutty and it’s not an easy trip to make, but there’s a reason the diehards make the effort.

As remote as it may be, thanks to the bounty of swell the greater Yallingup area’s produced some world-class talent over the years. Taj Burrow’s the biggest star, but 15-year-old Jack Robinson is close on his heels.

When he’s not riding waves with no back, Justin “Jughead” Allport works as a firefighter stationed on husband and dad…and I’m keen to get into some weird situations on waves.”

New South Wales’ central coast. Of his aspirations in life, he says, “I’m just trying to be the best

Last light in the deep south.

A gathering place for the local contingent when the swell’s up, as more big-wave spots and slabs have been uncovered the role of Margaret River proper has changed in recent years.

Undisclosed northwest point strobing.

Shay, oh sweet Shay.

Sarge the British bulldog refoiling his favorite set of fins.

The Gold Coast has Kirra and crowds, but on the other side of the country there are enough setups in the barren remoteness of the desert to keep small, wandering herds entertained and on their toes.

Like being encased in Waterford crystal, Rohan Annesley puts on the shine on the South Coast.

Ry Craike’s one of the few Kalbarri boys to ascend local heroism to achieve international recognition.

After making it this far out only one question remains: who goes first?

ONE SHOT: Russell Ord’s line of fire

WATCH VIDEO By: Darren McCagh

RUSSELL ORD

8LOUD BLO0D

~Over the edge with ~Kerby and Cortney Brown

BR0THERS BROTHERS Kerby Brown at a wave 15 miles out to sea and 200 miles from the nearest help.

We had three skis, no medical equipment, no navigation, in great white shark country, and didn’t let anyone know where we were. Very stupid. We do it differently now.

Captions by Scott Bauer and Russell Ord.

can break him in half and that it would take hours to get to a hospital. But he also has his brother’s and father’s blood, and an instinct that tells him not to worry about tomorrow. In the end he usually does what his brother says.

“Let’s go,” he says finally, swallowing a lump

in his throat. He stretches out his wiry frame, slips into the cold, and slides his feet into the straps. Before long, a beastly shadow of water looms up and it’s like the whole ocean is being sucked in. Kerby slingshots him into the sweet spot, and he aims for the light. Photographer Russell Ord, sitting on his own ski in the channel, clicks what will become a cover of Tracks magazine. Cortney, although buzzing with adrenaline, decides to quit while he’s ahead.

He hands over the rope to Kerby who gets a few for himself. By the time they load the ski onto the trailer and head for home the sun is long gone and they are exhausted.

When they finally park next to Mum’s car in the driveway, up on the hill outside of the small town of Kalbarri, they have driven nearly 4,000 kilometers for one swell. Still buzzing on NoDoz caffeine pills, Cortney flushes the ski with fresh water, changes the spark plugs,

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November 2007:

In a far corner of Western Australia, among a scattering of deserted rocky islands, a new swell builds. A few dozen meters away from the chunk of granite known as Cyclops, raw 12-foot swells drain the water from the reef then explode onto fist-sized barnacles. A cold wind blows from the wrong direction and spray rains down onto two brothers who sit shivering side-by-side on a jet ski. Young chargers Dino Adrian and Yadin Nichol have gone home, writing this day’s waves off as too raw and too risky. But Kerby and Cortney Brown are hesitant to leave.

“You could ride that frontside,” Kerby tells his kid brother.

Cortney is listening, leaning forward, tense with excitement. But he also senses uncertainty, sees it in his brother’s hazel eyes. Kerby is usually the first one out, but today he is nominating his 20-year-old brother. Cortney remembers the time at home in Kalbarri when Kerby towed him into the dry reef on a ten-foot bomb. He tried his best to ride it out, but there was nowhere to go.

Cortney knows in the back of his mind that out here, he won’t get a second chance. He knows the waves

vacuums the car, and puts his clothes in to wash. Kerby meanwhile goes straight to the couch. But Cortney isn’t bummed with his brother for not helping.

Kit Rayner, a childhood mate who was born

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in Kalbarri and has known the Brown brothers since Kerby was six and Cortney was one, sums it up like this: “We call Kerby ‘Tressy,’ as in tress toe, the three-toed sloth, because he’s the laziest son of a swine there is. But Cortney keeps us all in order. We call him Swissy, as in ‘Swiss Army Knife’ because he does everything and always has wax, fin keys, and leggy strings.”

This winter Kit came home after camping out in the desert. His car was covered with red mud inside and out. But he had to get to Perth because he was leaving for Indo the next day. So he just dumped his car at his house and caught a lift down. The next day he got a call from Cortney.

“Yer car’s shittin’ me. Can I clean it?” asked Cortney.

“Whadya mean? You don’t have to do that,” he answered.

“But I want to.”

Kit offered to buy him a carton, but Cortney isn’t that into beer. “Just get me a block of chocolate,” he said.

When Kit got back from his trip he found his car had been fully detailed, inside and out.

Perhaps because of Cortney’s attention to detail, this unlikely pair pulls off these marathon trips over and over again. On the other hand, it might just be in their genes. Thirty years ago their old man, Glen, drove all the way across the continent looking for waves. He was in his early twenties when he found work pulling pots on a cray boat on the mid-west coast of WA. Before long, his hands toughened up and he found his niche. A good surfer, he earned his place in the lineup at Kalbarri’s one surf spot—a heavy barreling left with a takeoff spot the size of a coffee table. He learned that respect was big over here and that it was earned through hard work and committed surfing. The guys he worked Kerby (lower left, with board) and Cortney take a knee in the channel, quietly contemplating the beating just dished out.

South coast WA (below). Kerby and I drove out on the ski this morning and it was horrible: cold, wet, and the surf was miserable. We checked a spot up the coast, then returned to watch Dean Harrington tow in to a decent one. Someone else got another and all of a sudden it was on. Kerby got some of the heavier, more evil-looking waves through the morning for sure... (see next page)

with were serious about their waves and guarded their place in the lineup with pride, and sometimes fists.

These were guys that knew how to coil a rope by feel, tie a hundred knots. They were handy with a stainless steel tool called a fid and could splice a loop in a minute.

Their muscles were hard as rock and their hands thick with calluses. But pulling pots is tough work, and still their hands bled, and dried, and cracked, and bled again.

They learned to get up at three in the morning and work for 20 hours without a break. When the season finished, they’d still wake at three in the morning, lay in bed listening for the rumble of a diesel engine until they realized that the noise in the distance was the swell thumping on the point. They’d fall back to sleep for a couple more hours, content in knowing that at least on that day, all the hard work would pay off, and they’d have any set wave they wanted.

Although these days not everyone in town is a fisherman, it’s still that breed of men that regulate the lineup out at the point. Glen’s two sons, with their fearless bravado and incredible surfing, are halfway to earning the respect of the older crew. But they are still only halfway

there. To get the other half they’d need to get a real job and quit bringing photographers and fly-in pros to town —something that’s not likely to happen any time soon.

Surfing is, after all, about the only thing that

interests them. They feel that if they’re fortunate enough to make a living at it, nobody should hold it against them.

Luckily, their latest obsession, which is within sight of the crew at the point, is more a slab of death than a wave and is unlikely to bring unwanted visitors. It lies just below a cliff of layered pancake-like sandstone called Red Bluff and only shows up once or twice a winter. When it happens, it is big, mean, and way below sea level. Nearly everyone in town writes it off. Even Kerby and Cortney, who have been watching it for years, only recently convinced themselves that it could be ridden. The problem is not so much the wave, but the rocks.

It is 60 feet deep off the back of the ledge, so the waves have to be right on top of the reef to break. When they do, maybe one in five barrels stay open. The others go dry and the tube implodes. Scott Bauer, who shot photos of them towing the left on a small day last year, reckons

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months. We both went through our sexual awakening, first times at everything!”

Since then Kerby has done two things: party and surf. But even he knows in the back of his mind this can’t last. He’s going to have to do something soon if he wants to avoid that job he prefers not to think about, but can’t get out of his head. He has been juggling sponsors since he traded a deal with Quiksilver for a better one with SMP—a company that soon went bankrupt. Unlike Kerby, Cortney has had better luck with money. Volcom has sponsored him since before he hit puberty, and he can’t remember ever having to buy a T-shirt.

While they are mostly known as a team, there are plenty of differences between them. Kerby stands goofy, Cortney regular. Kerby is thick and heavy footed, while Cortney is a muscular string bean. Although neither of them do any training, Cortney without trying is more fit.

According to Kit, who has always been there to pick on …Later into the session the sun came out (lower left), and it started looking like Tahiti.

It pays to wait things out sometimes.

The Brown brothers started towing this wave a few years ago; it really only breaks when it hits the 12-foot-plus mark. Here Cortney (below) is getting a few more waves under his belt before dark. Most of the other tow teams have headed back. It’s hard enough in full sunlight negotiating all the bombies to get back to the launch area.

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it’s a good place to die. But Kerby has never been one to worry about consequences. According to his mate Kit, he learned to take things as they come when he was still a grommet.

“He was 14 and I was 15 when we got this call from our boardriders club,” Kit remembers. “They told us there was this Rip Curl Stomp Tour competition in Perth. If we won there they would take us to the next contest, and so on. So we went to Perth dressed in boardies and a T-shirt thinking we’d lose and go home. But we got first in the comp, and Derek Hynd invited us to hop in the van. We didn’t have any money, so we asked Derek how we were going to eat. ‘No worries, there’ll be food at the shindigs we’re putting on,’ he said. When we’d get there, there’d be kegs on and a band. We’d get mangled and end up sleeping in the garden or something, then wake up the next morning and jump in the van and head to the next comp. We kept winning, and before we knew it we were in South Australia, then Victoria.

It was definitely an eye opener...ringing up our parents, telling them we were fine and getting looked after, but in actual fact we were on the piss every night for two

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North WA; Kerby, Cortney, Michael Short, and Anthony Walsh were going wave for wave, the tide was dropping, and no one else wanted a bar of it because of the crazy steps [see frame four]. I’m still not sure how Kerby made this; such an intimidating wave and he surfs it so casually.

his mate’s little brother, Cortney is really coming into his own with his surfing. He’s doing so with the ladies, too, but Kit thinks he doesn’t take full advantage.

“The other day, Cortney was at Park Life [a club in Perth] and was on with an absolute stunner,” Kit recalls with a laugh, “until he went back to her house and bit the heads off her goldfish. When I asked him why he did that he just replied, ‘Rat it, I’m having way more fun with the lads.’”

Kit reckons that’s why he loves Cortney, “At the end of the day birds are birds and ya’ mates are for life, and that’s the general motto we all live by,” he says.

From the beginning, their dad pushed them

toward competition. Their mom, Nola, tirelessly drove them all over the state for contests, and Dad coached them from the beach. Both Kerby and Cortney won State Titles and went to the east coast for some Pro Juniors. When their parents split up, Cortney moved to Perth with his mom to go to high school. Kerby stayed up north. His dad gave him the choice of either dropping out after year eleven to pursue surfing full time or to start thinking about a

career. Although he’d done well enough in school, he chose surfing.

From what Kerby had seen on the road with Kit and Derek Hynd, life as a pro surfer looked pretty good.

And he didn’t want to become a fisherman like his dad, “Fishing is as boring as doing math.”

As it turned out, contests held in junk waves failed to motivate him too. Kerby found that he wasn’t competitive.

He’d rather stay home and get barreled. When Cortney graduated high school, he moved up to Kalbarri to join him. They put competition on the back burner and focused on getting photos of themselves in the tube.

It paid off. Both Kerby and Cortney have had more than their share of double-page spreads and cover shots in surf magazines. Cortney’s sponsors are happy, and Kerby’s are too. The problem for Kerby is that he doesn’t have any that will pay him for it. That is partially why he found himself this winter driving north from Perth at midnight with bloodshot eyes, a strained ligament in his knee, and a photographer in the back seat of his car. The virtual buoys were forecasting the biggest swell of the winter: 20 feet at 20 seconds. If it

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happened it would likely be big enough for Red Bluff.

The swell arrived but came from the wrong direction. Ten-foot waves maxed out the point half a kilometer away, but at Red Bluff the sets were few and far between. Two photographers, a bodyboarder, and a couple of local kids were still keen, so Kerby and Cortney put their ski in the water and went out in hopes that it would pick up.

Kerby’s girlfriend, Nicole, sat on the smooth, red sandstone shore where a handful of tourists had gathered to watch. The rocks were warm and the desert wind blew the spray away when the swells bashed into the ledge only meters away. One of the photographers set up his tripod and a bazooka-sized lens, and the other jumped in with his water housing.

Nicole seemed to tense up a bit when the first set loomed out the back and a ski zoomed out to meet the incoming swell. Then she relaxed and said, “That’s not Kerby or Cortney.” The wave surged along the cliffs and a goofy-footer, now recognizable as Kalbarri kid Shaun Howe, buzzed along parallel to the rocks. When he got to what he thought was the end of the death zone, he let

go of the rope. He faded to the bottom, setting up for the inside section as he’d seen Kerby do a few weeks earlier.

The bottom dropped out, and he squatted down to ride over the boils that had appeared in the flats. From the rocks you could almost see him grit his teeth as he backdoored the tube. The wave morphed from six feet to eight feet and back to six feet, squashing him like a fly.

The crowd waited anxiously. Luckily, there were no more waves in the set, and Shaun’s mate drove in to pick him up.

When asked how she felt about him surfing these kinds of waves, Kerby’s girlfriend responded, “I don’t worry too much. They’re brothers and they take care of each other out there. They know what they are doing.”

You have to wonder if she would have the same confidence on a really big day. On this day, after all, the Brown brothers didn’t even bother to catch a wave.

We stopped at Cyclops for a quick look—it was big, ugly, and beyond shallow. Kerby and Cortney started to get the towrope out of the ski. I was worried for their safety.

It’s miles from anywhere, and one wrong move will result in horrific injuries. The reef has razor-sharp barnacles a good two inches long. This shot says it all (lower left): Kerby looking back, thinking: “Could I have gotten deeper?”

It’s surprising they haven’t lost a ski or two, going where they go. Both brothers are incredible ski drivers. It certainly helps to know the ski will be waiting to get you out of the way of the next set waves and oncoming rocks. Cortney, (below) pushing it as usual.

Brett Hardy, a hard-charging Margaret River

local and one of the best at North Point, was in Kalbarri in 2008 for the swell of the winter. What he saw go down on an overcast, onshore Saturday left him convinced that the Brown brothers were the real deal.

Brett was out early that day at the point dodging sets. The swell was too big and raw to hit the ledge properly,

but it was the only option in town. It was glassy, but the dark rolling horizon showed whitecaps—a sign that a southerly gale was about to blow in. He and a few older helmet-clad locals were trying to catch the smaller waves that were still rideable. But it was hard work. Every few minutes somebody in the carpark would beep their horn like mad, and they would have to scramble for safety when a big one washed through from the outside bubble. After a while, Brett worked out that if he kept an eye on Red Bluff, half a kilometer to the south, he could predict when to get out of the way. Even at that distance, he could see the waves turn inside out and hear the explosion when they hit the rocks. He’d never seen it break like that before and was glad nobody surfed it.

Around 9:30 a.m., Kerby and Cortney showed up on their jet ski and watched Brett catch a couple of waves.

They told him they weren’t going to bother surfing the point but were going to go have a look at the wave around the corner. The tone of Kerby’s voice suggested that they were going to go watch a few waves, then head home for breakfast and wait for the wind to change. Brett waved, and they motored off.

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Around noon, a southerly wind blew up and the flotilla of photographers and jet skis dispersed. After all the hype, it was an anti-climactic end. The boys took it in stride, went home, and opened a carton of beer.

If someone had rolled up and only watched this session, they might have been tempted to write off the Browns as photo sluts. Mark Duncan, one of the older local crew who has known Kerby and Cortney since they started surfing, knows better. He is quick to point out their faults, but at the same time he is adamant that these guys truly do love riding these waves.

“You can give them a hard time for a lot of stuff, but not for their surfing. They really do get off on this shit,” says Mark.

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By that time, the wind had started to come in, so Brett paddled in, happy he’d gotten up early enough to get a few. On their way back to the cabin at the caravan park, Brett and his mate Bruce drove out onto the rocks to watch the waves at Red Bluff up close. Foam washed up into the deserted carpark taking the dirt with it and turning the water a frothy red color. They looked out, shocked.

Spray from a wave hitting the rocks blew sideways in the wind and allowed Brett to get a glimpse of a massive gray wall behind it. He followed a streak of white to a tiny figure on a board that had just let go of the towrope.

It was Kerby, doing the unthinkable on a solid ten-footer. Brett bit his lip as Kerby raced across the first section on the wave and straightened out when he cleared an exposed elbow of dry rocks. He had mind surfed the wave a hundred times and knew that the real rush would come if he could backdoor the rock shelf on the inside.

If he went too fast, he’d feel like he was on the shoulder, and for him there’s nothing worse in life than being on the shoulder. On the other hand, if he slowed down too much, the wave might kill him.

From Brett’s perspective onshore, it looked like Kerby had lost all his speed. He was in the trough and only his head and shoulders were above sea level. For a second it looked like the lip would catch him, but the tube threw out so far that he made it inside. A second later a cloud of spit blew him into the channel, and Brett started jumping up and down on the rocks.

Behind him in the carpark, an older, weathered man sat silently with his dog on a dented car bonnet.

He peered skeptically through cataract eyes and scanned the rocks for a photographer. He was one of the Brown brother’s biggest critics, but when it was clear that there was no tripod, no 600-millimeter lens, his face lit up with a smile. He scratched his dog between the ears and mumbled to his canine friend, “Good on ’em. It’s about time somebody gave it a go.”

Cortney and Ry Craike (lower left). The Browns and Ry grew up surfing in Kalbarri together, and they’re best mates; they’re all great tube riders and they feed off one another.

Cortney turns to me and says, “Not going out, it’s too windy. Wait for later.” Most surfers who just turned up to the carpark and saw a set like this (below) come through would be paddling out two minutes later. Cort simply drove home, told Kerby “Don’t bother; take your time with your coffee, let’s hit it in a couple of hours.” They got the last hour before it turned onshore: perfectly glassy conditions and a lot less crew in the water. Local knowledge at its best.

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One of the two thickest waves I have ever seen ridden.

Kerby decided to wait for the biggest one of the day, the result being this rogue with five different lips and no back. I shot a few frames and got the hell out of there. Kerby took a tremendous beating and a very decent hold down. He was lucky there wasn’t another behind it, as his lungs didn’t have much to call on.

How a band of Australia’s heartiest watermen tested and tamed the biggest waves ever ridden Down Under.

Photos by Jamie Scott

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West of

Gracetown

After being dragged over to West Oz by Paul Morgan, Khy Vaughan slipped into some of the biggest waves of his life‌ everybody did.

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KHY VAUGHAN On Wednesday, October 12, I received a phone call from one of my good friends, big‐wave surfer Paul Morgan, seeing if I was up for a quick swell trip for a couple of days.

Paul’s idea of fun is a totally different type of surf trip from what I am used to. This year has been great at home for swell. Morgs and I have been surfing quite a bit together when it’s on. Riding some big boards and making sure it’s strictly no‐tow sessions, just paddle. So I said, “Yeah, mate, let’s go, it should be fun.” He failed to tell me we were going to paddle in to the bombie. I wonder why?

The next day I got to work and said to my boss, “I’ve got to go to W.A.” He says, “When are you thinking of going?”

“Lunchtime today, my flight leaves at 3:50.”

Thank God it did leave then as at 4:00 on the nose Qantas began their strike, no shit. As we headed up to Sydney that afternoon, all was going according to plan.

That night we got down to Marg’s at about 2:00 a.m., and it’s pretty much lights out. In the morning, Morgs phone starts ringing early. It’s Camel seeing if we ventured over for the swell. He’s saying, “I’m down Gracetown.”

Gracetown? I recall Camel saying something about that the arvo we left home. Here I am thinking we are going on a nice, fun trip to surf around Margaret River’s main break. We didn’t even look at Margy’s. We rolled straight in to Gracetown.

Morgs pulls over on the side of the road and says, “See that wave feathering there out to sea about to break?

That’s the bombie.”

Jamie Mitchell (spread) made an impression on his first trip to West Oz showing exactly why he is so respected in the big-wave paddle scene worldwide. The man’s a beast.

The spectators had the best view (below), witnessing the biggest ever paddle-in session go down in Australia to date. It may be a long time before we see these optimum conditions again.

PAUL MORGAN Camel was the first to mention to me that we should paddle the bombie about three years ago. From that day on, it has been a bit of a mission of ours. We have been keeping an eye on the charts like a hawk, but for some reason this year I knew it was going to happen. Even in early October I had a feeling there was going to be one more bomb swell. All the faith paid off. We scored the best conditions and swell since 2006, and I’m very thankful to all the locals for inviting me to be a part of the first real paddle session at Australia’s biggest wave. I’m really looking forward to the next bombie paddle—if there ever is one.

Myron Porter (spread) took out the madman award for the day pulling in to just about every wave he caught and copped some big beatings in the process.

Jamie Mitchell won $5K for this wave (below) after it was deemed the paddle-in wave of the year at the Australian Oakley Big Wave awards. It was a well deserved win.

JAMIE MITCHELL I paddled out to the left where Camel, Morgs, and Khy were and watched the boys get a few. Then I lucked into a few lefts and got the heart racing. There were guys towing going right, and we were going left, so it was working out perfect.

They were getting some bombs. At this stage, the wind was a touch offshore and was still a bit bumpy down the face, but at around 10:00 a.m. the wind backed right off, it glassed off and was epic for paddling. After a few more lefts, I decided to try a right. It was doable, so I decided to keep going right, and then we were able to split the peak.

I remember splitting the peak with Camel on one wave, which was unreal. The boys stopped whipping in when we

started surfing the right and were really respectful. They showed a lot of class doing that. I think at the end of the day there were six guys paddling. Everyone got a few bombs, and Khy definitely got the wipeout of the day. It was just so cool to paddle in to some legitimate big waves at home in Australia. Thanks to Camel for being the pioneer and to all the locals for sharing your wave. It was one of the best days of surfing I’ve ever had.

Damien “Taco” Warr took home $20,000 for the biggest wave caught in Australia during the waiting period of the Oakley BWA. He rode this wave perfectly on his backhand and scored a spitting cover-up to finish it off.

TACO The swell looked solid; the 8'0" was thrown in the car, and I pulled out of our farm in Yallingup to head south and surf Margaret’s. Halfway there, I got the call that Margy’s was 20‐foot corduroy to the horizon with lines stretching from cape to cape. So a quick right and it was straight to the bay.

As I rounded the corner, a quick glance showed an outer bombie that we surf on this type of swell had come to life.

Not having the equipment that I needed for that size with me, it was a frantic call to my wife at 6:45 a.m. to bring down my tow board. To start, we towed the right while the lads paddled the left. In between, we were watching the

paddle guys take some crazy airdrops. By midday the wind had backed off; it was sheet glass with whales parked off the back of the bombie. We decided to pull the pin on towing while the boys paddling moved across to the bowlier right.

Their confidence had grown and they were now taking off on the set waves as all the elements came together allowing them this opportunity. What we witnessed in that last hour of the session I believe to be some of the best big‐wave paddle‐in surfing achieved in Australia to date.

Drop of the day went to Paul Morgan (spread). He’s an amazing big-wave surfer and his commitment and precision in the big stuff is fearless.

Camel (below) had been waiting for this day for years. Studying the weather maps intensely, he knew this was the day of days…and with not a cloud in the sky, light offshore winds, and a bombing swell, he was right.

CAMEL Meeting up with Jamie Scott, Morgs, and Khy, no one had made the call. I’ve surfed big waves with Morgs before and rate him as one of the best ever to surf big Margaret’s when it’s 15‐foot‐plus. I didn’t know that Jamie Mitchell was good in big waves, but he proved why I had seen his name on the Eddie “Alternates” list. Khy Vaughan also was impressive, took some big set waves and the wipeout of the day. Jamie made a drop on a right that looked like Waimea. Considering I hadn’t met these comrades before, except for Paul Morgs, it was a very friendly session with friendly competitiveness.

We all shared waves and took turns cheering each other on as we surfed a wave several kilometers off the coast. I didn’t even think about the three fatal shark attacks that had kept me out of the water recently. ◊ For a look at the whys and hows of Oz’s biggest session: Go Deeper at surfersjournal.com.

vacuums the car, and puts his clothes in to wash. Kerby meanwhile goes straight to the couch. But Cortney isn’t bummed with his brother for not helping.

Kit Rayner, a childhood mate who was born

Kerby (lower left, with board) and Cortney take a knee in the channel, quietly contemplating the beating just dished out.

South coast WA (below). Kerby and I drove out on the ski this morning and it was horrible: cold, wet, and the surf was miserable. We checked a spot up the coast, then returned to watch Dean Harrington tow in to a decent one. Someone else got another and all of a sudden it was on. Kerby got some of the heavier, more evil-looking waves through the morning for sure... (see next page)

SCOTT BAUER

in Kalbarri and has known the Brown brothers since Kerby was six and Cortney was one, sums it up like this: “We call Kerby ‘Tressy,’ as in tress toe, the three-toed sloth, because he’s the laziest son of a swine there is. But Cortney keeps us all in order. We call him Swissy, as in ‘Swiss Army Knife’ because he does everything and always has wax, fin keys, and leggy strings.”

This winter Kit came home after camping out in the desert. His car was covered with red mud inside and out. But he had to get to Perth because he was leaving for Indo the next day. So he just dumped his car at his house and caught a lift down. The next day he got a call from Cortney.

“Yer car’s shittin’ me. Can I clean it?” asked Cortney.

“Whadya mean? You don’t have to do that,” he answered.

“But I want to.”

Kit offered to buy him a carton, but Cortney isn’t that into beer. “Just get me a block of chocolate,” he said.

When Kit got back from his trip he found his car had been fully detailed, inside and out.

Perhaps because of Cortney’s attention to detail, this unlikely pair pulls off these marathon trips over and over again. On the other hand, it might just be in their genes. Thirty years ago their old man, Glen, drove all the way across the continent looking for waves. He was in his early twenties when he found work pulling pots on a cray boat on the mid-west coast of WA. Before long, his hands toughened up and he found his niche. A good surfer, he earned his place in the lineup at Kalbarri’s one surf spot—a heavy barreling left with a takeoff spot the size of a coffee table. He learned that respect was big over here and that it was earned through hard work and committed surfing. The guys he worked

happened it would likely be big enough for Red Bluff.

The swell arrived but came from the wrong direction. Ten-foot waves maxed out the point half a kilometer away, but at Red Bluff the sets were few and far between. Two photographers, a bodyboarder, and a couple of local kids were still keen, so Kerby and Cortney put their ski in the water and went out in hopes that it would pick up.

Kerby’s girlfriend, Nicole, sat on the smooth, red sandstone shore where a handful of tourists had gathered to watch. The rocks were warm and the desert wind blew the spray away when the swells bashed into the ledge only meters away. One of the photographers set up his tripod and a bazooka-sized lens, and the other jumped in with his water housing.

Nicole seemed to tense up a bit when the first set loomed out the back and a ski zoomed out to meet the incoming swell. Then she relaxed and said, “That’s not Kerby or Cortney.” The wave surged along the cliffs and a goofy-footer, now recognizable as Kalbarri kid Shaun Howe, buzzed along parallel to the rocks. When he got to what he thought was the end of the death zone, he let

Around noon, a southerly wind blew up and the flotilla of photographers and jet skis dispersed. After all the hype, it was an anti-climactic end. The boys took it in stride, went home, and opened a carton of beer.

If someone had rolled up and only watched this session, they might have been tempted to write off the Browns as photo sluts. Mark Duncan, one of the older local crew who has known Kerby and Cortney since they started surfing, knows better. He is quick to point out their faults, but at the same time he is adamant that these guys truly do love riding these waves.

“You can give them a hard time for a lot of stuff, but not for their surfing. They really do get off on this shit,” says Mark.

but it was the only option in town. It was glassy, b dark rolling horizon showed whitecaps—a sign th southerly gale was about to blow in. He and a few helmet-clad locals were trying to catch the smaller that were still rideable. But it was hard work. Eve minutes somebody in the carpark would beep the like mad, and they would have to scramble for safet a big one washed through from the outside bubble a while, Brett worked out that if he kept an eye o Bluff, half a kilometer to the south, he could predic to get out of the way. Even at that distance, he could waves turn inside out and hear the explosion whe hit the rocks. He’d never seen it break like that be and was glad nobody surfed it.

Around 9:30 a.m., Kerby and Cortney showe their jet ski and watched Brett catch a couple of w They told him they weren’t going to bother surfi point but wereAfter goingbeing to godragged have a look at the wave the corner. Theover tone Kerby’s toof West Oz byvoice suggested th Paul Morgan, Khy were going to go watch a few waves, then head ho Vaughan slipped into breakfast and wait for the wind to change. Brett w some of the biggest and they motored off.of his life… waves

Gracetown Brett Hardy, a hard-charging Margaret River

local and one of the best at North Point, was in Kalbarri in 2008 for the swell of the winter. What he saw go down on an overcast, onshore Saturday left him convinced that the Brown brothers were the real deal.

Brett was out early that day at the point dodging sets. The swell was too big and raw to hit the ledge properly,

go of the rope. He faded to the bottom, setting up for the inside section as he’d seen Kerby do a few weeks earlier.

The bottom dropped out, and he squatted down to ride over the boils that had appeared in the flats. From the rocks you could almost see him grit his teeth as he backdoored the tube. The wave morphed from six feet to eight feet and back to six feet, squashing him like a fly.

The crowd waited anxiously. Luckily, there were no more waves in the set, and Shaun’s mate drove in to pick him up.

When asked how she felt about him surfing these kinds of waves, Kerby’s girlfriend responded, “I don’t worry too much. They’re brothers and they take care of each other out there. They know what they are doing.”

You have to wonder if she would have the same confidence on a really big day. On this day, after all, the Brown brothers didn’t even bother to catch a wave.

with were serious about their waves and guarded their place in the lineup with pride, and sometimes fists.

These were guys that knew how to coil a rope by feel, tie a hundred knots. They were handy with a stainless steel tool called a fid and could splice a loop in a minute.

Their muscles were hard as rock and their hands thick with calluses. But pulling pots is tough work, and still their hands bled, and dried, and cracked, and bled again.

They learned to get up at three in the morning and work for 20 hours without a break. When the season finished, they’d still wake at three in the morning, lay in bed listening for the rumble of a diesel engine until they realized that the noise in the distance was the swell thumping on the point. They’d fall back to sleep for a couple more hours, content in knowing that at least on that day, all the hard work would pay off, and they’d have any set wave they wanted.

Although these days not everyone in town is a fisherman, it’s still that breed of men that regulate the lineup out at the point. Glen’s two sons, with their fearless bravado and incredible surfing, are halfway to earning the respect of the older crew. But they are still only halfway

We stopped at Cyclops for a quick look—it was big, ugly, and beyond shallow. Kerby and Cortney started to get the towrope out of the ski. I was worried for their safety.

It’s miles from anywhere, and one wrong move will result in horrific injuries. The reef has razor-sharp barnacles a good two inches long. This shot says it all (lower left): Kerby looking back, thinking: “Could I have gotten deeper?”

It’s surprising they haven’t lost a ski or two, going where they go. Both brothers are incredible ski drivers. It certainly helps to know the ski will be waiting to get you out of the way of the next set waves and oncoming rocks. Cortney, (below) pushing it as usual.

everybody did.

there. To get the other half they’d nee and quit bringing photographers and f —something that’s not likely to happ

Surfing is, after all, about the

interests them. They feel that if they’r to make a living at it, nobody should h Luckily, their latest obsession, which is crew at the point, is more a slab of dea is unlikely to bring unwanted visitors a cliff of layered pancake-like sandsto and only shows up once or twice a wi happens, it is big, mean, and way belo everyone in town writes it off. Even K who have been watching it for years, convinced themselves that it could be ri is not so much the wave, but the rock It is 60 feet deep off the back o waves have to be right on top of the r they do, maybe one in five barrels stay o dry and the tube implodes. Scott Baue of them towing the left on a small da

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